The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  Chapter Forty-nine

  “Is there a reason why we slept on the floor? My back is killing me. And my knees. What did we do last night?”

  “Everything.” Mel leaned over and kissed him again. Her breasts pressed into his body and he felt he could stay in this position all day, feeling the warmth of her body, even if his back was sore.

  “You put on quite a show. Supertramp, right? I think it’ll always be my song, I mean our song. And what you wore. My god. It was like, no, it was a fantasy come true. I’m spoilt for life!”

  “It was meant for someone else but—”

  “Oh. But I was the lucky recipient.”

  Alexander didn’t want to mention Henry’s name. He should have felt guilty, but he had no reason to be. If Henry had run out on Mel, he must be a fool. “Tread softly because you tread on my fantasies,” he said, struggling with all the emotions racing around inside him. “What have I done to deserve such an amazing time with you?”

  Mel stroked his cheeks, ran her finger along his nose. He kissed her finger and leaned over to kiss her on the lips. “Hey,” she said, “I have to go to work soon.”

  “I am thankful Captain Cook was stolen, otherwise I would never have met you.”

  “You met me at the gallery opening.”

  “Yes, but you were, um. I was, what’s the right word? Besotted? Gob-smacked? Thunderstruck? I tried to keep myself under control, but you inhabited my daydreams, my night dreams. And all the spaces in between.”

  “Are you an incurable romantic or a jaded spy?”

  “Me jaded? Not sure I’m there yet. Incurable romantic? Are you the antidote?” Alexander watched Mel, naked, rise up and stretch. “I know I’m the curator who lost the explorer who discovered New Zealand.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but what are you doing about the situation?”

  “The situation? Well, it’s completely fucked! I’ve been reporting to the gallery and summoned by all sorts of people. Inspector Grimble, for instance.”

  Mel saw his white shirt on the sofa and put it on. “Oh, him. Yes, I am familiar with the inspector.” She used one button to secure the shirt.

  Alexander was mesmerized. “Really? What have you done?” He went to undo the button, but she held his arms. He had a flashback to an old James Bond movie—was it Dr. No?—and the woman who wore a man’s shirt when Bond returned to his apartment. Or was it a pajama top?

  Mel looked into his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  He shook his head. “Seriously, what’s the connection?” Her thumbs and fingers were still gripping his wrists. “And you look amazing in my shirt. My only shirt.”

  “I’ll tell you another time. You were saying about the stolen painting?”

  He kissed her again. He could get used to being with Mel naked under his shirt. He followed her into the kitchen where she made coffee. “There is my real boss from the Department of Internal Affairs and a few others I have to deal with. I came across a young woman called Natasha Windsor who, we discover through the wonders of the Wanganui computer, has an apartment in the Castle, and of course it was raided yesterday. She’s connected to the Soviet spy, Nikolai Raganovich. You know, from the Dr. Winter spy trial a couple of months ago.”

  Mel nodded as she put the percolator on the stove.

  “They want me to make contact with her and find the damn painting, I suppose.”

  “Oh, you’re going to seduce her?”

  “God, no! I met her a couple of years ago, and she tried to seduce me in her apartment. Freaked me out. Not exactly beautiful, and a little, how can I put it? Plump?”

  “You are funny.”

  “First, I’m romantic, then I’m funny? Funny nice or funny ha-ha?”

  “I need to take a shower. Want to scrub my back?” Mel checked the coffee was percolating.

  “I am your official scrubber.”

  • • •

  Alexander drank black coffee in Mel’s kitchen. He was dressed in his wrinkled shirt and he loved the fact that Mel had been wearing it. Her hair was wet and brushed back. With no makeup, in her own white shirt and black pants, she looked stunning. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was wearing her black Doc Martens. Joni Mitchell’s Blue was playing on the sound system.

  “I never took you for a Joni Mitchell fan,” he said.

  “What did you take me for?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. Well, a Supertramp fan? I want to explore that album again.”

