The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  When he came to a crest in the track at the lower crater, he noticed two large Maori men sitting in the grass. He recognized them and stepped back, to keep out of their line of sight.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  “You know we could just swap the notebooks for Captain Cook. We would have the painting and negotiate with the government for its return in exchange for our land.”

  Rawiri had not moved from his cross-legged position. “Good point,” he said. “A bit late now, isn’t it? Who knows if he has the painting? It might be somewhere he has no control over it, or he might not have it at all. The money makes sense. If he pays us.”

  “You think he’ll pull something?”

  “We’d be naïve to think otherwise. And what would we do with the painting? It creates more problems. They’d never forget we stole it or had it. Even if we recovered it and gave it back, we would still be prosecuted. Correct?”

  “Even without the damn painting, we’re creating a lot of discussion,” said Wiremu. “And we don’t have to worry about Captain Cook. I mean, he is proving useful to us even now.”

  “When are you going to slip the envelope to him?” Rawiri asked.

  “Just as soon as I am convinced no one is watching the building. I’ll sneak in like last time.”

  • • •

  Alexander walked to where he could watch the two Maori. He was far enough away, he was just another hiker. What were they doing above the Castle where Natasha lived, with Raganovich? He walked around the lower crater again as he kept the two in sight until one disappeared and the other kept his back to Alexander. It didn’t look right.

  He had his upcoming rendezvous with Natasha at the Kiwi to plan. He decided to keep the van at the summit where he could retrieve it later. Maybe after his visit to the Kiwi? Or after meeting Natasha? He knew he was not thinking clearly because of Tsara.

  He assumed Grimble and Cadd would pay a visit to Natasha’s workplace and he would hear what happened when he met her later. Would she tell him? She had not batted an eyelid when he mentioned the stolen painting, yet her apartment had been searched by the police. If she had the painting, why would she hide it in her own apartment? He couldn’t understand Grimble’s strategy. They weren’t dealing with common Kiwi criminals. Russians were more cunning and devious. Natasha was working off the books for a company in Parnell, which would explain why her employment had not been in the Wanganui computer Grimble seemed to rely on. So would they raid where she worked after she had left for the day? Or keep it and her under surveillance? Alexander discounted the police keeping watch on her, as he had seen how easily the government lost their targets. And Cadd hadn’t been able to find her Mini.

  He saw both Maori walk across the lower crater. They were easy to follow with big strides and, unlike the Soviet, they did no counter-surveillance drills. Alexander kept them in sight, from a distance, and figured they were going somewhere in the city. He could use the long walk to clear his head. Across Grafton Bridge they turned right on Symonds Street until they came to the Kiwi Tavern and went inside. Alexander crossed Wellesley Street to get a decent view of the pub from the opposite side of the street. He would be able to see Natasha approach on foot from Parnell, and he could keep an eye out for any surveillance.

  He spotted her on Symonds Street. She wore a red wool coat with large lapels, left open to show her matching blood red dress. Her blonde hair trailed behind her as she drifted across the street. Alexander ran against traffic and bumped into her by the entrance to the pub.

  “Hey, you look great,” he managed to say. “Love the coat.” He had taken his denim jacket off and his white shirt felt damp. It was cool outside, but he had been walking fast to keep up with the two Maori.

  “My car is still not fixed. It’s so annoying.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “One part they have to import. What a country. Everything is imported.”

  “Well, the beer’s local.” Alexander smiled and waved his hand at the pub. “Do you want to go inside or get something to eat? There’s Charcuterie on High Street. Decent food, I hear.”

  “Let’s have a beer first. I’ve never been in here.”

  “Years of studying German and never been here? Used to drink the place dry when I was at uni.”

  They went into the public bar, ordered beers and stood next to a window. The pub smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. A group of Maori were opposite them. Alexander recognized the two guards who had been inside the gallery at the opening, and the two he had followed. They had been outside the gallery according to the photos he had blown up for the inspector. He turned to Natasha and made a small hand gesture only she could see towards the Maori. “Do you recognize them?”

  “No. Should I?”

  Alexander noted she had not turned to where he had pointed. Didn’t everyone immediately look, even if you told them not to? Maybe she had already seen them. Maybe it was part of her training as a Soviet spy, to scan a room as soon as she entered.

  “Two of them were at the gallery for opening night.”

  She kept her eyes on him. “Well, I wasn’t invited.”

  “I didn’t know you were here. I mean, I haven’t been to Auckland in what, two years?”

  Natasha sipped her beer and moved closer to him. “Are you going to hold it against me?” she asked.

  Alexander smiled.

  “Your dimples.” She touched his face. “I remember those dimples. Big trouble.”

  He shrugged. “I hope not.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “An interesting question.” He finished his beer.

  “And you are not telling me? It’s a national secret?”

  “Are you hungry? We can go eat. I haven’t eaten all day. No, come to think of it, I had a marvelous lunch with a mysterious old friend I had not seen for a long time.”

  “Mysterious?”

  “Oh yes. Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  “I wish.” Alexander’s easy manner belied his wariness towards her.

