Codename Files Nos.1, 2 & 3

by Mark Arundel

  ‘So, are you going to buy a phone?’ Charlotte eventually asked.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m on holiday.’ This produced another pause. I waited until Charlotte spoke again.

  ‘What did you mean when you said that the people of Rio seem friendly?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing really, it was just that earlier a woman joined me at my table for a coffee even though we had never met. She said some odd things, too, as if it wasn’t a chance meeting. She mentioned following me and something about the weather in London.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘That was odd, too. She looked just like that 1950s film star, the one who married that prince: blonde hair and eyes like the crosshairs on a sniper rifle.’

  ‘She sounds perfect for you,’ Charlotte said in that way only a lover can when she wants to remind you of something without actually saying it. I remained silent except for a derisory scoffing sound that I hoped conveyed just the right amount of disapproval to make it convincing. ‘I wish you’d get that phone,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll call you regularly,’ I said in my best heartening voice. ‘I have an international phone card.’ The pause returned. This time, Charlotte waited for me to speak first. ‘Do you know if there’s something going on?’

  ‘...something going on?’ Charlotte repeated.

  ‘Yes, something work-related,’ I said. ‘That woman today...it felt like she was making contact for a reason.’

  ‘I thought you said she was just being friendly,’ Charlotte said without answering the question.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I said in my reprimanding voice.

  ‘All right,’ she said, acquiescing. ‘Let me make some enquiries. Now then, you said she was a coffee drinking woman who talks about the weather and looks like a 1950s film star. I shouldn’t find it too difficult. Someone is bound to know who she is.’ I have never considered sarcasm attractive, particularly in a woman with Charlotte’s abundance of obvious and less obvious qualities.

  ‘You’re lucky I’m so far away,’ I said. Charlotte made her patented throaty laugh in response to my threat.

  ‘All right, I’ll check with you-know-who. Perhaps as you’re there he’s organised a little courier job or something.’

  ‘I’m on holiday,’ I said, reaffirming my status. It seemed people considered this fact unimportant. Charlotte ignored me.

  ‘I would say that I’ll call you back but...’

  ‘Call the hotel and leave a message,’ I said quickly, not allowing her to mention the absence of a phone again. ‘I’ll call you if I need to,’ I added.

  ‘Mm, very well,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll try,’ I said.

  The knife fight with the two local men was something about which I was yet uncertain and so I chose not to share this with Charlotte. I would keep an open mind and see what “Mayfair” as I liked to call her sometimes when we were alone discovered about my situation. She said goodbye and we ended the call. I retrieved the phone card from its slot and stored it safely in my wallet for future use.

  As I turned away from the payphone I noticed, painted on the wall, graffiti art depicting Buddha. Seeing the image made me remember Macau and the shrine that housed the statue of the four-faced Buddha. I touched my abdomen and remembered the rubber bullet that had put me down. I now have great respect for rubber bullets. The Buddha art seemed out of place in Brazil where Catholicism was the dominant religion. I left the graffiti art and the plaza behind and decided to return to the hotel to resume my R. and R. After all, I was, as I kept reminding everybody, on holiday or was I, as I suspected, wrong about that. Did the mystery woman at the café and Charlotte “Mayfair” Miller know something that I did not?

  3

  COLONEL ALISTAIR DRUMMOND DSO, MC

  Colonel Alistair Drummond DSO, MC said goodbye, replaced the telephone handset and then sat back in his swivel chair. He always knew the young man would call. The man was a soldier through and through, and regardless of their plans for him, regardless of whatever excitement or challenge they offered, he would want to remain a soldier. It was plain to see. Colonel Drummond had not liked it at the time and he still did not like it now, but an order was an order.

  The casters on the swivel chair chattered across the wooden floor as Drummond lifted his rangy frame from the flattened seat and stretched his back to loosen the muscles. Three long-legged strides took him to the window. Outside, the rain slanted in the wind and splattered the puddles on the saturated ground. He watched it for a while in the grey light before returning to his desk. The file was still in his drawer. It was an indication of the reluctance he felt. He took out the manila sleeve, flattened the creased corner with a heavy palm and then opened it.

