The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  Henry was close to tears, his eyes darting everywhere.

  Mel shrugged. “If you’re talking about the States, you should go, with or without your damn notebooks.”

  “It’s my life’s work in them. Even if I’m on the wrong track, they are immensely valuable.”

  “Maybe Wiremu stole them. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Why would he steal them?” Henry gasped.

  “He was going to visit us, and he hasn’t yet, has he? You told him about them when we were in Hokianga. Remember? Maybe he came over when you weren’t here.”

  “Makes more sense than Mr. FBI man. I doubt the FBI would look under the house first before tearing the house apart.”

  “If there was a break-in, I’d’ve sensed it.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I just would. I have powers.” Mel poured boiling water into her teapot.

  “I still don’t know why the FBI want the notebooks. It’s not like there are valuable secrets in them.”

  “They don’t know that. Besides, how did the FBI know about them? And what do you mean, not valuable secrets?”

  “Well, it’s complicated.” Henry ran his hands through his hair with a pained expression.

  “It always is with you.”

  “I need your support right now. This is horrible.”

  “Oh, Henry. Lighten up, will you? Look what happened. The break-in at your hotel room in New York. You know? All the fuss and violence? Someone knew about them, didn’t they? And back then it wasn’t the FBI who knew about the notebooks first.” Mel put both her hands on her hips as she faced Henry. “Think about it. I have. It’s always bothered me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the Soviets knew first, and dispatched their goons. Ask yourself, how did they know about the notebooks? They didn’t know what was in them, but thought they were valuable. So valuable they would torture you, maybe kill you.” She poured tea into his favorite mug that read “Don’t be negative—think like a proton.”

  “So how did they know about them? I sure as hell didn’t tell them.” Henry ran his hands through his hair again.

  “But someone did. Maybe they worked at your lab in Long Island. And that someone was a spy for the Soviets. How else would they have known?”

  “Shit. And they probably thought I was a spy as well.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re here, aren’t you? They let you leave the country. ”

  “How about the Soviets stealing my notebooks here?”

  Mel shrugged. “Take your pick, Henry. The Soviets? The cops? The FBI or Wiremu? You have quite a list!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Moana walked out of the dairy on Park Road with the Monday morning paper and milk for their tea. The Herald had bought the story, and included a photo of Captain Cook, but not the correct painting. Down Grafton Road she scanned the neighbors’ houses and cars for anything odd, anyone spying on them. Adjacent to the scarred landscape of Grafton Gully there were still older two-story wooden houses at the bottom of the road on each side. Ricky had taken the Holden to his family farm in Pukekohe. It was good to have him out of the way. The house, which stood against urban progress in its scruffy Edwardian glory, could only fit so many egos.

  “Read it to me again, brother. You have such a fine voice.” Rawiri relaxed on the sofa in the living room, surrounded by boxes of martial arts equipment.

  “If you make me another cuppa and a slice of bread with honey.”

  “Oh, just read it, will you.”

  “A new Maori rights group calling themselves ‘Land Rights for Maori Justice’ claims to have stolen the recently installed Captain Cook portrait by John Webber at the opening of the ‘Two Worlds of Omai’ exhibition at the Auckland City Art Gallery on Saturday night. A source at the gallery confirmed the painting is missing and has been replaced with a color reproduction. Next to the label is a small sign declaring it is being repaired.

  “The director of the Art Gallery stated the painting was not present in the gallery but refused to acknowledge it had been stolen. Calls to the police for confirmation went unanswered.

  “A Maori group is claiming they are about to release a list of demands for the return of ancient tribal lands stolen since the Treaty of Waitangi and that once their demands have been met the painting will be returned. Calls to Maori leaders and Land Rights activists revealed the possibility of a new activist group, but none of their leaders were known.

  “An art historian from the University of Auckland, Professor Anthony Browne, called the painting one of the most famous in New Zealand and a priceless icon of the discovery of New Zealand by Europeans in the 18th century.”

