Shadowplay

by Norman Hartley

  She broke off. ‘Would you like to smoke?’

  I made a small gesture toward the microphone. ‘I’d love a cigarette, yes.’ She grinned, immediately picking up the emphasis.

  I watched her prepare the joint without speaking, enjoying the delicate movements of her hands. When she had finished taking the stalk and the seeds out of the little pile of marijuana, I almost forgot the microphone and said, ‘Don’t put too much tobacco in it,’ but I remembered in time and let her finish without comment.

  She lit it and we both drew in deeply, then she sipped the wine and for the first time, I managed to think of the photographs Ryder had given me without feeling anxious.

  ‘There are so many apologies to make,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if we skip them?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’ll just make one. I’m sorry I tried to run at St. Tropez. I could have saved us all this. I thought I was much stronger than I am.’

  I didn’t hurry her for an explanation. I knew it was coming and I could see the grass was dissipating her tension. It wouldn’t be long before I had the answers; there was no need to press.

  ‘Seeing you did make me angry, though. The parting was bad enough.’

  ‘I thought the parting was what we both wanted. We both agreed.’

  ‘I knew it would make the divorce easier, but agreeing is not the same as wanting.’

  She paused.

  ‘But it wasn’t just that. When they started asking questions about me in London and then in St. Tropez, I didn’t know what it was about but I knew it would involve raking up the past. I didn’t want that.’

  She took a long pull on the joint. ‘John. It would help if you can tell me what you want to know. I mean exactly. I know it’s about the photographs and intelligence, but it would help if you could tell me why you came to St. Tropez.’

  I took only a second to decide. If it would help her tell me more of the truth, I gained; if her answers weren’t right, Pike would have her arrested anyway. I had accepted that, and it was also part of the deal I had made with the Squad team to cover their own position.

  I told her almost the whole story—the allegations about Louise Allenby’s murder, her supposed connections with the CIA, ending with the claim that mattered: that Seagull had been helping to prepare me as a sacrificial mole.

  She smiled at the phrase, then she added quietly, ‘You must have hated me a lot, if you believed that. I would never have done that to you. But I know how it must have looked.’

  She took a sip of wine.

  ‘I’m not very good under stress,’ she said. ‘I cracked once— in a previous life. I ran away because I thought I might crack again. But I’ll start at the beginning. When you checked on me, I must have seemed a very mysterious woman.’

  ‘Yes. You did.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m quite ordinary really. I went to school at Exton Hall. You must know that. I was expelled actually, but that wouldn’t show in the records. I ran away a couple of times because it was so boring, and they allowed my parents to take me away. I went abroad for a year. Hitchhiked. Played around. Then I got bored again and I decided I was wasting my life. I was in France, and I signed on at the Sorbonne to study Russian. After I left school, I called myself Elisabeth. I didn’t like the name Jennifer. I’ll come later to why I started using it again. Anyway, I stayed three years at the Sorbonne. Got a good degree and came back to Britain. By that time, I’d got the bug and my language was in first-class shape. I did a postgraduate degree at Birmingham, then I came to London and joined the Royal Institute of Military Studies. I was a research associate, translating and editing Russian material and working for my doctorate.’

  She paused, and I could see we were coming to a point where the story was causing her distress.

  ‘That was when it all started to go wrong,’ she said. ‘When I met Malcolm Tyler. You may have heard of him vaguely. Minor defense expert. One book, The Politics of the Strategic Balance. I fell in love with him and we started to play house together. I told you we were married but that was never true. Anyway, we started to have problems.’

  She smiled slightly. ‘We’re coming to the embarrassing bit. I don’t like saying it, but the story makes no sense unless I do— the problems really started because I was very much brighter than he was. I became his assistant as well as his lover and it was fine at first, then people began to notice that he had a very mediocre mind’—she hesitated—’and, unfortunately, I didn’t. The situation got out of hand very quickly. His book was a disaster—well, not really. It just sank without a trace. I started getting offers he should have got and there we were: all set for one of the classic modern domestic dramas. Brilliant woman threatening lover’s ego, and all played out in a tiny flat.

  ‘And in a tiny world too. Defense studies is a cozy club. We could have separated, but neither of us could make a career elsewhere, so we hung in and fought. We could have resolved it, of course, but by that time I had a child, a son, Hugh. We went on fighting and the child got ill, a nervous complaint, brought on, they said, by the tensions at home. I was getting pretty ragged too—we fought round the clock practically; at home, at the Institute, then back home for another round. Finally I cracked. I was exhausted from working hard and looking after Hughie as well, and I had a nervous breakdown. I spent a year in a clinic in Wales, a whole damnable miserable year. When I came out, Mai had managed to get a fellowship and my great-aunt had taken over Hughie, and it was made pretty clear that if I wanted either my job or my child back, I was going to have to learn how to crawl.

  ‘I didn’t crawl, but I went into a real decline. Depression, frustration, guilt, fury—the classic mixture. I got mixed up with a feminist group. Second Chance, they were called. They helped me make the break. I’d always been able to draw well, though it had only been a hobby. They showed me how to make money at it and set me on a different path. They’re responsible for the phony records, too. They believe that your second chance works better if you can rub out the traces of the original crash.’ She grinned. ‘They’re really very slick at it. Pinching records, getting a sister to doctor a file here and there. The slogan’s true, you know. The sisterhood is very powerful.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Actually, there’s no great trick to it. Ninety-eight point seven percent of all the secretaries in the world are women.

