The Righteous Spy

by Merle Nygate

  Eli shut his eyes as the kid wove in front of a white Suzuki and yet another car blared its horn. Even though Eli was wearing the helmet that Segev had fished out of the back of the pizza delivery box on the back of the motorbike, he felt vulnerable. Riding through London traffic, swerving in and out lanes, perched behind a young man keen to demonstrate his advanced skills was not a good way for Eli to marshal his thoughts and work out how to handle Red Cap.

  Drunks were unpredictable. Bereaved, angry, guilt-ridden drunks were liable to be explosive. Around St James’s Square a delivery van pulled out and Segev had to brake. Eli was shunted against the young man’s leather jacket and before he had the chance to rev up and mount the pavement, Eli said, ‘Do not do that again; do not drive in a way that will get us arrested. This is not a film; you are not trying to escape from a POW camp. There are no Nazis chasing us.’

  The kid looked over his shoulder at Eli, baffled.

  ‘Slicha,’ Segev said, ‘Sorry.’ The kid lifted his foot from the road and resumed driving, still fast, still weaving a sinuous route around the central London backstreets towards Kensington Gardens but at least now within acceptable margins of safety and discretion.

  And in the end it wouldn’t have made any difference if they had mounted pavements, driven down one-way streets and crossed Hyde Park on the green itself. When Eli walked into the visa section of the embassy, there was no sign of Red Cap sitting in the waiting area. Sara, a redhead who ran the department with slick efficiency was waiting for Eli. She stood akimbo with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Gone,’ she said. ‘That disgusting man left within five minutes of getting here. He said he needed a drink and you would know where to find him.’

  ‘Shit,’ Eli said. ‘And you couldn’t have stopped him?’

  Her face became thunderous, ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? There was a room full of people out there queuing up for visas and your madman was ranting about wanting to see, “his dear old chum”. What were we supposed to do? Pin him down and bundle him in a crate? The queue had phones with cameras, Eli. You know your problem? Sometimes you people take too much on yourself and you ask too much of others.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Eli reached out and touched her forearm. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t getting at you. Okay? How did he look?’

  ‘I have the footage from the CCTV lined up on the computer in my office,' she softened a fraction. ‘It could have been worse. Much worse.’

  She swivelled away from him and led the way into her office, her heels clipping against the floor. Sara’s office, at the side of the visa section, was a windowless room that hummed from the air-filtering and air-conditioning unit; but she’d made it sweeter with a vase of freesias and pot of fresh coffee. Sarah placed a cup of coffee in front of Eli and stood behind her chair gesturing him to sit. He sat down and she leaned over his shoulder to key in her password. He was aware of her proximity but ignored it.

  If Red Cap was picked up by police in the embassy area of Kensington, MI5 would certainly be informed that a distressed GCHQ employee was a long way from home. All it would take would be a few intelligent questions; an inappropriate response from Red Cap and the whole pile of operational cards would come tumbling down. It had happened before; one single drop of blood on a pillow in a Dubai hotel, that’s all it took. Instead of a verdict of accidental death on a Hamas official with heart problems, there was another passport scandal and subsequent diplomatic stink.

  On the computer screen in front of Eli the frozen images on the screen began to move. They captured Red Cap from the moment that he approached the embassy and came into the visa section. Sara was right. It could have been worse. Red Cap might have been drunk and desperate but at least he’d been professional enough to cover his head with a Panama hat and was wearing sunglasses. That meant he might have looked odd but his face was shielded. What’s more, since he had chosen to make a scene within the embassy, there would be no record of it. And judging from the images, Sara had managed to lead him away from the queue before he became too interesting to ignore.

  Good. Eli picked up the coffee and sipped it.

  If the camera outside had picked him up, Red Cap might be one of the many people seeking a work permit; they would have to be very unlucky if MI5 was examining outside footage frame by frame. Israel was hardly the main adversary and it also helped that the Brits didn’t have the resources of the CIA.

  The four minute and twenty-three second clip ended with Red Cap shoving Sara aside and weaving an uncertain route out of the waiting room.