  “Shit. What? How valuable is priceless?” Wiremu asked.

  “A Maori name for the group would be better,” Moana said. “I didn’t like it in the first place, and now seeing it in print, well, it’s daft.”

  “Yes, would be good, Moana, but little Wiremu here can’t speak much Maori and is afraid he’ll get it wrong.”

  “Hey! I know a waiata, a few sayings. I’m still learning. It’s a journey we all have to make.”

  “Do we have the list of lands we want back?” Rawiri asked.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Alexander tucked the van out of sight on a small road off Grafton Road and walked to Tsara’s house with his camera bag on his shoulder. “You’ll never guess where I’ve been all night,” he gushed when she opened the front door. “But first I need to pee!”

  Later: “Well, as you read in the Herald.” Alexander sipped his tea and took a bite of Tsara’s cake. “It was stolen sometime after we left for the party. The usual Maori are suspects, and I’ve been told to keep an eye on the Soviet diplomat we saw Saturday night. I’ve been hanging out where he’s staying in Epsom. But here the plot thickens.”

  Tsara held her hands up. “No more cake. You have to finish the story.”

  “He used a decoy to drive his car to where the painting was stashed. I think. I gambled and followed the car and parked where I could see both the car and the house. I thought she had gone too.”

  “She? The decoy?”

  “Yes. A young Russian woman I lost sight of. I didn’t want to be seen following her and by the time I figured out where she was, she was gone.”

  Alexander did not know what to make of the face Tsara made.

  “I’ve seen her before, but she disappeared. I stayed all night waiting for the car to move. At about six the Soviet showed, put a package in the boot and sped off. It was the size of the painting, but it was dark. I lost him when he turned off Parnell Road onto one of the side streets. I couldn’t follow because I sensed he was going to criss-cross all over Parnell until he knew he didn’t have a tail. I gambled and headed to where he was staying in Epsom, hid the van on a side street and went for a little walk. Sure enough, a few minutes later the Jag cruised to his dead-end street and backed into a space where I couldn’t see him.”

  “My favorite spy.”

  “What, him?”

  “No, you, silly. You made pretty big decisions and won. Or did you?”

  “I called it in just now from a payphone, told everyone where the painting is. Well, where I think the painting might be. Anyway, it’s out of my hands.” He lowered his voice. “I think I deserve a present now.”

  Tsara went into the kitchen for another slice of her fruit cake. “You’ve turned into quite a ladies’ man haven’t you?”

  “What?”

  “First, it’s that doctor. ‘Oh, I do want to see your dojo,’ and now it’s a mysterious Russian woman.”

  The phone rang. Alexander leapt up. “I have a bad feeling.”

  Tsara blinked.

  “Hello?”

  “Newton, where are you? It’s almost nine o’clock. Report to the gallery right away. Leave the van parked on Kitchener and come to the library. Bring your camera and any film you have.”

  Alexander looked at the phone, at his cake, and b
ack at Tsara. He grabbed the slice.

  “Who was that?” Tsara asked.

  “The cop you don’t like. I have to go.” He was annoyed that Grimble knew where he was and had ordered him to work. And he had to develop the photos from last night. “We’ll talk about what you just said later. What if I’m coming out of my shell? Can’t be a shy young man all my life. And the gallery job helped. I have skills. Love your cake. See you.”

  • • •

  District Commander Superintendent Thomas Jarvis had read the Herald first thing in the morning. He thought he was under siege from a new Maori group who held hostage “the most famous painting in New Zealand”, as the Herald called it. They demanded the return of ancestral lands stolen by the Pakeha. He summoned Inspector Bernie Grimble to his office and demanded answers. Inspector Grimble summoned Alexander Newton to the gallery and demanded answers. Permanent Under-Secretary Richard Catelin had been summoned by his minister to account for what had just happened. The minister had been summoned by the Prime Minister who wanted to know why the most valuable painting in New Zealand, guarded by half the army and police force had been stolen. The Prime Minister had been assured the painting was perfectly safe in Auckland. The Prime Minister was furious. Catelin was on the first flight to Auckland. His minister did not trust the police there to find the painting. Which led to the question, who had the painting? The new Maori group, the Soviet diplomat, or someone else?

