Codename Files Nos.1, 2 & 3

by Mark Arundel

The first silver foil lid came free and released an aroma-filled steam that warmed my face. I thought again about what had happened earlier and it took away my hunger. I dropped the serving spoon and sat back. Charlotte lifted her wine glass and sat back too.

  ‘Did you mean what you said?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’re leaving.’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ I said.

  ‘Will you think about it like Meriwether asked?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘I wonder where he’ll send you on holiday,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘...Afghanistan,’ I replied.

  Charlotte laughed.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said. There was a pause. ‘Can I stay tonight?’

  I didn’t answer. She didn’t need one.

  File No. 3

  Codename: Santiago

  1

  THURSDAY, 02:00—12:00

  RIO DE JANEIRO is a party town. At least, that was the claim made by the guidebook. The one I read on the aeroplane. Apparently, it is also a place of great passion. In my experience, where there is great passion there is all too often great pain. Perhaps the difficulty for any visitor to Rio de Janeiro is distinguishing between the two. I have never had much success in figuring out moral dilemmas, so perhaps I was the wrong person to judge. Anyway, as I was visiting “party town” on holiday I anticipated all of the passion and none of the pain.

  British Airways had carried me over the Atlantic from London. A taxi had carried me from the airport to the hotel and when I arrived, it was long after midnight, local time.

  The cathedral-style reception had the air of communion. I almost expected to smell incense. The weary young man behind the counter and the yellow-haired porter both looked like it was past their bedtimes.

  ‘Enjoy your stay, sir,’ the young man said and then handed over my room card. ‘Alfredo will show you to your suite.’

  Alfredo was not a record breaker, but we made steady progress to the door of suite 703. The lighting was in a night-time setting, which made the place look more like a crypt than a swanky hotel, but I never mind things like that. The suite was more than comfortable with a big bed and a balcony view that even in the darkness I could tell was “picture postcard”.

  After managing a few hours of sleep, I showered and then headed out in search of breakfast.

  ‘Table for one, certainly, sir,’ the headwaiter said.

  The south-facing terrace overlooked the swimming pool. It was a warm and sunny morning in January River and as the guidebook had promised, happiness was all around.

  The sun loungers beside the pool were starting to fill with a greater than an average number of bikinis. The flashes of bright colour proved an easy distraction from my disappointing coffee. It was not the Brazilian coffee of my dreams. Perhaps the American corporations made them export all the good stuff. After all, the trade balance is an important consideration for an up and coming economy. Unfortunately, this drive for profit did nothing to help satisfy my desire for a lovely “cup of Joe”.

  I pushed on my sunglasses and watched a young woman, wet from the pool skip on bare feet back to her lounger. I took a final sip, but the weak taste was not going to improve, so I left the coffee unfinished, sat back and considered what I should do on my first day. Unexpectedly, it occurred to me that I was unfettered and could do anything I wanted. The realisation felt good. My waistband was free of a semi-automatic pistol and my pocket empty of a K106. A K106 is my employer supplied satellite phone. In fact, I was without a phone of any kind. I was incommunicado. I had “gone fishing” and it felt good. After Macau, I needed a little R. and R. [R. and R.: rest and relaxation]. Perhaps Meriwether was right. “Dear boy, may I suggest a holiday?” I remembered his words and then decided to put all thoughts of London and Bartholomew Meriwether out of my mind.

  Exploration was my decision. I would head out and look around. After all, Rio had to be a city worth seeing. There was little point in visiting the marvellous city, as some called it, and then sitting beside the hotel pool. Ipanema beach, Sugarloaf Mountain and the rest were just too famous to ignore.

  I heard a girl scream. She ran past me with suntanned limbs, wet from the pool. Water from her hair splashed across the table and over my arm. A boy chased her. He too was wet and suntanned. His face was set in an evil grin as he closed the gap. She glanced back and then screamed once more. With renewed effort, she disappeared down the terrace steps and the boy followed. It was just fun and games, but it had told me something. It had told me that I was far from relaxed. I realised the scream had instinctively brought out my training. My heart rate was quickened, my muscles tensed and I was thinking about the nearest weapon and considering the exits. It was going to take me a while yet before I switched off, if at all.