  “Not now, I have to go.” Mel leaned with her back to the sink, eyeing him.

  “And this.” He picked up the Horses album with Patti Smith on the cover in a white shirt, black pants and hair to her shoulders. “You know you look like her.”

  “Come on, my hair is longer and curly. I don’t have her nose or chin. I could go on.”

  “Well, it’s more a feeling that you’re in command and you transmit this smoking sexiness.”

  “Smoking is bad for you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Were you a tomboy growing up?”

  “Are you saying I’m androgynous?” She shifted her weight off the sink and positioned her left foot forwards.

  Alexander looked down and pulled a face. “After what happened last night? No way. Anyway, I couldn’t spell it. Changing the subject, there is something I want to ask you.”

  “What?”

  “Is your first name just Mel or is it short for Melanie?”

  “Do you know how many people assume that?”

  “It’s not, is it?”

  “No.”

  Alexander noticed her mood change. “So it must be, er, Melanie? Like the singer.” He scrutinized her face then shook his head. “No, it’s Melody. Just like the song on the new Stones album?” He smacked his hand on the table. “It is! Wow.”

  “And it’s spelled with an ie not y.”

  “Different. Your parents?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why not? It’s part of your identity, isn’t it?”

  “Promise not to tell?”

  “I am the keeper of secrets.”

  “I bet you are.” Mel looked at him in such a way that he knew he could not ask any more questions about her name.

  “Talking of which, when I mentioned the Russian, Natasha, you made a funny face.”

  “I did?”

  “Just for a second.”

  Mel put her coffee cup in the sink, avoiding his eyes.

  “You must know her or have come across her? Yes? You have. She came to you for a, consultation? Health check? No. She wanted to—”

  Mel waved her hands. “I’m not saying anything. I can’t talk about my patients.”

  “True, you can’t. Ever. But we do know she is a patient of yours and came in with, whatever, and you can’t tell me. It must be pretty bad. Recently?”

  Mel folded her arms. “I’m not playing your game.”

  “I’m not playing games. I just need a way to reach her without knocking on her door and saying, ‘Hey remember me? You tried to seduce me with my girlfriend in the other room a while back, and now I’m in town and free, what about it?’ I don’t think so.”

  “Well, maybe you could bump into her where she works. Maybe she works in Parnell, in an office, say, off Parnell Road, on maybe Garfield. You could see her if she goes to lunch nearby.”

  “Mel, you are amazing. Are you doing anything tonight?”

  She wrote out her home phone number on her business card. “You might be busy yourself tonight.”

  “I have no idea what’s happening. Every day is different. But I’ll call you later, even if it’s to say I miss you and want to see you, see you immediately, without being too overbearing or whatever it is we men are not supposed to be when courting.”

  “Are you courting now?”

  “Have you got a better name for it?”

  They had one last kiss and the passio
n and longevity of the kiss belied any doubts about not wanting to see each other soon.

  Chapter Fifty

  “We have to issue another communique with the Star, with our demands, specifically.”

  Rawiri raised his eyebrows. “Specifically?”

  “Hey! I can use big words,” said Moana. “I’m a grown woman.”

  “I think they know who we are anyway.” Wiremu pointed to the front page of yesterday’s Star with a photo of them. The caption stated: “Two unidentified Maori were assaulted by police in Albert Park after the illegal demonstration on Maori Land Rights was broken up.” He snorted. “I wasn’t assaulted. I threw a cop to the ground and the others ran away. Scared buggers.”

  “Lucky they didn’t get your names.” Moana squinted. “The photo’s not so clear. In fact, doesn’t look like you at all.”

  “I can see it,” Ricky said.

  Moana sighed and pointed to the other paper on the table, the front page of that morning’s Herald. The police raids on Raganovich’s apartment and Mark Rose’s house in Parnell were covered in detail. The article continued inside with a side panel featuring Nikolai Raganovich and his role in the Dr. Winter spy trial. Another panel covered Mark Rose with his history of student activism, and his famous Vietnam War protest photo holding a megaphone and looking like Che Guevara. It looked identical to the one in the Star on page three where he stood on a box by the band rotunda, holding a megaphone.

