The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  Annie threw both hands at Mel’s neck.

  “Remember, we are doing everything slowly first. We want to get comfortable moving our bodies. Because you’re just moving your body. She has me by the throat, but I don’t use force against force. How many of you are strong enough to fight off a large male attacker? Okay, I have the wrong group here.”

  Three of the larger women laughed.

  “Notice I do not tense up. You can’t move if you’re tense. How do you stay relaxed when you’re being attacked?”

  The three larger women laughed again.

  “What I do is I move my right leg back a little and move my hips to the right like so, and keep my shoulders aligned. I windmill my arms clockwise, to the left and down to the right. Nothing too forceful. Small movements. See? I’m not punching or pulling or grabbing. But Annie is off-balance and I step at an angle, keeping in the same direction I’m going.”

  Mel moved her right foot and, with her arms moving clockwise, Annie lost her footing. “We haven’t rehearsed. I keep my balance, she loses hers. There.”

  Annie fell forward and rolled over to avoid falling on her face. “See how she recovers by rolling? Comes naturally after more training. You can catch yourself before falling. We are going half-speed here, at the most. And she’s relaxed. She can’t hurt herself. We’ll work on relaxing you. Just worry about the small movements for now.”

  Mel looked around the room and saw Alexander by the door. “Oh. we have a new training partner. Girls, meet Alexander. Alexander, come into the circle. Oh, good you have your shoes off. Stand here. Now come at me with both hands.”

  Alexander tried to grab her neck. He had not heard her talk, and was faster than the female attacker, but she matched his speed. She stepped back, moved her hips and grabbed his right hand, sliding her grip to his right wrist. Her left hand pressed on his right triceps and she moved slightly, bending her knees to force Alexander to the floor, still in her grip, her left hand pressing on his upper right arm. He grimaced as his face hit the mat. He managed to break his fall with his free hand, but the others gasped at the sound.

  “You okay?” Mel asked. “Remember, we always say pain is your ego leaving your body.”

  The women laughed.

  “I forgot to say, tap out if you feel pain.”

  Alexander kept a straight face. He was pleased to have such physical attention applied by Mel.

  • • •

  Alexander sat cross-legged on the mat, relieved his first martial arts encounter was over. He had learned to tap out after the wrist locks, arm bars and other techniques tried on him. He had been redirected to the floor countless times, but he couldn’t complain.

  Mark, who had kept in the corner, came over and Mel introduced him to Alexander. “Didn’t I see you at the opening?” Alexander asked as he got up. His shoulders and knees were going to hurt the next day. He knew his face was red from all the contact with the rubber mats.

  “Yeah,” said Mark. “Now I recognize you. You were with Tsara, the photographer.”

  “You know her?”

  “Been around a long time. She always used to come to the demos. Stop the war. Stop this, stop that, save the whales.” Mark smiled; he sounded sincere, not ironic. “You didn’t bring her? She’d love the dojo.”

  “Maybe seeing me thrown around, but it’s not her cup of tea.” Auckland was as small a place as Wellington, Alexander realized. Everyone knew everyone else or at least someone connected to someone else.

  Mark clapped his hands together. “Why don’t we go out to that new restaurant just around the corner?”

  “You mean the Firehouse?” Mel replied.

  “Yeah. But I don’t think we can all fit in my truck.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll take my car. Is it open? It’s Monday night.”

  Mark smiled.. “It’s open, and I’ve taken care of the reservation.”

  “Can I hitch a ride?” Alexander asked Mel. He didn’t want Mark to know he had a van.

  Walking to her BMW Mel kept her leather jacket open as she was still flushed from the workout. “How did you find your first time?” she asked once she turned the ignition. Alexander adjusted his seat and ran his hands down his outstretched legs. “Not as bad as I thought but better than I expected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alexander tried to shrug and pulled a face. His shoulders hurt. “If you want to know, I was floored.”

  Mel laughed and the curls around her face shook.

