The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  Wiremu crawled to beneath where he thought the kitchen was, based on all the pipes. He was searching for a space between the joists where he could hide a painting wrapped in a plastic bag, 43 inches by 27 inches. Wiremu thought in feet and inches, pounds and ounces. He didn’t like the new metric system.

  He went further under the house and spotted a black lump stuck between the joists. It could only be seen from where he was lying. He felt around with his hands and it came loose. The black plastic package could be drugs. Heroin? Hashish? It did not smell, but then it was sealed. Once outside, he carefully latched the small door again and brushed off the dirt from his plaid shirt and army trousers. He put his leather jacket on, the package secure inside.

  Wiremu shook himself again and walked over to the tree to select a grapefruit. A small green bird on the tree, with distinct white and silver eyes, watched him. Wiremu ate the grapefruit on the steps and stared back at the bird. It was a tauhou, and reminded him of the piwakawaka he had seen in Hokianga at the beginning of the year. After encountering the tiny fantail his life had changed in ways he could not have imagined, and he wondered if this small waxeye was another omen.

  He debated whether he should take the package to Moana’s, then shook his head, stood and brushed more dust off his pants. His curiosity got the better of him. He threw the peel into a garbage can, started up his car and made his way to Grafton.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At lunchtime Colin and Alexander walked through the exhibition again. Colin introduced him to the director of the gallery, Thomas Jones, who barely acknowledged him, and the director of security, Peter MacIntosh, who shook his hand vigorously. Both had large stomachs that projected in front of them, and mustaches to complement their balding heads. The gallery director had a thin waxed mustache, pointed to the sky, making him appear wildly optimistic; the security director possessed a bushy mustache that drooped, giving the appearance of ill humor.

  Alexander led Colin towards the Cook portrait. “Do you think it’s secure enough? I noticed the inspector wasn’t concerned, and I didn’t want to say anything in front of him.” He held the frame and pretended to lift it off its hooks. “I can’t rip it off the wall, can I?”

  At the far end of the room Cadd, the new gallery security guard, was staring at them. He looked younger than the other guards, in better shape and far more menacing. With a broken nose and cauliflower ears he had to be a former rugby player. Front row, Alexander assumed. Not someone you would want to upset. “Don’t look now,” he said, “but he’s a cop, put here to keep an eye on the painting. No, don’t look. God! Why is it when you say, ‘Don’t look,’ everyone automatically looks?”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. He is unfriendly, like a cop. Usually new employees quiz me on everything. He seems standoffish. Now, you should bring a date to the party after the opening. Do you have any costumes? Uniforms?”

  “Well, no. I’m bringing Tsara Burton, you know, from Elam?”

  “Oh, yes. Saw a show of hers. Polaroids mounted on black. Very mysterious. She has talent. Here’s the address.” Colin slipped him a piece of paper in such a way that Cadd could see.

  “You said uniforms. Do you mean fancy dress?”

  “You could say that. Some of us have military uniforms. It’s dress up, call it fancy dress if you like. Goes well with alcohol and when we put on our uniforms it gets crazy.”

  “Crazy good or crazy bad?”

  Colin smiled. “Depends on how much we drink!”

  Alexander put the paper in his trouser pocket and looked back at Captain Cook. “Can we secure the actual painting better? We can’t screw the frame into the wall, and it won’t help if someone takes a knife to the canvas.”

  “You can’t lift it off the hook, even if it looks like you can. Same as all the Goldies here, and a few other valuable paintings. It’s stipulated in all our loan agreements, but you saw Terry Thomas and Mexican Pete. They don’t seem to know what they’re doing. Which is fine by me, as long as they leave me alone to do my job.”

  “Mexican Pete?”

  “Well, technically he’s Scottish, from the Met Art Fraud squad, he claims, but we think he’s Mexican. Check out the mustache.”

  “And Terry Thomas?”

