Codename Files Nos.1, 2 & 3

by Mark Arundel

  ‘What if Snowy says he doesn’t know Meriwether and confirms that he never passed him information? How do you explain it then? Meriwether is not involved in Operation Sisyphus. How could he have gotten the intelligence on which to base the trades?’

  ‘If he did not obtain the information directly from the originating source then someone involved in Operation Sisyphus at a senior level must have given it to him.’ Monstrom smiled as if explaining something obvious to a small child. ‘Perhaps it was you,’ he said.

  That hollow feeling had returned to Charlotte’s chest and this time, it was worse. She had lost badly. It was now pointless to continue the discussion. She had to exit and regroup. Monstrom was smiling. She held his eyes and then smiled back. ‘Now, come on, Monty. If you think it was me I better watch out,’ she said maintaining a jovial friendliness. ‘You’ll be ordering my S.T. next.’ Then Charlotte laughed at the jest. Many a true word...she thought. Monty joined in and laughed with her. Even Thornton Talbot, a man not known for his jovial spirit, managed to make some kind of laughter like sound. ‘All right,’ she said and stood up. It was definitely time for Charlotte to leave. The “bubble” had begun to feel unpleasant, claustrophobic even like a death trap.

  Outside, the London afternoon was grey. A lapping Thames kept company with a desolate mist. The chiffon vapour hugged the riverbank like an infant holding hands with its mother. Charlotte was deep in thought. She stared without seeing. All her focus was on the images inside her head. Under her breath, she cursed Meriwether and then called his phone. Still he had it switched off. She cursed him again. The sun if she could have seen it was a good hour away from the yardarm. She needed a drink.

  ‘Where to, love?’ asked the taxi driver.

  ‘Claridge’s,’ she replied.

  19

  THURSDAY, 21:51—22:01

  We drove inland away from Ipanema beach along the edge of the lagoon.

  The cafe was on a narrow backstreet beside a manmade waterway. Opposite, graffiti covered the concrete wall and litter covered the pavement. Behind were apartments and further along, beyond the trees was a tower block. It was dark and quiet. Bruno parked at the kerb outside and then turned his head. ‘It’s perfect,’ I said. He smiled around his cigar.

  Inside, Bruno ordered coffee and we sat against the sidewall. The lighting was gloomy and half the tables were empty. At the bar, a few locals drank beer. We went mostly unnoticed. In the background, steam hissed from the coffee machine and the noise mingled with the Brazilian voices and the sound of cups.

  ‘Will you tell me?’ Snowy asked. He still wore his hat, Bruno chewed his cigar and I rubbed my bruised jaw. We must have looked like three dangerous men. The barman brought across our coffees. He placed the three cups on the table and left without a word.

  Involving Bruno further was not something I particularly wanted to do. He had helped me. If he ducked out now Grace would probably let him be. If he got in deeper, it might cost him a lot more than the money he had so far made. Keeping him and his taxi around, though, would be very useful. ‘Bruno, I’m about to talk about what’s going on.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It might be dangerous for you to know these things.’

  ‘...dangerous, yes,’ he said and nodded. ‘You are a dangerous man to know, I think.’

  ‘If you want to leave, forget everything, then now is the time.’

  Bruno nodded again. ‘I am very curious,’ he said. I could see from his eyes he wanted to know. ‘Is there more money?’

  I smiled. ‘A dead man can’t spend money,’ I said.

  ‘No, but a live one must eat.’

  I pulled out all the cash I had. ‘Half of it is yours,’ I said. Bruno took the cigar from his mouth and smiled.

  ‘Tell your story, my friend,’ he said.

  I drank the coffee and swallowed three painkillers. The worker behind my eyes, the one with the pneumatic drill, had started up again. Snowy watched me and waited. I turned to him. ‘They want you dead,’ I said. His reaction made me think he had already figured it out. His face was sad and haunted inside the dimly lit cafe. He responded with a simple nod. I thought I saw him shiver. ‘They want to protect the network. They think that if you’re arrested you’ll say things, things that will expose Grace.’