  The editor of the Herald had slept in and a junior editor, unaware of the agreement with the commissioner not to publish anything about the painting, decided to go with the headline “Maori Land Rights group kidnaps Captain Cook”’ for the early edition, the one delivered to homes. When the editor arrived, he changed the headline for the late edition to “Painting missing from gallery” and moved it off the front page. But the story was out and had been picked up by radio and TV news. The editor was embarrassed; the commissioner was furious.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Alexander was concerned he would be towed as he parked next to the gallery on Kitchener Street. Sergeant Cadd, who had been waiting for him, drove the van onto the pavement and told him not to worry, Grimble would be coming soon. Alexander went to develop the photos in the gallery’s darkroom and thought nothing of Cadd’s cavalier attitude about illegally parking an unmarked van.

  By eleven Alexander had spread the prints on a table in the library. He could make out the outline of Natasha. She wore a headscarf: part of her disguise, he thought. The Jag had stayed in the same place for hours until dawn. It had a number plate with the letters DC, a diplomatic plate. The silver letters were just visible in the grainy photo.

  A tall man, in an overcoat like the one Alexander had seen in Wellington, emerged from a pathway on the far side of the Crescent. He carried a large package wrapped in plastic. Alexander had shot one frame of the package being slid into the trunk and another of the Russian driving away. The last photo on his roll had been the Jaguar turning into a side street. He did not have any film to document the car parked in Castle Drive about twenty minutes later.

  Grimble, once briefed by Alexander, drove Sergeant Cadd and the photos to police headquarters. Alexander had another set of prints in the darkroom, where he returned to see if he had missed anything.

  • • •

  “Do you have any photos you shot at my party?” Colin asked when Alexander appeared outside the darkroom.

  “Oh, yeah. I have the film in my bag.”

  “What did you think?”

  “What? Of Cook missing?”

  “No, the party. Was it radical or what?”

  “Colin, I respect your professionalism in the gallery, and I’ve been thinking hard what to say here. But to be blunt, you were dressed as a Nazi, as were a bunch of your friends. One had an SS uniform. You had a Wehrmacht uniform!”

  “Yeah. Weren’t they cool?”

  “No, Colin, they weren’t. Let me explain. Nazis did terrible things to other humans. Correction. They weren’t human. They were monsters! They organized the Holocaust. They killed millions of people. Millions. Gays, Jews, gypsies, retards, anyone they didn’t like. It’s not cool to dress like a Nazi, ever. I can speak for quite a few people who were upset by your uniform.”

  “We were having fun. It’s innocent. The Nazis lost and good riddance to them.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Here’s the film. You develop it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “What makes you think he would be so stupid as to hide Captain Cook where he lives?” Alexander was aware his voice was higher and louder than normal.

  “I’ve been told to tell you to not follow him anymore. They think you’ve been made, and the Soviet is aware of you.”

  “They? You mean Grimble? How would he know that? I never told him.”

  “There are parts of this investigation you are not aware of and will not be briefed on. Your job was to keep an eye on him. And now you don’t have to.”

  “It was Grimble.”

  “As I said, there are many parts to this investigation, and you are only one piece. All you have to do is follow orders. Is that clear?”

  “No. It isn’t.” Alexander realized he was now shouting. He had to calm down. He couldn’t risk being dismissed by Catelin. He had been fired from the Listener over one word in a thousand-word article about Nicolas Poussin when he described the Queen’s curator Anthony Blunt as a “spy” and the editor had objected. He’d lost his temper over one word. Now he was doing it over Captain Cook and one Soviet.