  ‘Thanks Sara, I really appreciate this,’ Eli got up from the chair.

  ‘What?’ she had her hands back on her hips. ‘What do you appreciate Eli: the coffee; me lining up the clip on my computer; or letting one of your disgusting agents push me out of his way?’

  ‘All of it,’ Eli said. ‘All of it.’

  Since there wasn't enough time to go back to the service flat, Eli used the security guards’ changing rooms and borrowed some jeans, a tee shirt and a jacket. If he had to sit on the back of motorbike then he could at least be as comfortable as possible and get out of his suit. He also swapped his black Oxfords for trainers. Sitting in the cool basement on a metal bench, Eli tugged on his battered trainers. One of the security jocks came in fresh from the gym. The buffed warrior nodded at Eli but didn't engage; maybe it was locker room etiquette; or perhaps the unknown face had heard that the spooks had cocked-up and there'd been a scene in the visa section. Everybody learnt to step over shit on the pavement as quickly as possible. It was a national pastime.

  Five minutes later Eli was pulling on his helmet, this time with a comms system hooked up not only to Segev but also to the rest of the surveillance team. As lead driver Segev was excited; he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, anxious to saddle up.

  Eli swung a leg over the back of the bike, ‘Yallah, let's go. St John's Wood via the Westbourne safe house. And keep to the speed limit.’

  It wasn’t as if Eli was expecting Red Cap to be standing outside the safe house; or hovering at the end of the street; or sitting in any of the three pubs within five hundred yards of the safe house – but it would have been nice. Easy. Certainly easier than sifting through the 28,000 people at Lord’s: all watching, milling around and drinking at the one-day Test match. At least Eli wasn't on his own for this herculean task. The surveillance teams were spread in classic formation and were working sector by sector.

  The match had stopped for lunch and the afternoon had become hot and cloudy. It was oppressive and as Eli leaned against the rail at the top of the stairs of the north stand looking out over the grounds he realised the impossibility of finding Red Cap – even if he was there. Eli had banked on the idea that Red Cap would watch the action from one of the drinks tents before he passed out; but if he was actually watching the game, there was no chance.

  ‘Excuse me.’ What looked like an office party taking a day off bumped past Eli on the way down the stairs to their seats. Eli's earpiece buzzed.

  ‘Zero Seven,’

  ‘Zero Seven, go ahead,’

  ‘Four Two has completed perimeter, no contact.’

  ‘Roger, Four Two, one more pass.’

  ‘Roger.’

  The office party had settled back down in their seats. From her rucksack one of the young women had taken out a camera. With some skill she was looking through the viewfinder and fiddling around with lenses. She started to shoot off some pictures. He turned away out of habit. No photos – at least not without a scarf and a hat and glasses and anything else to conceal his identity.

  That was when he felt a hand on the back pocket of his jeans. He spun round, there was no one there, the girl was still taking photographs and the office group were joshing and posing for her. No one was paying any attention to him or even trying to avoid his gaze. Eli brushed his hand against his jeans pocket and felt something; paper. He took it out. It was a receipt from an off license. What else would it be?

  Eli smil
ed when he read the note, he recognised the writing:

  The Spanish Bar, 1715. Without the wicket keepers, please.

  Eli shoved the paper into his pocket. He’d have to explain in his report that he was going to meet Red Cap on his own because Red Cap had once again spotted the surveillance team. It was entirely logical that Eli went alone because if Red Cap could spot watchers then so could MI5.

  ‘Four Two from Zero Seven,’ Eli said into his phone. ‘Stand down. Return to base. Without me. I'm going to wrap things up here.’

  Eli went to the bar, bought a pint of lemonade shandy and spent the rest of the afternoon watching the match.

  45

  St John’s Wood, London – Five Hours Later

  After his afternoon at Lord’s and on his way to the Spanish Bar Eli phoned Rafi. He was walking out of the cricket ground with a bustling crowd all heading towards St John's Wood tube station. The air was festive with people who'd had the day off work and who'd sat in the fresh air and watched the greatest game in the world.

