The Righteous Spy

by Merle Nygate

  Now assured that Red Cap was living at home in his Edwardian semi-detached, commuting to work and behaving as he normally did – without any change in his patterns of behaviour – all that was left for Eli to do was hope. First, that Red Cap would agree to meet him and also that the agent remembered the operational procedures.

  On the second point, there was little doubt in Eli's mind. Of course Red Cap would remember the contact points and security checks; he'd stipulated them when he originally made contact. Within days of establishing his credentials – in the form of a flow chart showing the internal hierarchy of his GCHQ department – Red Cap had laid out how he wanted to work. He detailed primary places for contact and also secondary, as well as the emergency methods that would be used if necessary. He stipulated what was known in the jargon as vinyl tradecraft; that meant no digital, no signals, no phones. Just the old methods, the safe methods that nobody expected any more: the dead letter drops; the secret ink and the chalk. That was how he wanted to do it and that’s how it was done. The agent had also stipulated the payment arrangements; the man was a total professional.

  Arriving at the B&B in Cheltenham, Eli eased the car between two white pillars that fronted the suburban house. The pillars were incongruous for a 1940s house; even more so were the lion heads atop each monolith but the connecting high white wall served his purpose; Eli’s car was masked from passers-by.

  The young woman who opened the front door muttered something about the owner being away. After following her into a dark sitting room, she stood over Eli as he filled in the dog-eared guest book. He smelt cigarettes and cooked food on her.

  ‘I'd like to pay cash in advance,’ Eli said. ‘I'm probably going to leave early tomorrow morning so I don't want to disturb you.’

  ‘Fine,’ the young woman took a pad from her apron pocket and scrawled a receipt that Eli tucked into his wallet.

  Eli signed in as G Sobers. It was an affectation, a work tic that he'd never shared with anyone, never wanted to, never needed to. If he was on a job where there was no need for a fake passport – and God bless the United Kingdom for not introducing ID cards – each time Eli had to give a name, he used the name of a legendary cricketer.

  As usual, Eli used one of his chosen addresses when he filled in the guest registration form. This one was a serviced office rental near Regent’s Park where turnover was high. Junk mail and flyers would be routinely trashed.

  As soon as Eli had been shown to his bedroom, he showered and dressed again, changing shoes and socks and pocketing what he would need. It was a short walk from the B&B to the municipal cemetery, one of the three ‘post boxes’ that Red Cap used. It was a pleasant place with trees and benches to rest, somewhere you could imagine lingering, meditating on the impermanence of life. How different it was to home. Eli thought about Alon's funeral. It had taken place in one of the new vertical cemeteries in Israel. The building looked like a high-rise car park but was jam-packed with decaying bodies laid to rest in pods of earth. With the way real estate prices were rocketing, there’d soon be more multi-storey buildings of the dead.

  At the far end of this British cemetery a funeral was in progress and a group of people had gathered around a grave, their heads bowed, while a cleric spoke. Eli lingered until the funeral party had dispersed and unobserved, he could make his way to the designated tombstone. Andrew Macpherson’s final resting place was under an elm tree. For a moment Eli looked at the inscription and wondered who Andrew Macpherson with his grieving wife, children and grandchildren had been. Then he slipped his hand into his pocket, withdrew the yellow stick of chalk and drew two parallel lines on the left-hand side of the tombstone.

  14

  The Six Horseshoes Pub, Cheltenham – The Next Day

  ‘You’ve lost weight, Derek,’ Eli placed the tray down on the scarred brown wood table with care. He didn’t want to spill his burden of bitter, double whisky, two packets of crisps and a lager shandy.

  ‘You’ve lost hair,’ Red Cap said reaching for the whisky. He tossed it to the back of his throat with practised pleasure. ‘When did you go for the full monty?’ Red Cap used his fingers to brush back his own lank locks that were streaked with grease and grey.