  ‘Is Grace the woman?’ Bruno asked. ‘What is the network?’

  ‘Were you supposed to kill me?’ Snowy asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘I didn’t know it but yes, I was.’

  ‘But you did not do it.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘...why not?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t think it was fair and because I didn’t know what the police wanted you for, and I still don’t.’

  ‘The police,’ Bruno said. ‘Are you wanted by the police?’

  ‘The men who took me, the men from the favela, they were going to kill me,’ Snowy said.

  ‘Yes, they were,’ I said.

  ‘It was Grace who did this?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And now, outside the bistro, again it was Grace?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confirmed.

  ‘She would rather kill me than help me,’ he said in a solemn voice like a man reading his own obituary. I remained silent. Even Bruno refrained from asking another question even though I could see he wanted to.

  ‘You are alive,’ Bruno said instead as if pronouncing a happy event. He patted Snowy’s forearm in a comradely fashion.

  ‘After the men took me and I was held in the favela, why did you risk your own life to save mine?’ I wanted to reply with something cool like “I didn’t have anything better to do” but instead I told him the real reason.

  ‘London had asked me to keep you alive,’ I said.

  ‘I thought London wanted me dead,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I said. ‘There’s something going on in London. I only know part of it.’

  ‘Is it to do with Santiago and arbitrage?’ Snowy asked. I nodded.

  I could see Snowy was thinking hard. ‘Are you sure you don’t know anything about Santiago?’ I asked. A man thinks in that way when he knows the sword of Damocles is hanging over his head. I waited.

  ‘You are a killer from London?’ Bruno said and looked at me apprehensively as if it was hard to understand. ‘What is it he does that the woman with the eyes wants him dead so much?’

  ‘Maybe I should give myself to the police,’ Snowy said. ‘I do not think they will kill me.’

  ‘Do not be so sure,’ Bruno said. Snowy’s head lifted. His face had taken on the look of melting ice cream. I wanted to say something reassuring, something that would give him hope.

  ‘One way or another,’ I said, ‘I’m going to get you out of this and that’s a promise.’ Snowy tried to lift his droopy face with a smile. Whether I could make the promise come true was impossible to know, but saying it was better than remaining silent.

  ‘You should run,’ Bruno said. ‘I would run.’

  ‘Tell me about the arbitrage,’ Snowy said.

  ‘I don’t know much,’ I replied. ‘Under the instructions of an unknown client, a Swiss broker has carried out foreign exchange trades that have made huge profits. The client uses a codename: Santiago.’

  ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘Only that each trade has the Brazilian real on one side. London believes that the trades are only made possible by the information you provide.’

  ‘I only pass the information to Grace. I do not have direct contact with London or with anyone else. I cannot know Santiago unless...’ Snowy stopped abruptly, interrupted by the unexpected ringing of Grace’s K106.

  ‘It’s London,’ I said. It was Charlotte. I answered the call. She sounded despondent.

  ‘Has Meriwether called you?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Can Grace track this phone?’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’ I was happy about that. ‘I don’t have good news,’ Charlotte said. The downcast m
ood was unlike her. Usually, she was upbeat as if she always had the answer. Problems were not something that ever seemed to trouble Charlotte Miller. ‘He thinks Meriwether is Santiago.’ I stood up and walked a few paces away from the table towards the back wall.

  ‘Who thinks Meriwether is Santiago?’

  ‘...the chief of SIS.’

  ‘...SIS?’

  ‘Yes, the Secret Intelligence Service, British Intelligence, the British Secret Service, London, the Circus or whatever the hell you want to call it.’

  ‘This is Meriwether’s archenemy? The man who beat him to the top job, the job Meriwether believes is rightfully his?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Mayfair, why don’t you ever tell me anything?’

  ‘It’s the job. I never tell anybody anything. Who told you?’