  “And didn’t you say pain was my ego leaving my body?”

  “What? The pain?”

  “No. Losing my ego. If I even have one. I’ve been wondering.”

  She glanced at him as she turned into a parking space across from the Firehouse, a historic brick building wedged into the corner of Williamson Avenue and Rose Road that had once housed the Ponsonby Fire Brigade, but was now an expensive restaurant. Mel parted her lips and leaned forward before adjusting her hair. She looked around the street then turned to Alexander. “What do you do at the gallery?”

  “Which gallery?”

  “How many are there? Auckland, I suppose.”

  “Oh, I’m just here to look after the Captain Cook painting.”

  “How’s it working out for you?” She scrutinized his face.

  He kept still.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” She smiled.

  “No. You can never be rude. Not after you threw me around like I was a dish rag. Good question, though, since it’s missing. Which reminds me. Got to make a phone call. Do you mind?” He pointed across the street to the bright red call box. “I’ll be right in.”

  Tsara answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” She sounded annoyed, which was unusual for Tsara, Alexander thought, but he had not seen her for a long time.

  “Out in my van, I’m afraid. Work. Any calls for me?”

  “No. Are you coming back?”

  “Not sure. Got work to do. I’ll tell you later, I promise, but don’t wait up for me. Gotta go.”

  When Mel and Alexander found their table in the back, Mark had already ordered a local Cabernet Sauvignon and was tasting it. He nodded and the sommelier poured the wine for Annie, Mel then Alexander before replenishing Mark’s empty glass. “How are you feeling, Alexander?” Mark asked. “A little sore?”

  “Oh, not bad. Enjoyed it, actually.”

  “Now you know why I tried to be invisible. Didn’t want to be picked.”

  “Good move.”

  Mark raised his full glass. “Let’s drink a toast to Alexander and his brave audition.” They clicked glasses. “Speech! Speech!”

  “Well, here’s to Captain Cook!” Alexander proposed.

  Mark almost spat out a mouthful of wine. He put his napkin to his mouth. “You do know it’s stolen?”

  “Oh yes. But without the Captain I would never have met you all.” Alexander emptied his glass and insisted on refilling everyone’s.

  Mark dominated the conversation: his commune where no one wanted to work, his own brand of marijuana versus the wild plants he had found growing around his property, the current government and how repressive it was—the usual issues, Alexander assumed. He was content to listen and gaze at Mel without, he hoped, the others noticing.

  Mark ordered more wine from the attentive sommelier, making three bottles, and they had consumed three courses. Alexander could not remember when he had eaten so well and found it odd that a student revolutionary could be such an epicure. The French onion soup had a hard layer of molten cheese on top. When he broke through he pulled out long strings of cheese he tried to eat without cutting them. He first used his teeth, before he tried his soup spoon and then his fingers, while Mel tried not to laugh. Mark glanced at Alexander’s performance with the cheese strands, and how Mel looked at Alexander. Annie was engrossed in retrieving a large slice of onion at the bottom of her earthenware bowl.

  Next time, Alexander decided, he would not order th
e Cornish hen. He hadn’t realized how small it was. He had no idea what was in the stuffing: the menu had been taken away, and he couldn’t recall what it said. The apple pie à la mode was more filling even though he had no idea what à la mode meant and didn’t want to ask. Mel gave him her vanilla ice cream; she kept glancing at him, Alexander thought.

  The waiter brought small glasses of port for the table. Later he placed the check in the middle of the table and Mark grabbed it. Taking out a large roll of notes, he counted out the dollars and left, Alexander noted, a generous tip. “For the workers,” Mark smiled.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Alexander walked with Mel to where she had parked. Mark had left with Annie in his red truck. The fresh air went to Alexander’s head and he swayed.

  “Are you okay?” Mel asked.

  “Yes. I had such a good time tonight. I don’t want it to end. Do you want to come to the top of Mount Eden?” He moved closer to her. “The stars are out. It’s a special place, and I haven’t been there in ages.”