  “National security” was the only reason given. Drummond thought about those two words. Politicians were keen on using such words. They merely served a purpose. He wondered what they meant. The CGS [CGS: Chief of the General Staff] had signed the written order, which meant it had come from the very top. Dismissing a serving member of the regiment had a bitter taste for Drummond, particularly when the soldier he had to dismiss was the first man Drummond selected whenever the regiment received an unusual request. Perhaps they chose him for that same reason.

  Naturally, Colonel Drummond had made inquiries: discreet, unofficial inquiries. Regrettably, though, his progress in that area had lacked the necessary influence to dig up a full explanation. All he had managed to discover was that the trail led back to SIS [SIS: secret intelligence service]. His surprise barely registered on the eyebrow scale. Connections between military intelligence and the regiment went back to WWII. Over the decades, the intelligence service had called on the regiment’s special services, but never before, as far as Drummond was aware, had they taken a serving soldier in such a clandestine and irreversible way. It made Drummond think. Whoever took him must have wanted him badly and it must have been for something exceptional.

  Oh well, Drummond had liked hearing from the young man and knowing that whatever SIS had him doing he had managed to stay alive. Drummond shut the file and stared at the green painted filing cabinet in the corner. After deliberating for a few seconds, he replaced the file in his desk drawer. One day, he thought. Perhaps it was still possible the soldier would return and resume his place inside the regiment.

  4

  THURSDAY, 14:10—16:15

  Back at the hotel, the hectic activity from earlier had lessened into a controlled parade of guests wafting effortlessly back and forth, which suited much more a hotel with such a lavish entrance. The uniformed employees assisting with this gala pageant were once more in control and seemed happier because of it.

  I drew this observation while performing my security check from a concealed, elevated position on the adjacent pathway. I watched for a while, but unable to find anything remotely troubling moved around to the side street from where I had exited the hotel earlier.

  Parked delivery vans still lined the kerb and men unloaded boxes and crates of fresh produce ensuring the hotel kitchens remained fully stocked and the paying guest fully fed.

  The intensity of the early afternoon sun produced a pitiless mirage for anyone desperate for water as a glistening heat haze ran across the tarmac like a stream. Only when I approached and the perspective altered did the cool, running water cruelly vanish.

  Retracing my steps, I re-entered the hotel and once inside decided to skirt reception via the lounge of deep sofas, porcelain vases and lamps that cast a warm glow over the burnished marble floor. The climate-controlled coolness helped slow the perspiration that had formed along my hairline. Remaining out of sight I carefully scanned the area and in between the porter pushing his luggage rack, clusters of milling guests and several strong, luxuriant plants, I saw two people I knew.

  The first was not a surprise. Her angelic smile and tireless fortitude shone from behind the desk like the porch light to a weary
traveller finally returning home. She was patiently listening to an elderly guest whose hearing had obviously taken the road south for when she spoke she leant forward to ensure the old man could hear. Yes, Ana Luiza was indeed a hotel receptionist of the very highest calibre.

  The second person I saw was more of a surprise although it should not have really surprised me at all. It was the mystery woman from earlier in the day at the café. Her elegant, crossed legs extended delicately from the lounge chair and rested beside a low table that held an empty cup and saucer. I noticed the lip of the cup had a lipstick smear. The woman had removed her headscarf, which sat neatly folded on the table beside her handbag. The lamplight caught the thick kink in her blonde tresses where they rested on her bare shoulder. I recognised the leather bag’s label. It was an expensive, renowned French brand. Her reader, which rested on her thigh, appeared to hold all her attention. Her eyes never left its screen and while I watched, an extended, graceful finger tapped to turn the page.