  ‘When I couldn’t fake it any more,’ Eli said raising his voice above jeers of the crowd at the other end of the pub. A middle-aged comedian stepped off the makeshift stage and slunk away. The audience’s bloodlust satisfied, the decibel level dropped as the next comedian, a tall dreadlocked black man, strode into the comedy arena. Ignoring the drama Eli went on, ‘There comes a point when some of us have to give in to baldness, embrace it, if you will.’

  Across the table Eli noticed that Red Cap’s eyes were watering, maybe it was in response to the hit of alcohol. The agent wiped away the moisture with thumb and finger before he spoke. ‘How long has it been? How’s business? Booming?’

  A grin cracked the raddled face. Red Cap had never had movie star looks but now he looked ill. In the weak light of the fake candle, Eli could see Red Cap’s tweed jacket hanging off him, and a stained and frayed cuff visible at the end of the sleeve. He looked like an unemployed teacher who’d been sacked for touching up little girls rather than a deputy departmental head at GCHQ.

  ‘I don’t know how long it’s been – twelve years?’ Eli raised his voice above the cheers and whoops of the open mic comedy session at the far end of the dingy pub.

  Red Cap ignored the question, ‘Are you here to rap me over the knuckles, bribe me or fire me?’

  ‘Derek, that’s what I love about you. No bullshit. Cut to the chase. Straight to the heart of the matter. You could be an Israeli – a Sabra – especially if you ask me how much I’m earning and how often I have sex with my wife. By the way, great location.’

  On stage the comedian, such as he was, was delving into a bag that contained different hats. Each hat stimulated a different voice and a different gag. The comic sweated and struggled to project his voice over the baying crowd. A recording device would never be able to isolate an individual conversation. It was a perfect location for a meet.

  ‘Thanks,’ Red Cap said. ‘It’s nice to have one’s skills appreciated.’

  Eli sipped his lager shandy to give him a moment to consider his best approach. Decided, he placed the glass down on the table, leaned back in the chair and smiled. ‘If you’re saying you don’t feel appreciated by us I apologise unreservedly. What you do for us has immeasurable value and you have my word that it is appreciated at the highest level.’

  ‘Really? Is that why my last case officer had the IQ of an amoeba? I get enough of that at work. And that last meeting I had with him... he had no idea what I was talking about. What’s the point of having a debrief with someone who doesn’t seem to have even a passing knowledge of current communication technology?’

  Just as Eli had thought, Gidon hadn’t done his preparation.

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ Eli said. ‘That was a mistake; he should have been supported by –’

  Red Cap interrupted, ‘And then there was the one before – a woman. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no woman hater but missy had about as much idea of appropriate security as my Aunt Fanny. She called me at home. How the hell did that happen?’

  Eli swallowed, ‘It was thought to be an emergency and she thought your wife would be at her weekly meeting. How is she by the way? How is Carole?’ Eli needed to divert Red Cap. Calm him and draw him away from his justifiable complaints.

  Red Cap didn’t answer.

  ‘Is Carole okay?’ Eli said.

  Red Cap shook his head as if his neck was struggling with the burden of his head. ‘She still tries to hide it so I suppose that's a good thing but she stopped going to the meetings a good year ago.’ He glanced at his watch before he went on. ‘So it's now 7.30pm – that means she'll be comatose. Lying on the sofa, mouth open, an empty bottle of vodka by her side. Some days she doesn't get dressed at all and often, when she does, that's only to go to the GP who does bugge
r all in my opinion.’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ Eli said. ‘Really sorry, what can I say?’ He stroked the top of his head and felt the stubble.

  Red Cap said, ‘I’ve been cutting back lately but I’m going to have another whisky if it's all the same to you.’

  Eli stood up, ‘Let me get it.’