  “This is the last shot?” Catelin asked as he surveyed the prints.

  “Yes. He turned off Parnell Road in his Jag. And a few minutes before he had placed the painting, or what looked to be a package that had the same dimensions as the painting, into his trunk. As you can see here.” Alexander pointed to a blurred photograph he had taken a long time to develop and produce a good as print as he could conjure up from the poor negative he had captured. He expected Catelin to take out his pipe and start stuffing it with tobacco. But Catelin stayed still, moving his eyes across the fresh set of prints Alexander had laid out on the library table. The permanent Under-Secretary had flown from Wellington to oversee the return of Captain Cook and represent the government in any police action.

  “He would have dropped it off somewhere. Somewhere where we wouldn’t find it.”

  “Newton!” Catelin took a deep breath. “I stuck my neck out for you, to have you escort this unique painting of Captain Cook to Auckland. You had one job. To make sure it was safe. And it’s been stolen. I don’t want to be lectured by you on what the Soviets can or can’t do. Is that clear?”

  “I suppose the cops told you I lost the Russian deliberately, and if I had followed the Jag I would have seen where the painting was hidden?” Alexander did not mean his words to sound so sarcastic. “And I suppose the SIS know all about this, because I didn’t see any cars go whizzing by in pursuit. You know they pulled out from their position opposite Mark Rose’s place on Gibraltar Crescent at exactly nine o’clock last night? As if they couldn’t work on overtime.”

  Catelin patted his pockets.

  “The Soviet knows he is under surveillance by the SIS. If he spotted me he would have thought I was part of them. And if Grimble is going to raid where Natasha lives, they aren’t going to find anything, are they?”

  Catelin stopped looking in his suit pockets and stared at Alexander. “You think he would drop the painting off somewhere between where you lost him and his flat at the Castle?”

  “I read the book you lent me. The KGB are experts in counter-surveillance. Natasha might have been waiting at another destination for him and spirited the painting to a safe space.”

  “You think Natasha is involved in this?”

  “She drove the car, didn’t she? She’s staying at the Castle.”

  “Don’t do anything until we tell you,” said Catelin. “Go back to your place and rest.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, sir.” Alexander drove back to Tsara’s, thinking about Natasha and how he could engineer an encounter with her or at least follow her, to see if she would lead him to the hiding place for the painting.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The first thing Alexander did on his way to Mel’s dojo was stop at a second-hand furniture store called Steptoe & Son to buy a used single mattress. The owner helped him carry the mattress into the van and had made a comment about how Alexander could use it. Alexander thought the comment inappropriate. He had spent little of the money Catelin had given him for operational expenses, and he wanted to be comfortable if he had to endure more nights in the small white government van. He positioned the mattress to act as a sofa where he could relax in comfort while looking at his mirrors. It also fitted flat, if he had to sleep in the van.

  Why was he going to see Mel at her dojo and not stay next to the phone at Tsara’s, where he could be contacted? Training, he rationalized. If he was going to be a spy, he would need martial-arts expertise. How hard could it be?

  He found the dojo above a boutique on Ponsonby Road. The street had changed since his student days and was now lined with small shops, clothing boutiques and other small businesses. Up the wooden stairs the room had rubber mats spread across the floorboards. There was a line of women’s shoes along the wall next to the door. He took off his shoes and hung his denim jacket on a hook. There were students in a wide circle. Inside the circle was Mel. He spotted an outline of a male with long hair on the other side of the room leaning against the window.

  “See how I’m standing? Balance is key. I want to keep my balance but make my attacker lose his. It’s difficult to think of balance when someone is trying to harm you, but with practice it comes naturally. So, what we’re going to do first are small moves. They are small. Nothing dramatic. Here, Annie, come at me with both hands aimed at my throat. The attack could be anywhere on my body but let’s keep it here for the time being.”