by R. J. Dillon
He found his quarry in the domed reading room that had once been a chapel; Jamie Hayles, the former head of Moscow Station, his neat manicured hands clasped behind a head of white hair. Jamie Hayles wore the grace of a country gentleman and the brooding slouch of an academic of which he had lately become.
‘Hello Jamie,’ Nick said, coming to the side of Jamie’s desk.
‘Good God!’ His tight supple body whipped forward, his arms coming down like scimitars, trying to cover the documents laid before him all in the same movement. ‘Nick, my dear boy, wonderful, what a surprise,’ he began, the words tumbling out, ‘I… I thought you were…’
‘Thought what, Jamie?’
‘Nothing….’ His florid face opened into a robust smile. ‘Take a pew.’
Nick did as he was bid. ‘But try to keep it low,’ insisted Hayles, tilting his body to Nick, ‘the nannies here don’t hold with rowdies and expect total devotion to their blessed works.’
‘We need to talk, Jamie?’
Hayles nodded as though he wouldn’t have expected anything less from Nicholas Torr. ‘Perhaps we should have this discussion elsewhere,’ he offered.
‘I think we should,’ Nick assured him. ‘Got somewhere in mind?’
‘My place,’ he proposed.
They arrived by cab wisely choosing not to walk after all, a thick shower hammered on the roof and the street had a greyness that belonged to dusk. Arriving at a picture framers off the Old Kent Road caged in by developer’s boards and supported on the opposite side by a tattered mini-market sagging on its bricks. Crisp bags and chocolate bar wrappers had blown in the mesh screens around the windows and fluttered manically; weird butterflies with no hope of survival.
Slow moving traffic snaked grudgingly round a Transit van hauled onto the kerb, steam weaving from under its dented bonnet. A genuine breakdown? wondered Nick, following Hayles inside. Across a workshop cold and dank, Hayles pushed a way through workbenches stained by glue and frames that had gone out of fashion suspended from the ceiling.
‘It’s all seen its prime like me,’ he said climbing four stairs to a platform with a band saw and a curtained off corner for an office. ‘I should get someone in to make it work or clear the hell out,’ he added, throwing trade journals on the floor so Nick could sit down at a dining chair opposite a large counterweighted drawing board.
‘Faking maps, Jamie?’ Nick asked, glimpsing a half completed hand drawn First World War trench system on the board.
‘Faithful, accurate copies which I frame and flog,’ Hayles explained without much enthusiasm. ‘Plus the historical account to go with them.’
‘As long as you’re busy.’
‘Well this is a surprise,’ he gushed, ignoring Nick’s point.
‘I thought it might be.’
‘Wasn’t sure when or if you’d call,’ Hayles said, stowing away his plastic shopping bag. Pulling back a length of red and white gingham fabric, its edges badly frayed, it was threaded on a plastic wire he used it to curtain off a small grey safe under a workbench. Stooping low, grunting as he searched, Hayles brought out a large Jiffy Bag, handing it to Nick. ‘This what you came for?’ he asked, closing up the safe, sliding back the gingham.
Ripping open the bag Nick reminded himself of its contents; two more passports bearing different worknames, with credit cards to match and Angie’s Nokia phone. Part of the jigsaw of when he was missing Nick remembered, involving three drunken attempts to write Jamie’s name and address; making a complete arse of himself into the bargain when he despatched them at a post office somewhere during his travels.
‘Heard I was on the run by any chance? What’s the word Jamie?’
‘Anyone who claps eyes on you has to turn you in, you’re a danger to anyone who gets in your way.’
Jamie folded his arms, studying Nick. ‘Personally, I don’t believe a word of what they’re putting out,’ he admitted at last, perching himself on an old high bar stool. ‘None of the old hands I spoke to thought you were a cold blooded savage, though a few did think that you’re blood would be up after your wife’s death. But that wouldn’t have you despatching a Latvian for no apparent reason,’ he said, folding an elastic band around his fingers. ‘You didn’t er… kill the Latvian did you?’ he asked, a timely afterthought.
‘No Jamie, I didn’t. It’s linked to a collection in Moscow, you heard about that too?’
‘I may have heard it mentioned.’
