Codename Files Nos.1, 2 & 3

by Mark Arundel

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘Well, I think I do. I’m so cross with Meriwether. As you’ve probably worked out he chose Rio as your holiday destination for a very good reason.’ I had worked it out.

  ‘What very good reason?’ I asked.

  ‘Tell me what you know so far,’ she said.

  ‘I know less than a deaf, dumb and blind man, and there isn’t even a pinball machine in the hotel,’ I said. Not even a token chuckle left Charlotte’s lips. Perhaps my delivery was off or perhaps Charlotte’s current mood was unreceptive to my hilarious wit. Either way, she waited in silence for me to give her a sensible answer. ‘As you know, Grace made herself aware to me,’ I said in my most sensible voice, ‘although at the time I didn’t know her name. Then I spoke to her again in the hotel and she told me to meet her later, which I did. There was a man at the meeting. He had white eyes, white hair and white skin. During this meeting, Meriwether called and spoke to Grace and then Meriwether asked to speak to me. He told me very little. He asked me to keep an eye on things. He told me Grace’s name and he called the man Snowy. That’s it.’ I left out telling her that I now did not know where Grace and Snowy were. I wanted her to tell me what she had found out before I sounded an alarm bell.

  ‘So, you’ve spoken to Meriwether,’ she said, ‘and he gave you his usual briefing: heavy on charm, light on detail. Well, he didn’t tell me anything about this. Involving you in an operation was a complete surprise to me. I’m very displeased with him.’ Charlotte sounded genuinely annoyed. I pictured her with hair of writhing serpents and kept quiet. ‘Grace is one of ours,’ she said. That was exactly what Meriwether had said. ‘She runs a network of very good sources in the area of economics and finance based in the capital, Brasilia. Number one of these is Snowy. He works at the Central Bank of Brazil and passes Grace high-level intelligence that our people find extremely useful. Apparently, this information is to do with currency exchange rates. Grace is supposed to report to the person above her in Brazil, but VX rate her so highly that she’s pretty much her own boss.’

  ‘Why didn’t Meriwether tell me this?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re insurance,’ she said. ‘At present, Meriwether doesn’t know whether we definitely have a problem. He’s put you in place should a need arise. Under those circumstances, it’s procedure to limit information.’

  ‘This possible problem, what is it?’

  ‘Snowy thinks his employer may have discovered what he’s doing. He told Grace, and Grace reported it to Meriwether.’

  ‘...when?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it was before Meriwether chose Rio for your holiday.’

  ‘Why did Grace tell Meriwether and not the person above her in Brazil?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Charlotte said, ‘but they know each other. When Grace started at VX, she worked on the Middle East desk, which was the desk that Meriwether held. Perhaps she thought Meriwether could help in a way her station chief couldn’t.’

  ‘...and can he?’

  ‘Well, he’s sent you.’

  ‘Yes, but what can I do?’

  ‘Keep an eye on things,’ Charlotte said lifting her voice. It was almost a laugh.

  ‘I’m not seeing the funny side,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ Charlotte said lowering her voice again. ‘Look, spies always get scared at some point. They go through phases. Usually, their worries are unjustified. I’m sure this will all turn out okay.’ I admired Charlotte’s optimism. She had at least helped me with an explanation. It was then I saw two people walking through reception that I recognised. Snowy sported a wide-brimmed straw hat and dark, wraparound sunglasses, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled down and long, brightly coloured trousers. Grace looked the same as earlier except now she had a pair of sunglasses pushed back on her head.

  ‘Thanks, Mayfair,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Wait,’ Charlotte said. ‘You haven’t told me why you answered Grace’s phone.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I repeated.