  ‘Bradshaw told me of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She paused and then said, ‘The chief of SIS regards the foreign exchange trades as treason, which he has used to justify the sanctioned termination. He won’t change his mind. He wants Meriwether dead. Then he’ll get rid of me too.’

  ‘...kill you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I can’t be certain. He’s a ruthless man. It’s always possible.’ An unusual feeling came to me. I felt protective. ‘Can you come back?’ she asked. ‘I need you.’

  ‘What about Snowy?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to leave him. Nothing here with Grace is resolved.’ Charlotte was silent. ‘Is Meriwether “Santiago”?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

  ‘He wanted me to kill Snowy,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, he did, but that’s normal procedure. He and Grace were following the accepted espionage practise of sacrificing one spy to protect the others. I only wanted you to keep him alive because I hoped he might know something that would help Meriwether, but that’s over now.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave him. Can you speak to Grace?’

  ‘I can, but it won’t do him any good. Grace has authorisation for the termination. She won’t disregard it simply because I ask her to. Anyway, if he stays alive the police will only arrest him.’

  ‘Perhaps the police don’t want him for being a spy,’ I said. I looked over at Snowy. He and Bruno were talking together in Portuguese. They could have been just two men in a bar anywhere.

  ‘That’s highly unlikely,’ Charlotte said. ‘The “Santiago” trades will have shown up in Brasilia. The authorities are certain to have investigated internally. It’s likely those investigations have uncovered Snowy’s activities. I’m sorry but he’s done for either way.’ I remembered what Bruno had recommended.

  ‘What if he runs?’ I said.

  ‘Is he set up to run?’ she asked.

  ‘...set up?’

  ‘Yes, does he have a prepared plan? Is he ready with a new identity, money, transport and a place to go? If he runs, he can never go back and he can never again have any contact with his old life. He must become that new person and be that new person for evermore.’ Charlotte was right. Running successfully without preparation was impossible.

  Things were looking bad. Meriwether, Charlotte and Snowy were each facing their own mortality and much sooner than anyone of them had probably expected.

  ‘I don’t think he has anything prepared,’ I said.

  ‘Then running isn’t going to save him. Even if he’s smart and doesn’t make too many mistakes it won’t take the authorities long to find him.’ I looked again at Snowy. Bruno was trying to cheer him up. Perhaps he was suggesting a new career as a taxi driver. On the other end of the line, I heard Charlotte take a drink.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘...the bar in Claridge’s.’

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘...a martini.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘I’m always alone,’ she said. Martinis and despondency was a very English combination and probably a very “Circus” thing to do. ‘I don’t know how to get out of this.’ I kept quiet and let her talk. ‘It’s not just London and everything, it’s Meriwether. He didn’t trust me. After all the years we’ve worked together, helped one another and the things we’ve done. After everything, he still couldn’t trust me.’ Her voice was reflective and melancholy. I let her get away with it but only because it was in my interest.

  ‘I’m coming back to London,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘With you here maybe I can work out what to do.’

  ‘I’m bringing Snowy with me,’ I said.

  ‘What? No, that’s a bad idea. Anyway, you’ll never get him out of the country. The authorities will pick him up at the airport.’

  ‘They won’t if you help us,’ I said. ‘Use Meriwether’s account and charter a private jet to fly us out of Rio back to London. Can you get Snowy a British passport?’

  ‘What are we going to do with him in London?’

  ‘He’s never been before. He’s an anglophile. That’s one of the reasons for the spying. We’ll show him the sights: Old Father Thames, Big Ben, and Tower Bridge. He’ll have a great time.’

  ‘We should show him Traitors’ Gate,’ she said. Charlotte’s dry humour was a good sign.

  ‘How many martinis have you had?’

  ‘I’m just about to order my second,’ she said.

  ‘Well, before you do arrange the jet and the passport.’

  ‘Why can’t I do them at the same time?’ she said. I laughed. Charlotte had cheered up a little.