  As far as I could tell, I was an unknown presence. So what should I do? I checked reception again and scanned the entrance, the lifts and the chairs beyond the open terrace doors. All was in order. If anybody was either looking out for me or watching her then their concealment was worthy of the first prize in any amateur magic trick competition. I would have preferred it if my knowledge of the woman and the situation in which I found myself was better, but as I had yet to hear back from Charlotte I had to continue in the dark.

  Although I felt bad about interrupting her reading, I decided it would be impolite not to say hello. After all, the effort she had shown in meeting me earlier, however peculiarly done, surely deserved some reciprocation on my part. I walked over to her, stopped, waited until she looked up and then said, ‘Is this chair taken?’

  The reserved smile was instantaneous. It was almost as though I was expected. She put away the reader inside her bag and looked up at me. At our earlier meeting, her eyes had made an impression, but only for their controlled poise. Seeing them now, angled upwards in the expensive lighting of the hotel lounge away from the fierce glare of the noonday sun, they were quite deadly. The soft, marbled patina only served to project the deep blue as if Monet’s brush had melted the shades to make a single point of exquisite focus. It required considerable effort to release myself. Once free, I said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  ‘These chairs are much more comfortable,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the benefits of staying at this hotel. They provide decent cushioning for a woman’s derrière. Please, sit down and try them.’

  I sat or rather sank. The chair’s cushion, I realised, was more than a match for any woman’s derrière. It was a credit to the hotel and the soft furnishings procurement manager. How he had found such chairs, I could not imagine. Although, how some people managed to get out of them I could not imagine either.

  A passing waiter dressed in a white jacket stopped abruptly when her raised hand and brief head turn signalled his service was required. He bowed with notepad held ready. Looking at her turn to him, I could not imagine any waiter in the whole of Rio who would not stop and lift their notepad when she raised her hand. She gave her order in Portuguese, waited until he left and then turned to me and in English said, ‘I’ve ordered a pot of tea.’ She said it in a way that made it sound as if her order could not have been for anything else and that a pot of tea was the only possible thing to have.

  ‘Have you been staying in the hotel long?’ I said.

  ‘I arrived yesterday,’ she replied, ‘on the same day as my friend.’

  ‘...your friend?’

  ‘Yes, he’s such a nervous traveller these days.’

  ‘Is he also staying in the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s in his room. We shan’t see him until later I’m afraid.’ She must have seen something in my face or thought she had because then she said, ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. He’s probably a little jumpy. Well, you know how they get. I’ve tried everything, but now that you’re here...’ She abruptly stopped as the waiter reappeared carrying our pot of tea.

  The man carefully placed the tray on the low table, gave a brief nod to the woman and then left. On the tray, beside the tea was a dish of small, fruit pastries. It made me hungry. I must have been giving things away in my face that day because the woman said, ‘Help yourself; they look good.’ Perhaps she was just perceptive. I took the one with slices of glistening orange and ate it in two bites. It was sweet and juicy. The woman watched but resisted any temptation she may have had to join me. The figure of a 1950s film star lookalike cannot remain hourglass by indulging in afternoon pastries even if those pastries are fruit ones. I, of course, was on holiday. I gave her what I imagined was a sympathetic look and lifted the second pastry from the dish. This one was pear with a dusting of icing sugar and cocoa powder. Again, I ate it in two bites. ‘Mm, delicious,’ I said. She gave me the kind of smile a film actress might reserve for an overbearing film director who had asked her to show more passion in a scene that did not require it.

  ‘His room number is 423,’ she said in a quiet, formal way that caused her eyes to narrow and the formation of two small indentations just above the line of her eyebrows. ‘Be there at four.’ I remained silent and did everything I could to keep my face neutral.