  ‘Buy a phone.’ Charlotte’s heartfelt instruction was the last words I heard before ending the call. It was probably good advice. I watched Grace and Snowy from my concealed position behind the plant. They walked through reception side-by-side and stopped at the lifts. The only thing to give me concern was Snowy’s dress sense. Although given his medical condition it was probably unfair of me to criticise. While I watched them enter the lift and disappear behind the sliding doors, I had a query enter my head. Why were Grace and Snowy in Rio and not Brasilia? More pressing, however, was the question of whether Snowy’s employer did know he was passing secret and highly sensitive financial information to Britain and what the consequence of that might be. I tried to recall what I knew about the Brazilian state. Apart from the country having a relatively stable government due mainly to strong economic growth, my knowledge was limited. If the Brazilian state suspected Snowy of wrongdoing, then I assumed the police force or a specialist unit therein would pick him up for questioning. How robust that questioning might be I was unsure. However, given Snowy’s current level of agitation it was likely he thought quite robust.

  I was still deliberating in reception and noticing that Ana Luiza must have finished her shift because a different girl was behind the desk when Grace’s phone rang again. I checked the screen, but just as before the display was unhelpful. I considered for only a second and then took the call. Like last time I waited before speaking and this time, the caller did speak first. In fact, this caller was extremely anxious to speak. His words came out in a garbled rush with a thick accent, so that even if he had spoken English instead of Portuguese I may still have struggled to understand what he said. His rapid outpouring finished with a shorter sentence and a lift of his voice, which I knew meant he had asked a question. He drew breath and waited for an answer. I was unlikely to get any more from him, so in my best Portuguese, which was very poor, I asked, ‘Qual é o seu nome?’ I knew that asking him to tell me his name was a long shot. I only know a few questions in Portuguese. At least I asked it without sounding like a tourist reading aloud from a phrase book. The man, though, held his tongue. I heard him exhale slowly and then he stopped the call. I tried to remember what he had said and to translate the words. “English” or “Englishman”, “dead” and “money” were the only ones I recognised for sure. I considered these words and decided that none of them gave me a warm glow inside. Clearly, there was more going on than I had yet discovered. It was time to speak to Grace and Snowy.

  6

  BARTHOLOMEW WELLINGTON MERIWETHER

  Bartholomew Wellington Meriwether’s dinner guest wore spectacles in which the glass was considerably thicker than any Meriwether had ever seen before. He examined them closely. It was just possible the man had had them made of glass taken from the bottom of a bottle.

  ‘Economics is money,’ the bespectacled man repeated and then squinted at Meriwether to better judge his reaction. The man’s name was Sopwith, Alexander Sopwith, but Meriwether called him “Camel”.

  ‘Is it, Camel?’ Meriwether said. ‘Is it really? Well, who’d have thought it, eh?’ Men dressed in eveningwear occupied every table in the dining room of Meriwether’s club. The tables were widely spaced and each had a white-gloved waiter in close attendance.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ confirmed Camel pushing up the spectacles with his index finger. They were probably heavy, thought Meriwether. He lifted his glass of claret and sipped.

  ‘All right,’ said Meriwether after a short pause, ‘tell me about it. Explain to me all about the moolah, the lolly, the do-re-mi.’

  Alexander Sopwith shifted in his seat and a sparkle from his eyes escaped through the thick glass in delightful anticipation. ‘Money, yes, a fascinating subject,’ he said. ‘Where does one begin?’

  ‘Oh, now come on, Camel, let’s not have chapter and verse,’ Meriwether said. ‘All I require is the good stuff: forget the moolah and the lolly, let’s just have the do-re-mi.’

  His fading exube
rance aside, Alexander Sopwith remained cheerful. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now, consider this: what is money?’

  Meriwether drank another mouthful of the vintage claret while his brow lowered thoughtfully. ‘A medium of exchange,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no, you sound like a student of economics. Let me try again. How does one know the price of money?’

  ‘The rate of interest,’ Meriwether said.

  ‘Yes, and also the exchange rate between different currencies. Now, imagine this: money that did not accurately represent the true value of anything and only maintained its worth because everybody chose to believe that it did.’

  Meriwether frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you familiar with the fable: The Emperor’s New Clothes?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a story by Hans Christian Andersen,’ Meriwether said.

  ‘Well, substitute the “new clothes” for “money” and there, you have what I mean.’