  In reception, I took one of the free tourist maps, housed discreetly in a wooden dispenser at the far end of the desk almost out of sight. I chose the one with a girl wearing a bikini, animated in the surf, and ignored the one with the statue of Christ.

  Outside, the air felt warm after the climate controlled reception hall and the bright sunlight encouraged me to push on my shades. I left the row of American-style taxis behind and crossed the road.

  While walking slowly I studied the map. There were two main beaches. As well as Ipanema, there was also Copacabana. It seemed that they curved away on opposite sides from a single point at about fifty degrees. Both beaches were substantial. They were several miles long and by the look of the pictures both had a wide expanse of soft, yellow sand. According to the map, Ipanema came top of many people’s “best beach in the world” list. It was only a short distance away and I was looking forward to seeing it and feeling the warm Brazilian sand between my toes. An experience that I felt sure would assist with my R. and R.

  Finding the beach road was easy. The streets followed a simple grid system. A one-legged blind man could have done it. I refolded the tourist map and put it away in my pocket.

  The three-lane strip of tarmac stretched out of sight towards the white high-rise buildings and the mountain beyond. I strolled over at the crossing and stepped onto esplanade above the sand. The paving stones of grey swirls were a classic Portuguese design and reminded me of central Macau. They too stretched away into the distance, dotted with palm trees and brightly dressed, bare-limbed people.

  I breathed the sweet south Atlantic air and enjoyed the immense sweep of sea and sky across the wide beach of yellow sand. Ipanema was a good place. It was manicured and stylish with a vastness that made it seem relaxed and free. The beachfront was communal like a park, an Italian piazza, or an English town square on market day. I watched a group of boys playing football in the soft sand. They were barefoot and relaxed. It was obvious from their shouts that they played for light-hearted pleasure. For a moment, I envied them. Then a line of three young women wearing thong bikinis walked past and my attention switched with an effortlessness that required no explanation. Three pairs of twin, brown cheeks like deep scoops of hazelnut ice cream swayed gently away into the distance. My tongue ran over my lips, but I resisted the temptation to follow. Instead, I pulled off my sandals and jumped down onto the beach. The sand was soft and warm. I let it run between my toes as I schlepped over to the sea.

  Nearer to the water, the beach dropped in a gradual slope and the sand firmed and became cooler against the soles of my bare feet. Bubbling white surf marked the water’s edge and made the long, wide bay seem like a giant washer on the rinse cycle. The stretched, unhurried waves looked grateful to have reached landfall and they sat down happily with their energy spent. I ventured in and the frothy water ran up the slope behind me like an attentive host. My feet disappeared inside a combination of foamy water and wet sand that gave easily beneath every step.

  I walked in the surf for a while and, I think, the benefits of a trip to the seaside that are so often extolled in popular culture were starting to take effect. The sea air was not bracing but bl
owy, nevertheless, and the sunshine warmed my shoulders like the therapeutic hands of a trained masseuse. Above my head, sea birds glided effortlessly and laughed together at something amusing to which only they were a party.

  Time passed. I had ambled along the shoreline like a man in search of purposelessness and finding it. My head emptied. Eventually, I found myself thinking about Xing and Charlotte. Whether these thoughts were such that I could describe them using the word clarity, I was not sure. However, my musings over the two women whose bodies I had most recently seen naked did lead me to wonder if leaving Meriwether’s employ was what I really wanted. With indecision and thoughts of what the future held still playing dice inside my head, I crossed the beach and re-joined the esplanade. While replacing my sandals I noticed an open fronted bar across the street with a few empty seats that looked comfortable and inviting.