  “After the old English actor, had a waxed mustache and was frightfully British in a ridiculous way. Like our director.”

  “I was not impressed. He doesn’t seem to be all there, and I hardly know him.”

  “Join the club. He’s rather aloof. They seem to work well together. Matching competencies, like the Peter Principle.”

  “I’ve never heard of him till now.”

  “He was the director at the Australian National Art Gallery in Canberra. But the rumor is they faked his recommendation to get rid of him. Pass him off to the Kiwis. Sick joke.”

  “Didn’t you get references and call them? Talk to people he worked with before?”

  “No, it was done by the city council. The art committee. Full of experts. They didn’t need to call. They knew. Also, overseas phone calls are expensive. No budget. No common sense.”

  “Incredible.” Alexander shook his head. His gallery was paradise in comparison.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mel parked her BMW on the street. From her gate she could hear Henry’s sound system but did not recognize the song. In the living room Henry was spread out on her sofa, a letter in his hand. He hadn’t showered or shaved and didn’t smile when he saw her.

  Mel turned off the amplifier and picked up the empty album cover. Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks. She held it to his face. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Henry sat upright and ran his hands through his hair. She put the album down and sat next to him. There was a university crest on the letterhead.

  “I’ll never get a job here,” he said. “It’s a small, petty, jealous place. When I left, I closed the door for good. And now there are rumors. I’d been fired. I was a troublemaker. I couldn’t hack it. I couldn’t make it overseas. You know, the classic overseas experience gone wrong. So it was my last try. I don’t think anyone will accept me now.”

  Mel took the letter and read aloud, “Much as we are impressed with your work and experience in Long Island, we find we cannot offer you a research position within our department. Your qualifications do not fit in with the focus of our academic and research goals. We therefore regretfully cannot accept your application.” She put the letter down. “Aren’t you forgetting you announced to Wiremu you were going back to the States?”

  Henry grimaced. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not sure I agree with what I said. I’m just going through a tough time and I’d appreciate your support. I’m sorry for what I said, but I don’t know what to do now. Honestly.”

  “You seem to be drifting away from me. Is it just because you can’t get a position here?”

  “Yes, that’s it. It’s as if they all got together and copied each other’s rejection letters. They’re almost all the same.” He looked up at her as she stood. “Oh, I get it. You think I’m rejecting you and I don’t want to live here anymore.”

  “Henry, I’m not feeling any love. You’ve been distant lately and then that announcement out of the blue? And you’re listening to that morose album about Dylan leaving his wife?”

  Henry eased himself off the sofa, ran his hand through his hair again and straightened up. “You know about that?”

  “I know people who know about all this stuff. I listen to people all day.”

  He took a step forward and held her by the waist. “You never cease to amaze me. And I’ve been an ass. I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s the job thing for sure, but giving back the Tear also affected me in a way I could not imagine. You know?”

  “No I don’t.” She put her hands on his waist and held him in her gaze. “You don’t say much, do you? And you’re terrible at expressing your feelings.”

  “Well, I’m a man. Aren’t we supposed to be inarticulate? U
nable to tell the women we love how we feel?”

  Mel raised her eyebrows. “Women we love?”

  “You know what I mean. You, of course.”

  “Okay. Annie from the dojo gave me invites tonight to the opening of a new show at the Auckland City Art Gallery. ‘The Two Worlds of Omai’. Well, technically her boyfriend got them, but if we get ready now we can make it. It’ll cheer you up.”

  Henry grunted. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. Get ready now!” Mel released her hold on him and raised her right leg as if to kick him but put her foot down. Henry straightened his shoulders and marched to the bathroom.