‘I need background Jamie.’
‘You need help, Nick. The top floor has already pronounced you guilty. I may have been off the books for a year, but I still keep my ear to the ground. And I don’t hold out much hope now that Hawick and saint Jane are really running the show because the new Chief is not a Service man, he is Downing Street’s man.’
‘You’re well informed, Jamie, you must have a good source.’
Whether he had or not, Hayles wasn’t prepared to disclose his methods of collecting his raw material. ‘Forget all about Moscow, get yourself off somewhere quiet and grieve for Angela.’
‘Later. Right now Jamie, I need some answers, starting with Lubov’s recruitment in Moscow.’
Scratching his neck, Hayles picked up a pencil and started wrapping the rubber band around it. ‘You’re asking the wrong chap, Nick. Your old partner Gavin was the one who pulled Lubov in, all I did was bait the line.’
‘We all know it’s the baiting that’s the tricky bit,’ said Nick, with a smile. ‘What about the Oktober Projekt, that a reason you went after Lubov?’ Nick asked, taking an unexpected direction, this time without a smile.
Blowing out his cheeks, Jamie shook his head in the sort of declaration that the wise reserve for foolish questions. ‘Ancient history, nothing more,’ he declared as though Nick really should have known better.
‘Ancient history didn’t kill Lubov, Foula, Angie or one of my officers someone had sent on a private adventure,’ said Nick his temper rising. ‘I’ve had it from the horse’s mouth, Jamie, from Lubov’s last inadequate handler. The Oktober Projekt was Lubov’s treasure, ours for the right price.’
‘All right, Nicholas, if it’s the Oktober Projekt according to Jamie you desire, that’s what you shall have,’ said Hayles tossing the pencil and band aside. ‘Started as a myth in the Fifties, way before your time. Supposedly a joint venture, but a big secret apparently. Went by the name of OKT/NC/673 Projekt, a strategic facility in north Ossetia.’
‘GRU, KGB?’
‘And the rest,’ said Hayles. ‘The myth started to get some clothes in the Eighties when Aubrey-Spencer was head of station in Moscow running his own ruthless war against the KGB, the GRU, anything that moved. Roly was his number two. I was head of station in Czechoslovakia, due to take over from Aubrey-Spencer in Moscow, which is when he briefed me about something Langley had paid top dollar for, a whiff of this new training facility in north Ossetia. Big secret, apparently real hush hush even by Moscow’s standards. What made the Americans sit up was a rumour that the agents to be recruited were to work in cells, three to a cell. Remote and isolated no one could get close to confirm its existence and even when we had the benefit of satellite intelligence they could come up with nothing conclusive, something technical, to do with the satellite... they never explained. Roly checked it out during his Moscow days, pressed his sources, worked his agents to the bone and even they came up empty handed. Given the way Roly’s agents always provided a decent cut of meat for the top table, that just seemed to prove that the Yanks had been sold a myth.’
‘But it wasn’t a myth, Jamie, was it?’ queried Nick, noting not for the first time that Hayles the experienced fieldman that he was, was closing down the hatches, sealing himself in.
‘During Gavin’s turn as our resident in Latvia, we got a glimpse. I was his cut-out going for’ard and back between Gav and saint Jane who was earning her Moscow stripes. Gavin was chasing a very pretty Latvian, probably for personal gratification, when one of his Lat talent spotters puts him
onto a lead. Gavin follows it up, gets himself into the path of a Lat computer development engineer of some kind who happened to be very sozzled at the time. Gavin assisted him into an alcoholic stupor, admiring his resolve in working for his sworn enemy, having to toil away at the cutting edge of technology for barely any reward. If he worked in the West he would be appreciated, Gavin had explained. In fact, he could earn a decent top-up salary by working for the West without leaving home, Gavin told him. To our utter amazement, he neither called the local thugs or reported it to his Russian masters.’
‘What did this Lat have, Jamie?’ Nick sensed that Hayles was playing for time, attempting to take Nick down an unconnected side road.