  I dodged the slow moving traffic and sauntered over like a tourist who had removed his wristwatch. There was a choice of two free tables. I selected the smaller one at the end with two empty soft-backed chairs and sat down. The awning provided partial shade and the seat position gave me a good view of the pavement, the road and the faded horizon beyond. Without removing my sunglasses, I watched the passers-by and scanned my fellow patrons while I read the drinks menu. I saw nothing of any great interest. The menu was laminated and garish. The first drink on the list went by the name of Beachcomber’s Bacardi.

  The waiter appeared beside my table holding his pencil expectantly. He managed a swift nod and then speaking in Portuguese he asked me what I wanted. I ordered a Coke and a packet of peanuts. He scribbled rapidly and then left with the air of a man who was busier than could reasonably be expected of any man. I released the menu and then sat back. The chair was extremely comfortable. Perhaps that was how they got people to stay and order the cocktails.

  A waitress returned with my order. The waiter was obviously too busy with other things. The young woman, with her hair tied up and wearing an apron, bent at the knees while she unburdened her tray. I removed my sunglasses. She snapped the bottle top and I thanked her. She smiled. The peanuts were an American brand and very salty. I drank some ice-cold Coke straight from the bottle and then I drank some more. Walking and thinking about the future on Ipanema beach was thirsty work.

  I had just taken a second fistful of peanuts and was throwing them one at a time into my mouth when a woman appeared beside my table. She looked at me without speaking. I looked back.

  ‘Is this chair taken?’ she asked in English.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I said. I expected her to take it away, but instead she sat down. Much of her face remained an enigma behind big, dark glasses for which a silk headscarf seemed to have formed a close attachment. She coiled her body like a serpent and it strained the tailored silk blouse and tight fitting skirt across her figure. Once down she wriggled gently to get comfortable. I noticed her freshly painted lips. She reminded me of a film star from the 1950s. I waited.

  She watched me silently.

  With a straight face, I said, ‘Are you waiting for a European prince by the name of Albert or perhaps a Hollywood film producer?’

  For a moment, her shiny lips parted in a very brief smile. She removed her sunglasses. I was unable to tell whether the smile had reached her eyes. Her face matched her figure.

  ‘It always rains in London in July,’ she said. That was a strange thing to say, I thought.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ I replied helpfully.

  She frowned, but quickly her brow lifted and she lightened into a rebellious smirk before saying, ‘You’re right; let’s not bother with all that silliness.’

  I was still trying to work out to what silliness she was referring when in a quiet voice she said, ‘I followed you from the hotel.’

  Was she a stalker? It seemed unlikely. She oozed confidence and her eyes appeared indifferent towards me. Not that I was qualified to assess the reason of women I had just met from their eyes. I tried not to look too concerned by her confession and said, ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘You’re very good,’ she said. ‘It was impossible for me to tell when you were checking for a tail.’

  All I could think of to say in response was a repeat of, ‘...oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, and all that walking on the beach,’ she said. ‘You looked in such deep thought. I didn’t have the heart to interrupt you.’ The busy waiter passed by our table and “Lady Enigma” raised her hand. He turned, stopped and then bowed his head to hear her order. She spoke to him in flawless Portuguese. He nodded again briefly and then hurried away.

  ‘Is this your first trip to Brazil?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m on holiday,’ I explained.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Rio is such a lovely place to visit at this time of year.’

  ‘It’s my first day,’ I said.

  ‘Then you still have lots to see. The adventure has only just begun.’ She wriggled again before carefully arching her back. The movement pulled at her silk blouse. ‘This chair isn’t very comfortable,’ she explained.

  ‘They’re better if you sit back,’ I said helpfully. She replied with her demure smile but maintained her upright posture.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. Just then, the waiter returned with her order. He placed it on the table in front of her before hurrying off to attend to another customer. Her hand went to the white cup and she turned it back and forth absently in the saucer. The whipped coffee had a frothy top, dusted with chocolate powder. She saw me looking at it.