  ‘With me, it was especially easy. There was a woman called Sarah Ross who’d been helped by Second Chance. She’d remarried and gone off to India. She didn’t care about her art school diploma, so they changed the initials on her records at the college registrar’s office. I took my own file out of the Defense Institute, but I must have been vetted. You’ll find all the details. If you start looking under Elisabeth Ross, you’ll find everything you need eventually.’

  ‘Now tell me about the KGB,’ I said. ‘Every detail. Every contact.’

  She looked up, as if surprised.

  ‘John, there isn’t that much to tell. If you knew about defense studies, you’d have known that. It was absolutely routine. I was target material, even though I was always in Malcolm’s shadow.’ She paused. ‘They probably had me tagged as someone who would become important in my own right eventually. It was so standard it was almost a joke. I went abroad often; a dozen conferences at least, either with Malcolm or as an interpreter. The KGB always made contact. Korapkin’s funny. Very solemn and Russian but a bottom-pincher at heart. Really, it was blanket coverage. They kept in touch with everyone in the field and all the more so with me because I was doing my thesis on missile deployment and disarmament. And they always, always take photographs.

  ‘My love, that’s it,’ she added. ‘If the Soviets wanted to frame you, they’d have a choice of people. I’ll bet they have photographs on a dozen people you’ve met as a correspondent or a news executive. I don’t know about your past girlfriends, but I’ll guarantee I could find at least one man or woman in World News who’s gone into journalism via something like defense studies and has had the
KGB contact treatment.’

  ‘Seagull, I believe you,’ I said, ‘but can you help me prove it? You said if we look under Elisabeth Ross, we’ll get the details eventually. But eventually isn’t good enough.’

  ‘I managed to get my own records out of the Defense Institute,’ she said, ‘but I was vetted enough. MI5 must have a file.’

  ‘They should have traced you already,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe. But even with computers they’re not infallible.’ She smiled. ‘Or should I say especially with computers.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I need corroboration urgently.’

  ‘You mean because you could still be framed?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And you along with me.’ I hesitated but she finished the sentence for me.

  ‘You mean especially if we’re dead.’

  ‘They won’t have it easy now,’ I said. ‘With what the boys downstairs have on tape, no one’s going to go racing into court. But if they’re desperate, they might still try to do it by the scandal and through the media. If the Russians are going to get information about Starburst, that means they do have a mole. They could still try to sacrifice us—even if it only held up long enough to muddy the waters. What we need is a solid dossier, documenting everything you’ve told us.’

  ‘I already have a lot of stuff: documents Second Chance stole. They’re at my mother’s in Edinburgh. I thought one day I’d be strong enough to start again. But when I panicked in St. Tropez, I learned I’m not there yet. And you can talk to Malcolm. He’s in Canada, at the University of Toronto.’

  Jennifer refilled the glasses and I noticed the tiredness in her eyes.

  ‘Is my interrogation over now?’

  ‘Yes, my Seagull. And I’m sorry I was the one who had to open the wounds.’

  ‘It was probably as well. I’d been kidding myself I was growing tough again, but I was just getting brown.’

  ‘Will you ever go back to Yves?’

  ‘No. He was just a way station. There’ll have been a couple of successors in my bed by now.’

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘So I’ll think about it, but can we please turn off that microphone? I feel drained and empty and I want to sleep—in your arms—if you still want to. I will get strong again. But not tonight.’

  She got up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. I prepared some food. I’m hungry and food helps. Like the flowers.’

  She went into the kitchen and I reached under my belt to fiddle with the microphone.

  When she came back, I was laughing. Seagull smiled too, as though grateful to pick up my mood. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve just blown a hallowed moment in spy films. The hero is supposed to turn off the microphone, so Control won’t hear him making love to the heroine. Only I can’t turn the bloody thing off. It doesn’t seem to have any switches.’

  I was still smiling when Pike knocked at the door, and when he opened it, he was smiling too.

  ‘Right bloody copper you’d make, mister,’ he said. ‘Here, just give me the whole thing.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll go and brief Ryder. We’ll officially allow you over the side until 0800.’

  I thought he was going to add a rough policeman’s joke about having fun in Seagull’s arms, but instead he said with surprising gentleness, ‘Be careful with her. She sounds like a nice lass. We’ll get the file and do some checking, but I believe her.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘so do I. And don’t worry. Now I know I’m still dealing with a Seagull, the one thing I do know how to do is to apply tender loving care.’

  15

  At seven o’clock the next morning I was enjoying a luxurious post-sexual drowse—my first moment of true ease in days—when someone started pounding on the door of the flat. Seagull was in the kitchen cooking breakfast, dressed only in a Victorian camisole top which was supposed to protect her upper half from splashing fat. I was still a bit jelly-limbed, but I managed to snap myself awake, and I was already helping to barricade Seagull into the bathroom when I heard Terry Mitchell’s voice.