  “Why don’t we go to my place? I can cook.”

  “Sounds good. Can we walk?”

  “It’s a little far. You don’t have a car?”

  Alexander shook his head and wondered if she knew more than she was letting on. If she knew about his van, so did her father. She was so cool, nonchalant and scary. Was he walking into a trap? “We can take a taxi,” he said.

  They walked to the cab stand on Wellesley Street. Natasha gave her address. In the back of the cab Alexander sat with his legs touching Natasha’s. “Ah yes, the Castle,” he said. “Quite a place. And you live alone?”

  “Yes. But my father is staying with me.”

  “He’s a Kiwi?”

  “Don’t be silly. Russian. He’s a diplomat in Wellington. He’s here visiting, but I am not expecting him home tonight.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “We will not be disturbed.”

  At the Castle, Alexander followed Natasha as she waltzed into the front vestibule. The space where the black Jaguar should have been was empty. He tried to remember everything he saw: the front entrance, the mailboxes, her name over her box, ‘N. Windsor’. He could make out the rear entrance as he followed her up two flights of stairs and the long corridor, trying not to look at her long legs and the way she swayed her hips.

  When Natasha opened the door, she saw an envelope on the floor and kicked it under a chair. She turned to Alexander and smiled as she flung her coat on the chair, hiding the envelope. “I’ve had enough beer to last me a lifetime. What is it with Kiwis and beer? I have a very nice burgundy. French. Yes?”

  “I am in your hands. So, you were born in Russia?”

  “No, thank goodness. My father married an American and I was born in Washington. I am an American citizen. They are divorced, and I haven’t seen my mother in years.”

  “I’m sorry. Must be hard. Was your mother’s name Windsor?”

  “
Yes. Like the Queen. And I see my father a lot. He is very attentive.”

  “And being a diplomat, you get immunity as well?”

  “I wish. No more speeding tickets.”

  • • •

  At the Kiwi Tavern, if Alexander had moved a little closer, he would have heard a conversation between the four Maori. The owner of the security company explained to Wiremu and Rawiri how the inspector had questioned him about the opening night. He had stuck to the script they had agreed to. He thought neither the inspector nor his sergeant had been able to identify the two other Maori who had been outside. He said his men had not let anyone in who was not on the approved guest list except for the mayor, who had been a late addition, and a Soviet diplomat from Wellington whose name no one could pronounce. The security company owner knew better than to ask about the stolen painting.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Mark Rose walked the Ho Chi Minh trail behind his apartment, across the Domain, to a small road near the Wintergarden pavilion. He came to a blue Datsun parked nearby. The garden and the museum were closed. In the early dusk, few runners were in the park. No one paid him any attention, the reason why it was his emergency meeting point. Mark had phoned the Castle twice. He hung up on the first ring, and then on the second ring. As his Soviet handler has said years ago, always keep it simple.

  Mark peered into the car to make sure he recognized the driver before getting into the Datsun. “They’re onto you, you know,” he said. Mark looked at the Soviet who was dressed in a dark blue track suit. Mark wore a red and black lumberjack checkered shirt and jeans with his work boots. His standard student revolutionary outfit. “But I guess you know that, as you switched cars.”

  “Yes.” Nikolai Nikolaevich Raganovich smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. Only his lips moved. His eyes were blank. “But how do they know?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Mark gritted his teeth. “It’s the damn curator from Wellington. He knows we took Captain Cook. He drives a small white van.”

  “Ah. The white van. Not a vehicle the SIS uses. Is he SIS too?”

  “No. He’s just a curator. Caused the raid on my house. And I spent a lot of money on him at a restaurant the other day.”

  “You know what Sun Tzu said? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “Very funny. What are we going to do with him?”

  “I thank you for the information and you are not to worry anymore. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Mark resisted the effort to shiver. The Soviet gave his bear smile, as if he was dinner. Mark looked ahead, into the twilight, chills running down his spine.

  “I will be leaving soon. I want you to know how much I have enjoyed working with you and how much I appreciate and respect all your efforts. You should be proud of what you have accomplished. The right people know of you and will stand by you if ever the time comes. I want you to know there is a medal waiting for you if you can ever visit us in Moscow. The Order of Lenin is being held for you, in your name. You understand?”

  Mark nodded and could not say anything.

  “At a future date you will receive a postcard from Spain. Later, you will be contacted our usual way.”

  “Like we met before? Seems a long time ago.”

  “Yes, my friend. We have had a good relationship. Here. For you.” The Soviet nodded to a small envelope beside the gear stick.

  Mark did not look at the Soviet again as he stuffed the envelope in his jeans pocket and slipped out of the car. He looked around to see if he could spot anyone suspicious before heading back towards the Ho Chi Minh trail.