  Chapter Twenty

  Inspector Grimble, in a dark grey suit and wide red tie, arrived an hour before the opening to oversee the security arrangements. Alexander greeted Tsara with an awkward kiss on the cheek at the entrance. She offered her other cheek with a wry smile and Alexander was obliged to kiss her again. She wore mascara, dark red lipstick and a long, red velvet dress that hugged her figure and was dramatically different from her usual granny dresses. With black stockings and pumps she did not look like the hippie student he had known. He wondered what she thought of his change in appearance with his short hair, dark blue suit with narrow lapels, sharp white shirt and a blue knit tie. He was no longer the hippie activist, but a government-hired provocateur. How would Tsara feel about his new role?

  When Grimble and Alexander went to check the front entrance they saw two new security guards in identical black blazers accepting invitation cards. A young assistant with long blonde hair held a clipboard with the guest list and directed guests to the foyer where they could check their bags and coats and wait for the opening ceremony. Grimble openly looked her over, her high heels, her mini-skirt, her long eyelashes.

  Alexander shot a couple of photos of the unsmiling guards then continued photographing guests, either shooting from his waist where the camera hung on a strap, or manually focusing on a scene, a group of people.

  “How do you not draw attention with your camera?” Grimble asked.

  “Oh, just act natural and shoot,” Alexander smiled. “You never know.” He had learned a lesson in Wellington in the gallery van, and in Deborah’s bedroom, he would not forget: the more you shoot, the more you see.

  When the important guests had assembled in the foyer, there was a powhiri, a traditional Maori welcoming ceremony. A large bare-chested male in a piupiu, a flax skirt, challenged everyone as he expertly wielded his taiaha, a long spear-like club with carvings and feathers at one end. Grimble later described to Sergeant Cadd how a handful of older males had performed a haka, but it was so different from how he had performed a haka at the start of his grammar school rugby game. Cadd had been upstairs all the time, standing next to the three-quarter length portrait of Captain James Cook, circa 1776, painted by John Webber (1751-1793.) The artist had completed the painting after Cook’s untimely death on February 14, 1779. Webber had painted three versions of Cook during his last voyage. Cadd recited these facts, gleaned from the information sheet, as if it was a crime scene.

  After the powhiri there were speeches. The director opened the proceedings and warmly thanked the sponsor, a floor-wax company. An executive from the company was acknowledged but did not address the crowd. The chairman of the Arts Council stated how important the exhibit was to our recognition of two different cultures. It was a brave new direction for the publicly funded gallery, and he was excited to see corporate sponsorship for the arts. Next, the mayor of Auckland spoke—he was meant to be first but he had been late and now most people ignored him, as they did a representative from Tahiti who claimed kinship with Omai but had a thick French accent. No one seemed to care what he said, and the Maori present ignored him.

  • • •

  Grimble wondered if he should have invited his wife to his first art-gallery opening. She would have loved to attend and mingle among “society”, as she called it. But she would have declared she had nothing to wear and bought an expensive dress. Better he was on his own, as he was officially working, and there was his new associate, Alexander Newton, to deal with. The commissioner had instructed Grimble to extend every courtesy to the curator. “An extra set of eyes in case anything happens” was how he explained Alexander’s position.

  Grimble felt awkward standing alone, as if he was deciding who to interview next, even though no crime had been committed. Alexander came over and Grimble relaxed, unknotted his eyebrows and began to see the people around him.

  “What do you think of the show?” Alexander asked his new law enforcement friend, after introducing Tsara. The inspector raised his eyebrows at her and her tight red velvet dress, and was momentarily at a loss for words. “Oh, I don’t know. Not my usual beat.”

  “Lots of local personalities here. Artists and dealers. Business leaders. Different breed from what you are used to, I guess, but I’m sure they still have larceny in their heart.” Alexander chuckled as he gazed at the scattering of older men and women, all in business attire, all scrutinizing each other. “No one sees the art at openings—though there is little art to see here, just a few carvings from the Islands, some portraits and lots of colored boards with writing and photos. What do you think, Tsara?”