‘He told Gavin that he’s just returned from north Ossetia where all the best scientific and technical brains were being funnelled by Moscow for rotating secondments. The place had actually been there since the Forties, maybe even used for rocket development, not a training facility for spies, but a technical facility, a centre of excellence with secure compounds. Gav made arrangements for a second meeting, we asked London for permission to proceed via Moscow on what Gav called Operation Windfall. You know what happened next.’ Hayles unwilling to continue had reached the final hatch, which he wasn’t prepared to open for anyone, including Nicholas Torr.
‘At least you had proof that the place existed,’ put in Nick, wisely electing not to dwell on Operation Windfall.
‘Yes,’ admitted Hayles, his voice distant as though he was reviewing events from their contemporary setting, slowly returning to the disquieting awkward present. ‘It became myth again, nothing.’
Nick then delivered a direct question; one from the way Hayles all too quickly yawned and stretched, had hoped was not coming.
‘Has Aubrey-Spencer approached you recently? You and Gavin been put back on the beat, unofficially? Come on, Jamie, you can tell me?’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘That’s what you need to tell me, Jamie, get it off your chest, help me out.’
‘There are some things you shouldn’t ask, Nicholas,’ Hayles said his mood darkening.
‘Not when it involves Angie.’
For a moment or two Hayles made no commitment, weighing up his options, then with a shake of his head, he began. ‘You never heard this from me.’
‘Heard what?’
‘He was the best Chief I can remember serving,’ Jamie admitted with considerable pride. ‘Thought it was disgraceful how he was levered out, forced to chair the JIC or slink off into the wilderness.’
‘What did he want, Jamie?’
Unable to derail Nick, Jamie threw up his hands in submission. ‘A favour for old time’s sake.’
‘That it?’
Suddenly finding an urgent desire to rearrange his drawing pens, Hayles mumbled something.
‘He wanted me to run an errand for him,’ Hayles admitted, ‘wanted me to drop off something in Hamburg.’ He shrugged, reliving the trip, his slack face the brunt of an inner anxiety, pulled one way then another.
‘Now who would that have been to see?’ Nick challenged him. ‘Bump into Jack while you were there, did you Jamie?’
‘I had to keep Jack out of it,’ he said in a low forlorn voice, ‘Aubrey-Spencer had something for Harry.’
‘Harry Bransk? The last time I worked with Harry he tried to rip me off,’ said Nick, ‘Harry’s a snake. Anything else Jamie, while we’re on the subject of making Nick happy.’
‘Aubrey-Spencer wanted something picking up from Benny’s.’
‘Did he?’ replied Nick, getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for the background, but make sure it doesn’t go beyond these walls.’
Relieved his interrogation was over Hayles sprang to his feet, shook Nick by the hand. ‘Course I will, you know me.’
And Nick did, all too well. Within half an hour if Nick was unlucky, Hayles would be with all his retired Service chums making them pry out his story of who he’d just had a war conference with. Then it would be a couple of hours before Jamie’s tale of his meeting with Nicholas Torr began to filter back to Hawick, Rossan, Blackmore and Jane. Outside the Transit had gone, but Nick once more had the impression that he wasn’t alone.
• • •
The small private discreet library in Pimlico dedicated to erotic literature was housed in a narrow Victorian building at the bottom of a cobbled mews. A former piano factory, its exterior displayed the same antiquarian dusty appearance as a good deal of its stock. Admitted to a ground floor that always seemed to be semi-lit, Nick asked for Benny at the ‘Member’s Desk’.
‘Mr. Hudson is in our French section,’ the librarian explained, as though directing a visitor to a diplomatic mission. He had a cloud of white hair and a glass eye that twinkled in the stiff artificial glare of the strip lights.
A spiral staircase ran up to a mezzanine deck of bookcases where Nick found Benny, adding his latest acquisitions.
‘More filth, Benny?’ said Nick as a greeting.
‘A paradise of erotica, Nick,’ he said, not ceasing his shelf filling. ‘A collection of sexual peccadilloes and perversions which are doing very nicely on our online catalogue, thanks very much. Twenty per cent up on last year’s sales if you must know.’