  I opened the door and said, ‘I thought I was supposed to be OTS until eight o’clock.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, Jim sent word. You’re to come right away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Mr. Ryder. Seems there’s been some good news. Best you get over as fast as you can. We’ll take good care of the girl.’

  I shaved as Seagull was finishing off the breakfast and I was careful to keep my nose free of soap so I could enjoy the smells coming through the bathroom door. She was the only woman I’d ever known who flavored breakfast eggs with thyme and when they were ready I said with a grin, ‘I hope I never have to be psychoanalyzed.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘If I do a word association test and they say thyme,’ I’ll say ‘fantastic, glorious, unbelievable sex’ and they’ll lock me up forever.’

  She laughed. ‘Great sex or not, you’re still leaving.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll be in touch the minute I can. Terry and the boys will make sure you’re safe and by lunchtime, every security agency in Britain and the States will know you’re not KGB.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that,’ I said, ‘we’ll play it by ear. As we always did.’ When I got down to the car, Mitchell opened the door and I was surprised to find Pike inside, with Paddy.

  ‘I thought you were with Ryder,’ I said.

  ‘I was. But he’s out at Whitestones now.’

  ‘The SAC base in Buckinghamshire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Pike said. ‘Bob will tell it to you. Paddy will have to get a shift on. I’ll keep an eye on Miss Seagull.’

  He got out of the car, and Paddy revved the engine enthusiastically. ‘Just like old times,’ he said. ‘I’ve been given a special assignment number by the Yard. If any coppers stop us for speeding, it’s as good as having my old warrant card back.’

  I sat in the back and pretended I wanted to doze. If we were going down the Flying Squad’s version of memory lane, we were obviously going to break every speed limit between Hampstead and Whitestones and I didn’t want to distract him. Also, despite the general air of cheerfulness, I was feeling a bit uneasy. Everyone seemed to know what was going on except me, and Jim and Bob seemed to have become very close, even though they’d known each other for barely six or seven hours. There weren’t two men I trusted more in the world, but I still didn’t like the feeling they were organizing everything for me. I didn’t know what a Yard special assignment number was, but Jim and his team had obviously acquired some kind of official status. A lot had been happening while I was lying in Seagull’s arms and I wasn’t going to feel comfortable until I knew what it was.

  But despite myself, I did enjoy the drive. I’d already gathered that Paddy had been the best driver in the Squad but I realized as we sped out to Buckinghamshire that I’d never actually seen driving of this caliber. There was no rally stuff; no broadside drifts, or wheel-screeching skids of the kind you can do only when the roads have been closed to all other traffic. There probably wasn’t any single moment when I was less safe than when I drove myself, but neither was there a single moment when we weren’t going at the absolute top limit that road conditions would allow. We did thirty miles in forty minutes, all of it through back roads and suburbs, twisting and turning to avoid the bottlenecks of London’s early-morning rush hour. It was as exhilarating as a roller coaster ride, yet I could almost have read a book.

  When we got to Whitestones, Paddy winked at me. ‘Sleep all right, sir?’ I winked back. ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling my heart still racing. ‘I’m quite refreshed now, thanks.’

  At the guardroom, there was none of the runaround I’d had at Fort Benedict. A pass was waiting, together with an escort, and within minutes I was with Ryder in the base security office. He was alone, but I gathered that Cox was also on the base. ‘He’s rounding up a change of clothes for
you,’ Bob said. ‘We’re going on a little trip.’

  I could see that Bob was so happy he was almost high, but despite it, I almost screamed at him that I didn’t want to go on any trips. I was beginning to feel like the Flying Dutchman, doomed to race around the world, never touching any home port. I’d woken up that morning with one desire above all others—to get back to the World News Building in Fleet Street where I was completely at ease in my skin—but when I told Ryder that, he said only, ‘You’ll think it’s worth it, when I brief you.’

  The base security office was a small room on the end of one of the wings of the complex which ran alongside part of the runway. Through the window, I could see several small military aircraft, and in the distance, the shadowy outline of a huge G-36 long-range nuclear bomber.

  We couldn’t talk immediately, as people kept rushing in and out, apparently making preparations for the trip, but eventually Bob glanced at his watch and locked the door behind a departing airman.

  ‘We haven’t much time,’ he said. ‘The first bit of good news is that Jennifer is okay. Her story checks out.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘you didn’t waste much time.’

  ‘Had her mother out of bed in Scotland an hour after Jim came to the Embassy. Special Branch really pulled out the stops. She had all the documents Jennifer told you about. We’ve done some checking in London too. She’s clean, John. You can stop worrying about her.’ Ryder smiled. ‘MI5 is pretty red-faced about the whole business. They didn’t like being confused by a feminist organization.’

  ‘And the second bit of good news?’

  ‘That’s more complicated.’ Ryder sat down in the wooden armchair behind the cluttered desk and I stood by the window looking down at his grinning face.

  ‘For you, the Jennifer thing is a real break,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t solve anything, but it sure as hell helps. It looked damning and it was phony, so it’s going to be a lot easier to convince everyone that the dissident stuff is phony too.