  “You’ve got people talking about land rights,” said Ricky. “A whole news segment last night talked about what lands would be considered. Every Maori activist is getting air time or being quoted in the papers. Heck, you caused a riot with lots of people arrested, including this joker Mark Rose. And you showed up to the demo and didn’t get arrested. So you’ve achieved your aims. I’d say it was impressive. Don’t take it the wrong way, but it’s just you three. You haven’t broken any laws, I figure, just pissed off quite a few people.” He massaged Moana’s tight shoulders as he kept talking. “And if the authorities do recover the painting, even if they don’t get it from you, which I’m sure they won’t, right?, you’ll be seen as responsible for its safe return. Either way you win. There’s no downside.”

  Moana said, “I agree with Ricky. One day at a time. While the painting is still missing, we should come out with a list of lands we want returned.”

  “Yes. Call it in. Give them a list, the more the merrier. Start with Bastion Point and Raglan golf course. Include Pakaitore and the Wanganui river, and all our fishing rights along the coast. The foreshore and seabeds do not belong to the Crown but to all Maori people. Mention Parihaka, all those lands seized after the arrest of Te Whiti. And put in the words ‘spiritual sustenance’ and ‘tribal dignity’. Confuse the heck out of them.”

  “And don’t forget Paremoremo,” Rawiri smiled, “the Pakeha prison for Maori, built on Maori land. I heard inside an iwi used to own the land. Te Kawerau something. That’ll piss them off. Giving back all the land!”

  “Yeah, but we want to keep our demands spread out,” said Wiremu. “Make sure no one can say, it’s the buggers from the renegade whanau of Ngapuhi who are up to no good. We want to remain anonymous. It’s our strength, right?”

  “Yes. Anonymous like in our photos on the front page of the Star.” Rawiri stood up. “Aren’t the pubs open? Let’s go.” The brothers had agreed not to tell Moana what they intended to do with the notebooks. She knew they had them. And Ricky would be left in the dark. For his own protection, they rationalized.

  • • •

  “Shit. Fuck. Do you see this?” The petite blonde jumped from her chair and stabbed her finger at the front page of the Auckland Star. She had been Miss Hamilton 1956 but now, in a floral housecoat with no makeup and her hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked like a tired housewife. She squinted at the two Maori men in the photograph, making her frown lines even deeper. She turned to her younger brother. “Do you know who that is. Michael?”

  He shook his head and continued to sip his coffee. With short hair, a tight shave and impeccably dressed in his navy blazer and khaki pants with brown brogues he looked like a financial consultant, but for his cauliflower ears, broken nose and cold blue eyes.

  “It’s that damn Wiremu Wilson. The one Terry told me about. They were in prison together and he supplied us with their pot from up north. Terry was setting him up to be ambushed by the Drug Squad but somehow Wiremu wasn’t there and his gang was wiped out.”

  “I remember. They called it Hei Hei’s last stand. The girls at the Flamingo talked about it. Quite a shootout. What’s that got to do with us? And where are my pancakes? You promised me pancakes. That’s why I came over so early. Missed my run to get here on time.”

  Barbara Turner sat down again and pointed at the photograph. “Look at them. That’s his brother, who must be out of prison now. He’s a mean bastard. What are they doing here in Auckland?” She screwed her eyes up. “And fuck your pancakes. I want to know what they’re up to. Shit. I’m gonna change and we’ll look at that Wong house again.”

  “What? We’ve been there, how many times? And seen nothing.”