  It seemed to work. Her poise returned and she treated me to one of her demure smiles that I supposed was only a small part of a whole arsenal of weapons at her disposal. She stood up with the same turn of the hips that she had shown me earlier although this time, less pronounced, less like an exotic dancer and more like a playful lady of the manor. She bent at the waist to pick up her headscarf and handbag and saw me look at the bag. ‘It’s a fake,’ she said holding it so I could get a better look. ‘A good one: just as good as the real thing.’ She paused for a second while her eyes held mine like an artist assessing an unfinished portrait. Again, I remained silent and held my neutral expression. She studied me for a second longer before she turned and walked away in the direction of the veranda. I waited until she was out of sight and then I lifted the teapot, which steamed promisingly as I tipped and poured. I sat back, sank deeper in the cushion and sipped thoughtfully. The handbag had looked real to me.

  After drinking a second cup of tea and eating the remaining two pastries my deliberations had achieved little in the way of answers. Although in truth, I had spent more time thinking about my telephone conversation with Colonel Drummond than I had about the mystery woman and her “jumpy” friend. I fought to keep my hope from slipping its leash, but replaying in my mind what Colonel Drummond had said made me dare to believe that I had a way back in. Re-joining the regiment was conceivably possible after all and if so, I would make it my priority. I knew that re-joining the regiment was what I wanted most. I wanted that future. At least that was what I thought.

  Getting up from the chair required the strong-arm approach, but once up and free I was again fully mobile. My first port of call was the reception and the lovely Ana Luiza. The angelic smile with which she greeted me had lost none of its charms despite the passing time of her shift. I gave her my best attempt at a reciprocal greeting and in response to her offer of assistance with accompanying head tilt I said, ‘Do you have any new messages for me?’ She checked the screen with cool efficiency.

  ‘Sorry, sir, you do not have any new messages. Are you waiting for something important?’

  I nodded and said,’ Yes, I am.’

  ‘Would you like me to call your suite when a message is received?’

  I nodded again. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘If you are not in your suite I can put out a call for you in the hotel if you would like me to,’ she said.

  ‘You’re very kind, thank-you. I’m going to take a swim, so I’ll be out by the pool.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said and gave me her ‘winner of the best receptionist in the world’ smile. I did not attempt to match it. Instead, I took a stab at a friendly grin, which seemed to work oka
y.

  I left the reception and rode the lift to the fourth floor. I wanted to make a reconnaissance of room 423. I followed the door numbers along the passageway. Room 423 was the first door after the corridor turned on the north-facing side of the building. I stopped outside and listened: silence. I tried the handle and found it locked. I considered knocking but decided to wait until four o’clock when I assumed the mystery woman would reveal all.

  I returned to my suite where I found a pair of colourful swimming shorts and sandals. Suitably dressed I went outside via the veranda steps on the east side and walked through the garden to the pool area. Most of the sun loungers supported dabs of bright colour and oily skin of varying shades of brown. The pool bar was busy: from below the extended canopy came the sound of Portuguese guitar music and laughter that oddly enough were in tune.

  I found a spare sun lounger at the far side on the rough grass that nobody had yet taken the trouble to move and occupy. I pulled off my t-shirt and dropped it onto the unloved recliner, stepped out of my sandals and turned toward the pool. After locating the deep end, I took a couple of running steps and dived in. The cool water welcomed my body like the embrace of a new lover: sensory and unstoppable. The underwater sound filled my ears like a sudden disability before I broke the surface and the sun-warmed air restored all faculties. Water streamed from my head and I shook it from my eyes. This was exactly what I needed. I swam to the other side and back whilst ensuring that my enthusiastic freestyle did not endanger any of the other guests who were enjoying a more leisurely dip. The minutes passed and my athletic swimming built muscle warmth and flooded oxygen to my brain. This was the R. and R. of which I searched and surely the purpose of a holiday.

  I lifted myself from the pool and leaving a water trail walked back to the lounger. I pushed off my t-shirt, put on my sunglasses and stretched out in the hot, drying sunshine. I closed my eyes and the sun’s heat pressed against my body with the recuperative power of a thousand kisses. I allowed myself to move towards a semi-conscious state of relaxation. My muscles calmed and my mind eased. Time slowed to an imperceptible tick-tock and far off the noises of the world faded away to nothing.