Small, barely reaching five feet, Benny had lost his hair in his forties and attempted to disguise the fact with a toupee in a highly improbable hue of jet black. Deafened in some mysterious overseas jaunt for the Service, he wore a hearing aid in his right ear. As is the habit of men reaching a certain age, his clothes were chosen for practicality rather than conformity, consisting of a loose white shirt, large waistcoat and baggy trousers. Benny, an SIS irregular when occasionally called to serve his country in the past, was a highly skilled and competent forger. The library belonged to Benny and his twin sister, a crusty woman in her sixties who unlike Benny had been an official servant of the Service, a senior secretary for at least two of its Chiefs.
‘I’ve just been talking to Jamie Hayles.’
‘That’s good, how is he?’ Benny replied, not interested.
‘Probably no different from when you saw him recently.’
A well dressed browser turned the corner of the stack, saw Nick with Benny and retreated.
‘One of our more casual readers, especially interested in bondage,’ Benny said, and he could have been describing a connoisseur of jazz. Stooping over, moving books down to a different shelf, Benny continued, ‘a High Court judge,’ he disclosed in a respectful whisper. ‘You’d never credit the sort of members we have, they would turn the head of an angel.’ He reached up and began filling a different section, his sturdy little fingers moving deftly between boxes and shelves.
‘Jamie said you’d been doing some work for Aubrey-Spencer.’ Nick grabbed the book from Benny’s hands. ‘What would that be about?’
‘A personal matter,’ said Benny making an unsuccessful snatch for the book.
‘Valuable is it Benny?’ Nick wondered, opening the book, taking a handful of pages, ready to rip them out.
‘Papers,’ said Benny.
Not releasing his hold on the pages, Nick waited. ‘For?’
‘One set for Hamburg, papers and ID.’
‘Is that it?’ Nick looked along the shelves, as though picking out his next hostage.
Benny, his fluid eyes closely following Nick, took a moment to summon up his answer. ‘Transfer papers from the Mad House to Aspley, for the same officer, signed by the Deputy Chief, for the duration of a month.’
‘Thanks Benny,’ said Nick handing over the book. ‘I won’t tell a soul,’ he added, putting a protective arm around Benny’s shoulder. ‘And I’d like two sets of papers for my own use, top quality, passports, IDs, the works,’ said Nick, ‘I’ll even put on my best serious face for the photographs.’
‘Better step through to the office,’ Benny proposed, rubbing the book’s cover against his waistcoat before gently placing it on the shelf.
Already the frost had eaten into th
e day by the time Nick left Benny’s; crisp and mean it rode on the wind that met Nick round every corner, blew into his face, got into his skin. Taking three buses when one would have done, getting off each time before his stop, Nick practised the endless ritual of evasion, the perpetual myth of security, the old deceit.
In Knightsbridge he fell in with the flow of shoppers, breaking suddenly away to his left or right to amble, to spread out his steps, to enter by one door and leave by another. All the time waiting for a similar move, the dropped glance, a rapid change of direction. In Kennington he found a room for the night above another pub, cash up front, jammed his bag under the single bed and resumed his quest. For the remainder of the journey he risked a cab, knowing that watchers of any persuasion prefer the pavement to the road, buses to cabs. He spent an hour in a café on Roman Road drinking coffee, playing on the pinball by the window, lazily firing the flippers, more interested on what moved outside. Then as the afternoon light finally lapsed he tipped the machine to tilt and left.
• • •
There was little to compare between the Russian billionaire’s residence in Kensington and the quarters provided for his staff in Bow. A square concrete stub made up of six flats, it marked where a wartime bomb had fallen on a parade of shops backing onto the rail lines twisting out of Liverpool Street station. What more could his staff ask for, decided Nick, passing a convenience store that sold more booze than food, a Cantonese take-away and twenty-four hour chemist. Nick gave his name as DI Luke Heskin into the video entryphone with one of Benny’s masterpieces to back-up his claim. Natasha smiled, her round plump face bronzed from artificial tan, her English poor, but she had enough to understand police, taking Nick up into a communal lounge. Four other staff members sat around, none of them smiling, and when Natasha explained his status in Russian, they all discovered they had more pressing matters requiring their attention. Yes, Natasha nodded, Marfa and Grigori were in, she’d seen them earlier, yes, she’d go and get them and beamed a broad smile at this chance to leave.