  Mel unlocked her door and turned to face him. She had a flashback of Henry taking her to the summit the last night he was in Auckland before he flew to America, to his new position at a lab in Long Island, New York. She had thought she would never see him again. Henry claimed he had seduced her in the darkness of the parking lot, but Mel had been in control. She shuddered. She didn’t know if it was a good memory or a bad one. Now she was struck by the look on Alexander’s face, his vulnerability, and how close he was standing to her.

  Mel and Henry had had a verbal fight before she left for the dojo today, and she was still upset. If Henry left her again, it would be final. Why would he return? Hadn’t she rescued him in New York from American mobsters and Albanian thugs? Had she wasted the last six months of her life trying to make something out of Henry, only to see him fly off again and leave her? With or without his damn notebooks. She didn’t want to go home and face him.

  Alexander kept his eyes on Mel’s face, waiting for her response. He could tell she was thinking. He hoped it was of him but could not be sure. Alexander the irresistible spy, the dashing curator, the mysterious government agent from Wellington. He had his mouth open but couldn’t think of anything witty to say.

  She sighed. “Why not? I need to get out more.”

  “Can you drive me to my van? I left it near your dojo.”

  “Oh, you are sneaky! Didn’t want Mark to know? The incognito curator?”

  “Are you able to drive? We did drink rather a lot. Or shall I follow you?” Alexander took deep breaths to clear his head.

  “Let’s do it. I know a short cut. Follow me.”

  • • •

  Had Alexander paid more attention, he would have seen Mark in his red truck on Ponsonby Road waiting for his small white government van to appear. Despite reading and theorizing about counter-surveillance in his book about the KGB, he was not used to practicing such security procedures, especially after three glasses of wine and thoughts of Mel in her BMW just ahead of him. The red pickup followed his van to the entrance to the summit.

  Several cars were parked with their lights off in the parking lot. Most faced the city rather than the Manukau harbor. Alexander pulled in next to her, away from the other cars and furthest from the trig point at the top of the parking lot. It was dark, and impossible to see if any of the cars were occupied, but one was rocking side to side.

  Mel got out of her car and climbed into Alexander’s van. She smiled. “Nice and cozy. Yours?”

  “No, borrowed. From the government.”

  “Oh, and you have a mattress. Got plans?”

  “Now you’re making me blush.”

  “You’ve turned red. My goodness. I made you blush, Alexander. You of all people.”

  “What do you mean? Just cos you threw me around tonight doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.”

  “Oh, you’re too sensitive. Can’t you tell when I’m teasing you? And those dimples,” Mel sighed. “Blushing and dimples.”

  Alexander leaned back and turned off the motor. “Dimples?” He screwed up his face.

  “Why the look?” Mel asked.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. It’s just I’ve never met anyone like you before, and I don’t know how to act. I’m thrown. First physically, and now, well, I don’t know.” He wanted to shrug but his shoulders were sore. Everything ached. If he knew the effect his dimples had, they would probably ache as well.

  Mel looked at him again in a way Alexander couldn’t decipher. To break the tension he said, “Let’s walk around the crater and count the stars.” He opened his door and Mel followed, shivering as she zipped up her leather jacket.

  Alexander marched to the trig point so he could see over Epsom and across towards the Manukau. He walked further along the trail on the south side of the extinct volcano until he came to the split in the path around the main crater. He tried to see flashing blue lights, a visible sign of a police presence, on Castle Drive, but saw nothing. All he heard was the dull hum of a city that refused to sleep.

  “It’s a little dark, isn’t it?” He stated the obvious as Mel bumped into him. Low clouds obscured the stars and the moon. He looked down at her boots. “You don’t wear bellbottoms, do you?”

  “Not one pair.”

  “Don’t like them myself. I’m just not fashionable.”

  Mel sighed, almost touching him, but she didn’t move away. He leaned forward and held her waist to draw her nearer. She did not resist and pressed her hips against his. It felt different from when she was in contact with him in the dojo.