  Meriwether sat back and his fingers rubbed his chin. ‘Who are the tailors in your comparison?’ he asked.

  ‘They are the bankers and the politicians who create money from nothing.’

  ‘...and who is the emperor?’ he asked.

  ‘The emperor is the country; every country, every country is an emperor.’

  ‘What about the rich countries?’

  ‘It’s exactly the same for rich countries. They are only rich in relation to all other countries. The world has interconnected money. Having more or less of the same thing doesn’t make its intrinsic worth any different. We are all in or we are all out.’

  Meriwether kept his scepticism to himself. His respect for Camel’s intellect told him to consider the idea more carefully. ‘So, how does this help us?’

  ‘Within this ongoing systemic failure, the most important thing for each country or block of countries is to battle over currency exchange rates.’

  ‘Until a child points out that the emperor isn’t wearing any clothes,’ said Meriwether.

  ‘Yes, quite,’ said Alexander Sopwith and removed his spectacles to polish the thick glass on his cloth napkin. ‘If that happened I shudder to think of the consequences. No, for now, we must fight over the exchange rates. Think of it like a war: a currency war.’

  ‘A currency war,’ Meriwether repeated and then lifted his claret glass. ‘It’s the cold war replacement.’ Sopwith remained silent. ‘And to win such a war we need high-grade, financial intelligence from as many countries with an important currency as possible.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Sopwith and replaced his spectacles. ‘Some of the stuff you chaps give us is absolute dynamite.’

  Just then, the waiter appeared wheeling a silver salver. He removed the lid and on seeing the joint of roast beef Meriwether clapped his hands approvingly. ‘Splendid,’ he said.

  7

  THURSDAY, 16:45—17:20

  The lifts were busy. I decided not to wait. I left the reception lobby and took the stairs to the fourth floor. The corridors were keeping up their convincing impression of abandonment: while I walked from the stairwell on the south side to the door of room 423 on the north, I never saw another soul. I tried the door, but the lock held it, so I knocked. Grace opened up and I went in. She closed the door behind me.

  ‘Where did you go?’ I asked. She pulled my arm to stop me moving any further into the room. Her hand on my bare forearm felt cold as if she had recently held it under a running tap.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ she said and turned her head to look behind her. ‘Our friend is rather disconcerted at the moment and after you took the call he became quite animated. He jumped up and took off. I decided to go after him to calm him down and I didn’t have time to tell you.’

  I looked past Grace into the room and saw the hunched figure of Snowy sitting at the table. He appeared as if he had an appointment with the hangman’s noose and that a priest had just arrived to offer prayer and comfort. I looked back at Grace. ‘Have you got my phone?’ she asked. I considered whether to tell her about the two calls I had taken. I passed back her phone.

  ‘Do you know Charlotte Miller?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, we were at Cambridge together,’ she replied. ‘Did you go to university?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘...why not?’

  ‘At sixteen I joined the army,’ I said. Grace studied me for a moment as if something about me had changed. Perhaps she was wondering what it was like to join the British armed forces as a soldier at the age of sixteen. I waited, but despite wanting to ask me something, she resisted. She appeared slightly less unapproachable. As I watched, her eyes dissolved and then reformed, softer and bigger, and they were all I could see. I wondered what power those eyes possessed. I took the opportunity of this unexpected connection to ask her some questions. ‘Why are you and Snowy in Rio instead of Brasilia?’

  ‘He had holiday due and he loves Rio. I thought a break away from work might do the trick.’ Grace shrugged. ‘He’s just too scared to relax.’

  ‘Why does he think his employers know?’

  ‘He says he just does. I don’t think there’s any one thing or if there is he hasn’t explained it to me. He does seem to believe it, though. I just hope he’s wrong.’

  ‘London told me that you run a network of very good sources,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, they call it the Sisyphus network. Did they tell you how important it is to them? Did they explain about currency exchange rates?’ Grace had surpassed my expectation. She had opened up and given me useful information. Perhaps she had started to believe that I was necessary after all. Charlotte said that Meriwether had sent me for the purpose of insurance. Perhaps Grace was thinking that she might have to collect on the policy. Although my information regarding the type of insurance policy Meriwether had in mind was unspecified. That would not remain the case for very much longer.