  Tsara forced a quick smile. “It’s a little too didactic for me but they are telling a story, even if it is a little labored with all the reading and explanations. Omai’s story is a compelling one, considering we are now finally realizing what different worlds the early Polynesians lived in compared to eighteenth-century Englishmen, and a lot of rough sailors. Two different worlds of men. It was definitely a man’s world, regardless of where you came from.”

  “Well said.” Grimble shook his head in appreciation, eying her tight velvet dress again. “Even now we don’t understand each other. There is such a gap between cultures in our country. And not a lot of appreciation, let alone fear of the law.”

  Tsara smiled. “Is that where you come in? With the fear?”

  “I’d settle for respect.” Grimble looked around the gallery for an escape, and saw the Soviet diplomat, Raganovich. He had seen photos of the Soviet handing a mystery object to Dr. Cedric Winter. He had gone over the guest list earlier with Sergeant Cadd, and Raganovich was not on the list. Why would the villain of the famous Wellington spy case be invited? And why was his suit so shiny?

  “Excuse me,” he said to Alexander and Tsara. “I have to say hello to an old friend.” He walked over to the Soviet and shook his hand. The Soviet burst out laughing and loudly slapped Grimble’s back.

  “Do they know each other?” Tsara asked. “It looks odd, doesn’t it? Like it’s the first time they’re meeting, but they’re both pretending to be friends. Why all the photos?”

  “You noticed?” He adjusted his lens as if he was taking a photo of another group before he focused on Grimble and the Russian. “I’ll explain later.”

  Tsara kept her eyes on the male couple. “I’m supposed to be a photographer. To get to the truth of a person or at least I kid myself I do, but they appear false, don’t they?”

  “You took the words out of my mouth.” Alexander said, continuing to take photos of the encounter. “We shouldn’t stare at them.”

  “They have no idea. They’re engrossed in each other. Do you know who he is?”

  “I believe he is a Soviet diplomat. From Wellington. I’ve seen him around. Not exactly popular with the current government, especially after the spy trial.”

  “Oh yes, I remember. I wonder why the inspector is being so friendly.”

  “Keeping your enemies closer? Probably has a photo of him in his office. If he’s a Soviet diplomat, he’s a spy. Although what could he be spying on here in New Zealand?”

  Tsara smiled. “Perhaps it’s his reward after squeezing Americans out of all their secrets. Must be a plum post here. Doesn’t every spy wish to be posted to paradise? Compared to Moscow in the winter? What could possibly go wrong here?”

  “Well, remember
the trial? Dr. Winter walked free. The papers went crazy over the verdict. And the government, from what I hear, is mad for revenge.”

  “Maybe we should be more afraid of our own government?” Tsara mused.

  “Much truth in jest,” Alexander sighed, and changed the film in his camera. He was now on his third roll of 36 shots, with his favorite Tri-X black-and-white film.

  “Are you David Hemmings in Blow-Up?” Tsara asked.

  “So you would be, Vanessa Redgrave?”

  “Jane Birkin. Please.”

  Alexander closed his eyes. He had a flashback to the girl fight scene in Blow-Up with Jane Birkin wearing no panties. He had attended the last Christmas party at the Film Censors’ office, contained within his government department. Only a few people were invited as the projectionist had spliced together all the censored scenes from previous years and played the loop continuously, between tequila shots. Jane Birkin’s no-underwear scene featured. Alexander’s drunk co-workers had taken turns to shout, “Play it again, Sam!” He could not imagine Tsara as Jane Birkin. She had never hinted at a physical relationship with him. Which was what he liked about her. He didn’t have to be on his best behavior or try to impress her. He could be himself, whoever that was.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Henry Lotus and Mel Johnson had made their way into the exhibition space and were looking at the crowd. Henry had shaved and his long hair was combed back. He was dressed in his best grey slacks and blue blazer with a black polo. Mel was holding his arm and smiling, in her favorite black suit with tight pants and white shirt. She had decided to wear her Doc Marten combat boots, more for comfort than as a fashion statement. She was almost as tall as Henry.