  Phone clamped to his ear, Eli didn't tell Rafi where he was meeting Red Cap, but he did say that contact had been made, he was going alone and why; the watchers had screwed up again.

  Rafi said, ‘It’s too bad. They're all good kids from the best units.’

  ‘I know that, but if we keep using the same methods we've used for the last fifty years, then anyone in the business can spot it. Don't forget Red Cap has done the British training course, he knows what he's looking for.’

  Rafi said, ‘We should have brought in a third team.’

  ‘Yeah. Yuval tried but then he needed two teams for Paris. Have you heard how that's going?’

  ‘Nothing official, but it's okay; he's due back tomorrow morning,’ Rafi said.

  Eli was at the turnstile about to go into the station where he would lose his signal. In his free hand he held his oyster card and shifting out of the way of the crowd around him, he hovered by a tree. There Eli stood, in front of a glassed-in poster of train timetables, staring at the arrivals and departures as if he was planning a journey; old habits are hard to break.

  ‘How was the rest of the meeting? Were Milne and Charlene pissed off that I went?’ Eli said.

  ‘Would they say? Too polite, especially Milne. He's a cool one, so British; that guy's something else. But it was okay, fine, I just repeated our position: that we can't verify what we've got from our people on the ground without their data.’

  ‘Good, perfect, I’ll call you when I'm through with Red Cap,’ Eli paused. ‘And Rafi... thank you.’

  Outside the Spanish Bar the early evening summer crowd had spread across the narrow street. Situated between Tottenham Court Road and lower Oxford Street, the bar was another excellent rendezvous for someone who wanted to check themselves. You could double up on yourself, slip into an open door around a curve in the street, or disappear completely into the melange of main streets that bordered the cut-through. The choice was yet another example of Red Cap’s professional skills. Drunk and distressed though the agent may be, he was still the real deal.

  Once inside, it took Eli a couple of moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the cork-coloured floor tiles, wood slatted bar, the brass and wrought iron, the mahogany light stand set in the floor, black chipped stools and the deep red dralon banquettes. Ripped in places, worn down in others, but still functioning. Like the place itself. Like Eli and like Red Cap.

  Red Cap was sitting in a corner with his back to the window and a clear view of the door. His Panama hat was on the seat beside him and his hair was squashed down into a flat cap of massed grey. In spite of the hat he had caught some sun from his day at the cricket and looked flushed, not just from alcohol.

  When he reached the table Eli saw there were two untouched pints of beer in front of him.

  Red Cap stood up and they shook hands. Their eyes met. It was the first time Eli had seen him since his wife’s death. Eli tried to convey his compassion into the handshake, and a hand on his upper arm. And by waiting for Red Cap to talk about it – if that’s what he wanted.

  ‘Good work,’ Eli said. ‘Are you going to tell me how you got the note to me without me spotting you?’

  Red Cap nodded, the wry smile curled his lips, ‘No. You’ll just have to work that one out. What did you think of the match?’

  ‘Good, I particularly liked the look of their spinner. He has that rare mix of steady patience and concentration,’ Eli said.

  ‘I’m in total agreement, Benny. That young man is a real talent.’

  As if they truly were friends, and not spy runner and agent, they slipped into the safe citadel of shared interests; two middle-aged, middle-class, well-educated men with diverse cultural interests, a shared sense of humour and passion for the great game – the other great game. But after the second beer the walls of that citadel were cracking. Eli placed the beer and shot on the table.

  ‘What happened this morning, Derek?’

  Red Cap’s mouth worked before he said, ‘What happened over the last fifteen years, Benny? What happened to me? What happened to my wife?’ His voice cracked, he swallowed, but then Red Cap got it back under control. ‘Look, I know Carole wasn’t well, I recognise that. Fact is she wasn’t well when I met her. It was at a party, she was the sister of somebody I was at school with. She used to tag along with him, we had a party at the flat we were all sharing in Kilburn, and she came and she stayed over. That’s how I got to know her. She was ethereal – do you know what I mean? She seemed to float into a room, in her long dresses and shawls as if she was from another time. I never showed you a picture of her did I? She sang. On good days she would wake up and wander around the house singing. Soaring, joyful, songs; she’d have plans for doing so many things, and then on bad days...’ the agent trailed off into silence.