  ‘It’s the only way to drink the coffee here,’ she explained. ‘Sweet and milky otherwise it is so often a disappointment.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. I had discovered this surprise for myself, of course, at breakfast in the hotel.

  ‘There is a Starbucks now,’ she said without much enthusiasm. ‘Rua Visconde de Pirajá, I think, which is not too far from here, but I never go. It’s always crowded with tourists.’

  ‘Just like here,’ I said.

  Her eyes widened, but her mouth stayed closed. She looked down and then lifted the white cup to her mouth and took a careful sip. She ran the tip of her tongue cautiously over her lips. ‘Umm, lovely,’ she said. The rim of her cup now had a lipstick smear. She returned it to its saucer and resumed the inattentive turning. She saw me notice and stopped.

  ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I have enjoyed our meeting. Perhaps we shall see each other again before you leave.’

  ‘It’s always possible,’ I said.

  To extricate herself she had to twist her figure like a dancer auditioning for a role requiring exceptionally flexible hips. I got one final reserved smile and then she was gone.

  Finding the words to express my feelings was extremely difficult. In the end, I settled on, “Meriwether, you bastard”.

  After finishing my Coke and paying the café bill, I decided on returning to my hotel. The walk back was simple enough although I was now more alert wondering if anyone else was following me. I told myself to dial down the paranoia, but I already had the strong sense that my holiday was in danger of losing its importance. I thought about my café guest and wondered who she was and what she wanted.

  The sun was higher now and the burning sphere governed the sky with the ruthless tyranny of a pagan god. The streets were more crowded, too. Smudges of moving bright colours crowded my vision and blocked any hope of an easy passage. I held my patience and crossed to where the pavement was freer. I turned the corner away from the tourist hordes and found myself behind a row of shops. The lids of the dumpsters rested on their full contents like the open mouths of croaking toads. A roadway led off to the right, but my homing pigeon like instinct for direction told me the hotel was the other way. I left the roadway behind and walked on. The back street narrowed and then turned blindly between an old brick wall and a spiked railing fence. I followed it round and found myself on a tight footpath that sloped and twisted beyond my line of sight. Unsure whether this secr
et trail would lead me back to civilisation and my hotel I stopped. It was only then that I heard the footfalls behind. As I turned and listened, the footfalls fell silent. Had I not already spoken to myself about paranoia? I decided to take the gamble with the route and continued onwards.

  The tall building to my left blocked the sunlight and made the steep path more hazardous than it need be. I stepped with the slope and used my hand against the wall for balance. After a short distance, the quiet darkness gave way to a wider track with steps and an open metal gate that hung lopsided below a stone archway. I went through and entered a small courtyard set with old flagstones. It was the entrance to a church. Eight or nine wide, curving stone steps led up to the ornate, wooden double doors. To one side a simple metal handrail offered assistance to the old and the infirm. Further spiked railings, a sandstone blocked wall and thick conifer bushes enclosed the courtyard like an open-air theatre stage. I checked for an exit, but a padlocked wrought iron gate blocked the pathway around the church. It was then that I heard them approach.

  They came from behind. There were two of them. The taller one led. His prominent long limbs angled out from knee length shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt printed with a funk artist that I vaguely recognised. The smaller one wore a similar t-shirt. Even to an outsider like me it was obvious they were gang members from the Rio slums and very likely violent. At this time of the day, down here in the affluent beach area, they were off their patch and vulnerable to the attention of law enforcement. They must have had a good reason. I wondered what it might be. No doubt, it involved profitable benefit of some kind. I decided to give them the opportunity of an easy out. I shrugged and said, ‘I must have taken a wrong turn.’ I looked up at the church. ‘I’m not even Catholic.’ My performance as a light-hearted British tourist was convincing enough. Whatever their purpose I had made it uncomplicated for them to allow me to walk off. I took the first step while ensuring a cautious watch of the taller one’s face. He seemed unsure. Had they targeted me by chance or not? I thought not as they must have had a hundred other possible targets and all of them easier. So what did they want?