  • • •

  Raganovich drove up and down the side streets of Parnell and then across to Mount Eden, checking for any surveillance. He eventually arrived at Mountain Road then turned into the cul-de-sac, Glenfell Place, and parked at the end near Government House. He took off his jacket and made for a track up to the smaller crater. He couldn’t run as the track was too steep for him. But when he got to the top he broke into a light jog and looked like an aging rugby player trying to keep in shape in his track pants, T-shirt and running shoes. At the summit he stopped to admire the view and noted all the people around him, as well as passengers getting back onto a tour bus. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Not for the first time he wondered why the New Zealand security services were not following him. Was it because he was due to be deported and they had given up? Or was the curator involved? He did not want to speculate. He had a job to do.

  The small white government van was parked facing the Waitemata harbor. He checked the plates in the approaching darkness. He was thankful for the network of helpers who had told him where it was parked. He had first heard of the van when a neighbor had called him a few days ago when it was parked on Castle Drive. A young man had walked around with a camera, taking photos and had returned to the van to follow Raganovich’s Jaguar. The next morning he had spotted the van in his rear-view mirror when he sped down Parnell Road. No other car had been behind him.

  He looked through the windows. A mattress was rolled up in a bundle. He walked to the other side, checked the doors and knelt near the front tire on the passenger side. Taking a small folding knife out of his pocket he eased underneath the van and reached up until he located the brake fluid hose. He severed the line with his knife and then stabbed the inside of the tire a few times. He stood up, rubbed his hands and brushed the dirt from his T-shirt and track pants. No one had noticed him, and he continued his jog around the large crater and down to where he had parked the Datsun. He drove to Castle Drive and parked where he could see the corner window of the apartment.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  “Are you going to give me the grand tour?” Alexander asked as Natasha began to take containers out of the refrigerator. They had finished off an open bottle of burgundy.

  “You want to get into my bedroom now? And not eat?”

  On the noticeboard opposite the refrigerator were a series of papers, recipes, a class schedule and one small business card. It had a car printed on it. It was from a garage. Natasha turned her back as she bent down to get another bottle of wine from the refrigerator. Alexander twisted around and read the exact address on the card. Before she could stand, he grabbed her by the waist. Natasha giggled. “You are in a hurry, aren’t you? Perhaps we can eat later. Follow me.”

  Natasha held his hand and led him into her bedroom. There was lacy material over two lamps and a Gustav Klimt poster on the wall. Another, Danaë, was above her bed. It all reminded him of Deborah. But he was shocked when Natasha pushed him onto the bed and leapt on top, pinning his hands and legs. He hadn’t realized how strong she was. She looked into his eyes and he couldn’t tell if she wanted to devour him or kill him. He was afraid but tried not to show it. Her blonde hair covered his face and he couldn’t breathe. She moved her head to one side and brushed her lips with his, then flicked her hair away and leapt to her feet. “Don’t move,” she commanded She grabbed her large shoulder bag and retreated into the bathroom.

  When he heard the bathroom door shut, he looked up to see a set of handcuffs secured on each side of the bedposts. He rolled off the bed onto the floor. He peered under the bed and saw something. He touched a hard rubber object. He pulled it out. It was a giant strap-on dildo. He put it back and crawled as fast as he could out of the bedroom, then crept into the kitchen to look at the noticeboard again. He memorized the address on the business card and made for the front door. As he tiptoed out he heard the floor creak but dared not look back. He twisted the lock, eased the door shut with both hands, slipped into the corridor and ran to the staircase. He took two stairs at a time and made it down both flights before turning around. He could see no one. At the front door he slowed down and debated for a second which way to go, then ran back to the rear entrance and cut across another right-of-way. He did not to go into the street.

  Using his hands to keep his balance, he climbed up the grass-covered terraces until he arrived at t
he narrow one-way road. He looked down at the castellated tower and tried to catch his breath. In the dark he could not make out any movement around him with the low cloud and no moonlight. He continued walking up the hill till he came to the parking lot, unlocked his van and grabbed his camera bag from underneath the mattress. Nothing seemed out of place so he locked the van again and walked to the edge of the summit.

  At the first terrace and out of sight of any cars he stopped to regulate his breathing and think. What had he got himself into? What sort of game was this? Because it was no longer a game, it was deadly. What would Natasha have done to him? The thought of that giant strap-on made him shiver and reminded him how cold he was in his shirt and denim jacket. He decided to double back to the safety of the trees below the summit and hide in the dark. He took out his camera and waited, not knowing what he was waiting for but alert to anything odd that could happen. Several cars came up to the summit and parked, but no one got out. He could just make out his van in the distance. No vehicles were near the van. Some time passed before he realized he couldn’t see further past the trig point or from where he had escaped from. He thought he should stay where he was: his camera loaded with Tri-X film gave him some comfort. He knew something bad was going to happen and relying on his instincts he kept very still. He would be safer for now hidden in the dark.

  Despite the quiet, Alexander could not get over his sense of unease. Some time passed before he rose from his hiding place and began to move carefully in the dark. He kept sliding down the overgrown grass terraces in between trees, until he came across a track that lead to Batger Road. He turned left on Mount Eden Road and walked briskly to warm himself. He could see no cars on the road, but he had a distinct feeling someone was after him.