  ‘I can’t imagine how you’re feeling. It makes no difference to say this, and I don’t know whether I’m saying this for me, or for you, but I’m sorry, Derek.’

  ‘Thank you. I needed to talk to you; oh yes, they’ve given me compassionate leave and given me the option of counselling but I needed to talk to you – because, well... only you really know me.’

  Red Cap sipped at the beer with unusual restraint.

  ‘So, you see, I wasn’t drunk this morning, or at least only from the night before, but I was in a rage. A total, fucking rage.’

  ‘Had something happened?’ In spite of Eli’s compassion, his spy runner muscle was twitching.

  Red Cap used a bony hand to brush off the idea, ‘No, not at all. Nothing significant. I’m paranoid, imagine I’m being followed but that’s not new. That goes with the job, doesn’t it? No, why I flipped was the interview I had yesterday with a twat in HR – usual platitudes, usual crap people say when they don’t give a shit. “Anything we can do? Take as much time off as you need. Deepest sympathy. Condolences.” What the fuck do they know, Benny?’

  He looked up at Eli who saw the despair in the agent’s eyes.

  ‘What makes it worse, Benny – if that was possible – is that they don’t know how I feel because they haven’t read the letter Carole left.’

  Eli stiffened. He managed to keep his face neutral but he was rigid. This was exactly what they’d feared. Eli was still as Red Cap reached into the inside of his jacket and withdrew a stained white envelope. The agent placed it on the table between them.

  Eli didn't want to touch it.

  ‘Read it,’ Red Cap said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Are you sure you want me to read this, Derek?’

  ‘It's written to both of us.’

  Eli took the envelope and opening it took out the two pages of fine lined paper. The note was handwritten, that was good. No copies. No back-up on a computer disk somewhere. The handwriting was mixed; some of it was bold, round letters, curled strokes below, some of it was a scrawl with underlining and capital letters.

  Dearest Derek,

  I hope you are reading this when I am dead. I hope I hav
e, in this one thing at least, succeeded and done the job properly. It would be ironic if I failed at this as I have failed at everything else in my life.

  This is not a cry for help. There is nothing you can do, or anybody could have done to stop the unbearable ache I carry around with me day and night. Understand, it’s not that I want to die; I just have to stop feeling like this.

  I hate myself. Nothing can change that. No stay in a fancy rehab joint is going to change that fact. And Derek, you will be better off without me.

  Eli glanced up from the page and saw Red Cap’s already red eyes swelling with tears. ‘This isn’t your fault, Derek, she was ill.’

  ‘Read it,’ Red Cap said. ‘I need you to read it.’

  I saw you checking to see how much I’d drunk when you got back from work. I saw you cringe when you forced yourself to change my bed, soiled by my own shit. But you didn’t understand, I deserved to lie in shit because I am worthless, entirely worthless.

  And I don’t think you ever knew me. You thought I was someone else but it was a mask. All that singing I did, playing the piano, I was pretending. This is the real me, ugly in body and soul.

  You always said I was creative Derek, that I should write my own songs. I’ll tell you something, there’s something very creative about planning to kill yourself. I thought about jumping off the side of the car park at Sainsbury’s but I’d be too scared! Funny that.

  This, what I’ve done, I hope, seems like the best option. It was easy getting the Valium, the GP was only too happy to give me the scrip and repeat it when I said I needed more. The aspirin and codeine I bought across the counter at the pharmacy and the knife at the kitchen shop where we bought the NutriBullet. It’s serrated. That was a touch of my own. I thought that cutting the vein through the skin would be like cutting into a tomato.

  You see, I told you it was creative.

  Eli rubbed his scalp. He’d never known the woman but she was speaking to him now. He heard her voice, her sad, crazy voice. Why didn’t they do more for God’s sake? ‘I’m sorry, Derek, I don’t know what else I can say, or do.’