  Alexander could smell the wine on her breath, sweet and close. He brushed his lips against hers. She pressed herself closer to him and kissed him tenderly. She placed her hands on his shoulders. They spent a long time just touching each other’s lips in slow little kisses. They could hear each other’s heavy breathing. Alexander pressed against her. She moved her hands to clasp his neck and she whispered into his ear, “Let’s go to your van.”

  Alexander unlocked the double doors and Mel climbed in first. He almost fell on top of her.

  “Have you locked it?” she asked.

  He draped one leg over her. “We’re safer than Captain Cook.”

  “That’s not exactly reassuring,” she murmured into his ear.

  He was intoxicated with the wine, her presence, the smell of her hair, the soft seductive feel of her breath on his lips. The rest of the night was a blur .

  Alexander reran the events in his mind the next morning, and questioned if they were real, or if he had imagined them. He hoped it had lasted for an eternity. But he had the impression it was quicker than he had wished.

  • • •

  He woke up cold, alone, with his trousers off, and the glass misted up. He looked out of the driver’s window and saw Mel’s car had gone. The man at Steptoe & Sons had been right. He dressed and walked to where he could see the Castle and flashing blue lights. So they were raiding the Russian’s apartment, trying to find a connection to the missing painting. No wonder they never called him. But he knew they would find nothing. The Russian was too clever. He decided to drive over to Gibraltar Crescent, but first he had to witness the sun rising over the Waitemata harbor. There were no clouds.

  The sky took its time to change from a dark purple to a deep blue. Light was launched across the distant water, like rays shooting out at great speed, and a giant white orb rose from the water, as if it was the birth of the universe, and Alexander felt overawed by what he saw and what had happened to him with Mel. He glowed as the sun hit his face and he lifted his square chin to the brightening sky. He wished he was holding Mel now and they were witnessing the start of the day together. Life coming into the world again after darkness. Rangitoto, always a serene presence in the harbor, gradually became more distinct and changed from black to an intense, unfathomable green. He loved the light in Auckland. Everything seemed brighter, more intense, than in Wellington.

  On Parnell Ro
ad, he saw the Crescent had been cordoned off by police cars. They were raiding Mark’s place as well. He thought all they would find would be a few bags of marijuana. Would they press charges against him? He could hear Grimble’s voice: “The law is the law.” It was too early to hear the inspector’s voice. He bought the morning paper, parked in his usual place and walked across to Tsara’s. He was getting used to the van. And the mattress had been a touch of genius.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  If Alexander had been a few minutes later, he would have seen Moana walk into the dairy to buy her Herald and a bottle of milk for her boys’ tea.

  Moana saw Ricky’s Holden parked outside his house. She rushed inside and leapt into his arms and smothered his neck in kisses, her hair falling over his face. “When did you get in?” she asked.

  “Just now. God, you smell so good. I missed you, Moana.” Ricky Wong looked bigger than his average height with his barrel chest and thick arms. He had grown his straight black hair to his collar and almost over his eyes. He shook his head to stare into her deep brown eyes.

  “Same here. Have you met Rawiri?”

  “Yeah, we were just talking. Catching up. What are you doing?”

  “Well, it’s messy. Should I rush you upstairs or do you want a cuppa? No. Better we go into the kitchen.”

  “There’s another story here.”

  Moana showed the paper to Wiremu and Rawiri who sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea. “We need a Maori name for our group and a list of lands we want back. But if the cops are searching for Captain Cook and a Soviet spy, it doesn’t look good for us.” Moana started to shake. Sweat came out on her forehead, her cheeks were wet as if she had been crying. She sobbed and gripped her hands together to stop them shaking.

  Ricky went to hold her, but she moved away. She tried to raise her hands and took several deep breaths. She held her forehead as she kept her balance. Her face went pale and her eyes were dilated. Ricky guided her to a chair. She sat, as if in a trance, then jolted upright, her eyes shut tight.