  At the bar Eli mused over what he'd just heard. For Red Cap to unburden himself with such uncharacteristic openness the situation must be bad. Besides the undeniable fact that Red Cap had been mishandled by two case officers, his wife's deterioration raised further operational issues. Among them was the question of whether she knew about Red Cap's work. He was unstable enough without the additional problem of an alcoholic wife who knew her husband was working for Mossad. Red Cap wouldn't be the first agent whose angry wife had phoned a home security service. The event was so common it was a cliché. They even had an expression for it: lichporkaki – angry shit-dropping bird.

  With a second whisky coursing around Red Cap's bloodstream, the agent unpacked the rest of the miserable baggage associated with his wife. Phantom illnesses, public tantrums and binge buying to the point that an entire room of their house was piled with unpacked goods she'd bought online.

  Eli listened, brain working, as he nodded with sympathy and sipped at his lager between handfuls of crisps.

  ‘I blame myself,’ Red Cap said. ‘I haven't been much of a husband.’

  ‘Derek, a psychological illness is not your fault. That would be like saying that if, God forbid, Carole had cancer that would also be your fault. You see my point?’

  Red Cap didn't answer. He just shook his head from side to side. Eli went on, ‘You know we can find someone, someone good, we can find the best shrink there is. We can find someone who specialises in her illness.’

  ‘Thanks, she won't go. Says there's no point.’

  There was silence between the two men. Only the noise from the stage, the clamour from the audience stamping their feet, whistling; shouting bouncing sound all around them. The comedian took another bow.

  ‘Does Carole know?’ Eli gestured with his fingers towards Red Cap and back to himself. The agent glanced away before he said, ‘No... I don't think so.’

  Like hell she doesn't know.

  ‘How's work?’ Eli said to give himself a chance to regroup.

  ‘Usual crap. Overworked. Underpaid. Management politics. Brown-nosers getting promoted over people with competence and – just to make things even more pleasant – a bunch of Yanks installing a new data science tool. They’re wandering around the building like John fucking Wayne.’ Red Cap had leapt on the life raft of a change of subject and paddled away as if he might sink.

  ‘Tell me more,’ Eli said.

  Red Cap smiled his vulpine grin, ‘Actually, I thought that's why you were here, why you'd got in touch after all this time. By the way, that guy I read about who disappeared in Kenya on a family safari holiday. Was that you?’

  ‘You know I couldn't tell you, even if it were the case.’ Eli said.

  ‘I gave your woman the MI5 file on him – I’d probably get ten years inside just for that. The man was a total shit, but when I saw the news items I thought, do I want his blood on my hands? Is that right, Benny?’

  Eli sighed. ‘Only you can decide. You know what these people want, Derek. The Holocaust deniers, the white supremacists, the world-class haters. Nothing’s changed. They want to kill anyone who’s not like them. Yes, the Jews are somewhere near the top of the list, but it’s a helluva long list. Gays, Mexicans, immigrants, Moslems, Gypsies. It starts with conspiracy theories and ends with institutionalised murder. That’s why we need you so badly and your access to the 91 group.’

  ‘Then you’re going to love the new American product. They’re tracing the Russian money that’s going into the far right so it’s everything the Yanks have been gathering on their home-grown racist groups; all the rifle clubs, Ku Klux Klan, Aryan Nations, Neo Nazis, Charlottesville demonstrators – you say it, they’ve got it. All the membership contact details, all the arms caches.’

  Eli leaned forward across the table, ‘That could be very interesting to one of our sections.’

  ‘There’s something else going on but I can’t give you more than an overview. I can’t get access without being conspicuous, but there’s talk about installing RATs in all the target embassies as opposed to the problems of hardwiring.’

  Eli knew better than to ask what a Remote Administration Tool was; that’s what Gidon would probably have done. Malware that was remotely exploited on to target embassy computers had so far eluded them. If the British had not only developed the malware, but also installed it, in the Qatar Embassy they would be able to listen and see meetings in the embassy between Hamas, Iranian visitors, and anybody else who passed near the computers.

  ‘And that’s even more interesting,’ Eli said.