  ‘Call me back with the details,’ I said and then finished the call.

  Back at the table, even Snowy’s face appeared to have brightened. Whatever Bruno had said, it was clear his talents as a councillor were more than a match for his talents as a taxi driver. Snowy’s expression told me he wanted to know.

  ‘What is the news?’ he asked.

  ‘How do you feel about a trip to London?’ I said.

  20

  XING aka MOSQUITO

  Xing, also known as Mosquito, walked alone down Piccadilly. She wore a short coat against the dry, bitterly cold late, late afternoon. A continuous stream of headlights motored past like engine-driven pack animals on an urban conveyor belt. The sky above the buildings was a stowaway of deep blue tightly woven inside a flat, dead blackness. Pedestrians littered the pavement like unpredictable landmines. The young woman from Hong Kong was used to crowded streets. She picked her way through with warzone-hardened composure.

  At the steps, the man dressed in old-fashioned West End hotel livery doffed his cap in polite acknowledgement. ‘Good evening, Miss,’ he said. He received little in return. The faintest of head movements and then she was gone and inside. The warmth and opulence comforted like a blanket wrapped by a loving mother. It was almost like returning to the womb.

  Before committing fully, she scanned the desk, the chairs and the entry points. The instinctive check was automatic. It was natural like breathing or blinking.

  The lift stopped on her floor and the doors opened. It was then that the phone rang. She exited the lift and took the phone from her inside coat pocket. With a glance at the display, she answered the call. ‘Hello.’ Her dispassionate voice was relaxed.

  ‘Ah, Mossie, my dear, you’re there.’

  ‘Do you have to call me that?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘You know I don’t.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I think it suits you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Xing’s casual voice had an edge.

  ‘Now, now, let’s not quarrel. Where are you?’

  ‘You know where I am. I’m where you told me to be.’ Her voice fought against the impatience she felt.

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, it’s happening.’

  ‘Is it as you expected?’ The voice was now alert, almost fiery.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Meriwether said. Xing remained silent in consideration of what that information meant.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
Her voice once again composed.

  ‘He’s in Rio de Janeiro.’

  ‘What’s he doing? Is he safe?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine. He’s quite safe. He’s there on holiday.’ Xing responded with a sound that communicated her scepticism. ‘I’ve spoken with him. He knows my life is threatened. He suggested I get you to protect me. He said that out of everybody he knew you were the person he himself would choose.’ Xing’s silence was her characteristic response. ‘I’m going to come to you.’

  ‘That won’t take long.’

  ‘...oh no, and why is that?’

  ‘...because when I entered the hotel just now I saw you sitting in a comfortable chair reading something called Private Eye and attempting unsuccessfully to hide your face.’ Bartholomew Meriwether guffawed loudly.

  ‘Well done, my dear,’ he said, praising her observant professionalism. ‘I didn’t know whether you had seen me. I’ll come to your room and we can talk more.’

  ‘Try not to get killed on the way up,’ she said and then ended the call.

  The room was undisturbed. The check that Xing had left was still in place. She removed her coat and waited for the knock. When it came, she opened the door.

  ‘Good evening, my dear.’ Meriwether entered and Xing closed the door.

  ‘Tell me everything you know,’ she said. ‘Try not to leave anything out.’ Meriwether smiled like a patient uncle.

  ‘Let me sit down first,’ he said. He sat in the soft, high-backed chair, placed his briefcase by his feet and the folded coat over his knee. Xing sat on the edge of the bed, observing him and waited. He returned her gaze and studied her for a second. The pause produced from her a tilt of the head. It made her eyes and hair move, and both caught the lamplight. They reminded Meriwether of his motorcar’s coachwork after waxing: an infinite, silken black like a raven’s wing.

  ‘As I expected I am now the target of an officially sanctioned termination. The British Secret Service, of which I was a former servant, has decided my continued participation in the game is not required.’