  “Timing. Timing is everything. It’s what Terry used to say.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard it before. As in comedy and getting pregnant. And in making my fucking pancakes.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Alexander drove to Tsara’s, smelling of lavender soap. He didn’t want to tell her about last night’s adventure. “Oh, you remember the good-looking doctor we were introduced to at the opening?” The honest approach wouldn’t work. They had always been open about their relationships but with Mel, he felt different. He thought it better if he slept elsewhere. He didn’t want to camp out on Tsara’s sofa and listen to more melancholy music with disturbing album covers.

  He couldn’t count on Mel to invite him to sleep over. He was unsure of her relationship with Henry. They hadn’t broken up and he didn’t want to get in their way. Henry’s presence was still felt in her house and he hadn’t left the country. Alexander had figured out why she didn’t want to use her bed: Henry had slept there the night before and she hadn’t changed the sheets.

  Was laundry detergent the perfect way to protect yourself? Wash away the smell of your previous man? He didn’t know what to make of his relationship with Mel. It had happened so fast. What of his affair with Deborah? He had gone from no women in his life, to two. What sort of trouble would he fall into with two romances in two different cities? If they were in separate cities, did it still amount to cheating? Was it a romance in Wellington? Or was it pure necessity? Or was it lust and professional spying? He had more than enough romance here in Auckland. He was in a moral quandary. Can spies have quandaries? he wondered. Their work could be ethically questionable. Would he dare to admit his dirty deeds to his best friend in Auckland, Tsara? He doubted she would accept his explanation and he would need more than laundry detergent to wash himself clean.

  He parked the van and walked across to Tsara’s front door. He rang the buzzer, knocked on the door then, with no answer, leaned over to rap on her side window. It was after nine, so maybe she would be at Elam. He had brought the morning paper and pastries she liked. He used the key she had given him, opened her door, and called her name.

  After changing into a clean pair of jeans and a white shirt he made a cup of tea and ate all the pastries. Her bed did not look slept in. He couldn’t rationalize his feelings because they had never slept together and she was free to pursue her own romantic agenda. If it was romantic.

  He saw a note with a phone number and his name. He recognized her handwriting. He put it in his pocket and wrote her a note to leave on the table.

  Dear Tsara

  I am sorry I did not call you last night. I had another all-nighter. I seem to spend more time in my van than with you! I am under incredible pressure with the lost painting. Lost! It’s not lost, it’s stolen and I must recover it or I am finished. I will call you tonight when you get back. I
have a lot to tell you. Got my suitcase as I am not sure what will happen tonight.

  Best

  Alexander

  He read his note again. It wasn’t too brief, not too long, just the right tone, he thought.

  He packed all his belongings, took his shaving kit and toothbrush from her bathroom and locked the door. He would keep his suitcase hidden beneath the mattress in his van.

  • • •

  If Alexander had been more aware of his surroundings, or conducted a counter-surveillance drill, he would have seen a red four-door Mercedes 280 SE parked further up Grafton Road with a man and a woman inside.

  “Who’s he?” Barbara Turner now had her hair in a bun and thick blue eye makeup inspired by Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. “Came out a couple of doors down. Tall guy.”

  “Fancy him, do you?”

  “Oh, come on. That’s not even funny.”

  Michael looked at her then at his dashboard. He enjoyed the new Mercedes. As co-owner of their car showroom in Ellerslie he could drive any car he wanted. He would return it, reset the odometer and select another car. It was better than picking another girl from their massage parlor, the Flamingo Paradise. The cars never talked back. “What do we hope to prove here?”

  “Don’t know till we see it. We know Ricky Wong lives there. We’ll just have to wait. Give me an hour or two. It’ll be worth it.”

  Michael looked at his gold Presidential Rolex. “I’ve got some trades to make and—” He stopped as he looked down the street. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Holy shit! It’s them. What are they doing in the Wong house?”

  “Are you making a joke? My little sister making a joke?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Don’t stare at them. That’s how you attract attention. Let them walk by. Shit. What the fuck are they doing?”

  “One way to find out.” Michael started the engine when the two brothers were further up the hill, slowly turned around and parked further up the road to see where they were heading.