  Two hours later Eli was back at the B&B standing over the toilet bowl while he pissed away what felt like an ocean of beer but was in fact the three pints of lager he'd drunk on an empty stomach. Empty apart from the packets of crisps that had made him thirsty for more beer. Eli needed to eat something before he manoeuvred the car out of the car park past the lion-topped pillars, never mind driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road to the motorway. He meandered back into the bedroom and sank down on the side of the bed. There, he wrenched open the plastic tub of pasta salad he'd bought from the all-night shop at the service station. Using the teaspoon from the in-room facilities he shovelled up the food and thought about his contact report.

  He needed to get something in the first paragraph stating that Red Cap was once again fully operational – in spite of incompetent handling by two case officers, including Gidon. Should he use the word ‘incompetent’? Maybe not. Maybe that was too strong. But he ought to still make the point that the problems with Red Cap would never have occurred if a superior agent runner – such as himself – had been the handler. Eli burped and closed the plastic container on the salad. It was only half eaten but he'd had more than enough of the rubbery gloop. He wiped his fingers on one of the tissues in the box by the side of the bed and picked up his Moleskine notebook and pen. On a fresh page he made a few marks that were incomprehensible to anybody else but would serve as the basis of his report.

  He decided to skip the first paragraph about other case officers' incompetence. That wouldn't win him any friends and Gidon was in enough trouble without any more help. He'd just quote what Red Cap had said somewhere in the body of the text, but he'd start with a summary of Red Cap's current health and domestic issues. Both of which were undeniably problematic. By the side of the hieroglyph that stood for Red Cap's wife, Eli scrawled a question mark and an exclamation mark.

  Of course the woman knew. That sideways glance of Red Cap's had said it all. And then there was the way he'd thrown in the gold nugget about the American product. Whether Red Cap had told his wife or she'd somehow found out about him was irrelevant. The situation was that an alcoholic with behavioural problems knew that her GCHQ employee husband was committing treason.

  Eli sighed and pinched his lower lip together. If he was going to put that in his report – and he had to – he needed to come up with some sort of recommendation for further action.

  Given the woman's condition and unpredictability the best course of action would be to retire Red Cap. But that was without taking into account the tantalising hint of American product being dangled within reach. This was the sort of intelligence the Tsafririm section that kept an eye on Jewish communities would die for. The product was even more alluring because spying on the Americans was a sin of biblical proportions. They weren't even allowed to use American cover stories in their legends and God forbid they should use an American passport in a covert operation. It was an issue of extraordinary sensitivity exacerbated by that shmock Pollard.

  Eli had heard the full disgraceful story from Alon, who'd been in Washington at the time. Pollard, a US naval intelligence office
r had thrown himself at the Israeli Embassy in Washington like the last virgin of a dying race; he'd begged to give information, pleaded to be heard. Of course, the product had been top-grade, Alon had said, it was irresistible. But Pollard’s runners got greedy and pushed too hard. End result, Pollard gets caught and the resulting scandal seriously damaged relationships and damaged relationships meant damaged American support. It was a salutary tale.

  Eli stretched out on the lumpy mattress and closed his eyes. Going in via the back door – as it were – getting the product via the British might not be so bad. And Red Cap was a pro – not some James Bond fantasist like Pollard. Admittedly, Red Cap might have problems with his wife, but they weren't insurmountable and who's to say that she knew for certain? Maybe she only suspected that Red Cap was helping them – and, if it came down to it, would people actually believe her? She was hardly a reliable witness.

  The bed creaked as Eli stood up and padded towards the bathroom where he had to piss again. Feeling lighter, he stripped off and stepped into the shower. The tepid water pinged off of his body and as he squeezed the tiny bottle of soap and lathered up, he began to feel more alert. Afterwards he towelled himself off with harsh pressure, pulled clothes on to his damp body and quit the B&B. He needed to get back to London and file his report recommending maintaining Red Cap and accessing the high-grade Yank product. If Red Cap’s new product was half as good as it sounded, Eli would be perfectly placed to get London station.