  ‘What are you whispering about?’ Snowy called out to us in his Brazilian-accented voice laced with annoyance. Grace turned and walked to him much as a mother might to a child and I followed.

  ‘I was just saying how important your work is and how much London appreciates everything you do,’ Grace said with convincing sincerity made even more so by her blackstrap molasses voice.

  ‘Don’t flatter me,’ Snowy said and gently rubbed one white eye with the back of his hand. ‘You know it doesn’t work on me.’ That was something we had in common. Grace took a long breath but held her patience.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked.

  ‘There is nothing to say,’ he replied with resignation before looking at me as if I might have something to add. Given the situation, the only advice I could think of was to remain optimistic.

  ‘Why worry about an uncertain future? You’re on holiday in Rio: what do you like to do?’ As motivational speeches to spies go, I doubted it would trouble the espionage awards committee. Snowy made a disparaging sound with his pallid lips and Grace glanced at me safe in the knowledge that her job was secure, although, she did follow up on my idea, so perhaps I had potential.

  ‘Why don’t I book us a table at that club you like in Leblon for this evening?’ she suggested. ‘The three of us can dress up. We can have a meal there and then watch the carnival-style show they put on each night. You like doing that, don’t you?’ At Grace’s well-sold suggestion Snowy’s demeanour instantly improved and his cold eyes almost brightened to a thaw setting. The club in Leblon was clearly a good idea. I wondered what Grace had meant by “dress up”. I had a sudden mental image of sparkly dresses and shiny waistcoats.

  ‘Can we drink daiquiris and meet the dancers after the show like last time?’ Snowy asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, we can,’ Grace said with the assurance of an experienced and successful salesperson.

  ‘All right, yes, I would like that,’ Snowy said. He looked at me. ‘Do you like carnival shows?’

  ‘I love them,’ I said. I’m not sure he believed me. My skills as a salesperson were n
ot as good as Grace’s. It produced, however, the first smile I had seen from Snowy, albeit lacklustre, so we were moving in the right direction.

  Grace took the phone from her pocket. ‘I’ll call them now,’ she said, ‘and reserve us a table.’ This garnered a second smile from Snowy, which had more snap and was an improvement on the first. Unfortunately, it lasted only a second, cut short by a loud knock at the door. His face registered an alarm and reverting to Portuguese, he asked a question, which I think was “who’s that”.

  ‘I’ll see,’ Grace answered in English and headed towards the door. I moved to the corner of the bed, halfway between Grace and Snowy who remained at the table. His unhappy and worried expression had returned.

  Grace opened the door with its security bar in place. She looked through the narrow opening and spoke in Portuguese. I heard a man’s voice answer and then Grace spoke again. The man replied and Grace listened. The man also spoke in Portuguese, but his voice was low and hard to understand. After a few more seconds, Grace closed the door, turned to me with a colourless face that was a match for Snowy’s and said, ‘It’s the police. They want to talk to Snowy.’

  Snowy made a pained noise and reacted like a startled deer, said the word “no” and jumped from his seat in fright. His white, terrified eyes stared at me with the beseeching of a condemned man.

  Grace still had her hands on the door. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘How many are there?’ I asked in a whisper using my hands to encourage them both to lower their voices.

  ‘There are two of them. They are both wearing suits,’ Grace said in a much softer voice.

  ‘Did they show you identification?’

  ‘Yes, one of them did.’

  ‘Do the police carry guns?’

  ‘Yes, of course, they do. This isn’t England.’

  ‘Snowy,’ I said turning to him. He now stood only two paces away as if trying to put me between the door and himself. ‘Get on the floor behind the bed and stay out of sight and keep silent until I tell you otherwise.’ He hesitated. ‘Do it now,’ I whispered forcefully. He turned and then disappeared behind the side of the bed.