A Spy's Life (8 page)

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop turning over the conversation in his mind. What was it Griswald knew that Vigo was so desperate to get hold of? It had occurred to Harland beforehand that the mini-disc might just carry something, if only because the choice of music was patently not Griswald’s. The next day he would take it to Sally and ask her if she thought it had any special significance. He would also see if she knew what her husband was working on. The Griswalds had an unusually close relationship and he was sure that Al kept few secrets from her.

But what about Vigo? What the hell were his motives? On reflection, Harland felt he’d almost been sitting with someone who was playing Vigo, rather than Vigo himself. The humour and effortless speed of mind had been replaced by a pantomime version of the original – an indication perhaps of his desperation. There was no doubt that the problem was consuming all Vigo’s considerable resources because he was well informed about the crash. Maybe he had a line into the FBI? But it was more likely he was getting this stuff from someone in the UN, someone who was being kept informed of the progress of the investigation.

Harland turned right at Second Avenue and kept walking simply for the pleasure of the bracing night air and the glittering vistas of midtown Manhattan. His mind was clearing and with that came a burst of optimism, which had been waiting to break out since he left the hospital. He had survived, dammit, and that was all that mattered. He stopped at a Korean deli and bought himself a small container of freshly squeezed orange juice to clear his mouth of the thick, musty taste of the wine. He undid the top as he waited for the store assistant to change his twenty-dollar bill and swilled the juice in his mouth before swallowing it. Then something occurred in a deep part of his consciousness. An old nerve ending tingled which made him look round through the doorway and catch sight of a man on the other side of Second Avenue. He had stopped and was fiddling with one of the newspaper vending machines that are on every corner in midtown. Harland understood that he had been followed from the restaurant. He took his change and lingered to the side of the doorway, waiting for a cab with an illuminated sign to draw up to the lights. The man threw one or two glances his way, then withdrew a newspaper from the machine and ostentatiously started leafing through it.

Bloody amateur, thought Harland as he walked smartly from the doorway and flagged down a cab. What the hell did Vigo think he was playing at, sending his idiot footpads to follow him?

5

THE WOODEN HAT

The young man waited to catch sight of Harland outside the Flynt Building in Brooklyn Heights for much of the day. But the wind was blowing straight off the East River and several times he had been driven inside by the cold, first to find refuge in a bar and then in the cinema on Henry Street. After the movie, he decided to find out whether Harland was expected back that day. He talked to the surly Russian porter at the Flynt and discovered he’d missed him. Harland had returned from hospital and gone out again. At 10 p.m. the young man returned to his post behind some recycling bins across the street from the building. He would give it an hour and if Harland didn’t show he’d go back to the hotel.

Ten minutes later a cab drew up and a man in a long overcoat got out and walked slowly to the building’s entrance, patting his pockets for keys. As he reached the door, he paused and shot a glance quickly up and down the empty street. It was then that he caught sight of the man’s face. Although he was thirty yards away and the light was not good in that part of the street, he was certain that the tall, slightly stooping figure was Robert Harland. But now that the moment had arrived, he found his mind tripping over itself in an effort to choose the right words. Hell, he’d had enough time to think of what he was going to say, but he couldn’t find a coherent sentence in his being. And so he watched while Harland pulled the door open and passed into the lobby.

He was just pondering how long he should wait before asking the porter to call up to Harland’s apartment when another cab coasted to a halt at the end of the street and two men got out. Instinctively he withdrew further into the shadows behind the bins. He saw one of the men jog a little way down the street, stop and hold up his hand to shield his eyes from the light of the street lamp. He seemed to be interested in the cab which had dropped Harland off, and was only now moving away. After a few seconds the man retreated and disappeared with his companion into Henry Street.

Harland could never enter the Flynt Building without marvelling at his good fortune in landing the apartment when the previous tenant left for Rome. He made for the elevator, raising a hand cheerily to the young Russian who served as the weekend doorman. Boris grunted something but did not look up from the mini TV balanced in his lap.

When he unlocked the door of his apartment he would sometimes go in without turning on the lights, take a drink from the fridge and look at the view for a few minutes. The room was large and airy, and all along one side was an uninterrupted view across the East River to Wall Street and the World Trade Center. But now he flicked the switch because the answerphone light was blinking. He pushed the play button and heard the machine announce in its hesitant, half-feminine voice, ‘You have … five … new messages.’ The first caller hung up without speaking. The next three were well-wishers from the UN, and then came Harriet, again insisting that he should spend Christmas in London.

As he listened to her, his eyes ran over his desk. Something was wrong. The letters he’d picked up from the mailbox that afternoon had been placed in a different order. And the bill from the electricity company, which he’d left on top of his laptop so he wouldn’t forget to pay it, had been moved to the side and turned over. Also, the lid of the computer was fractionally open. He knew he had left it shut tight.

He looked round the apartment. Nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. He went back to the computer and turned it on. All the files on his water report were in order and appeared not to have been tampered with. His e-mail, however, had been downloaded from the Internet provider and read. Some sixteen messages that he had not seen before were displayed in the inbox. None was in the bold type that indicated an unopened message.

His first thought was that Vigo had arranged for the search, knowing he was safely at dinner with him. His hand rose to feel the lump of Griswald’s wallet in his jacket and the hard edge of the disc’s cover. That was the only thing Vigo could want unless he was convinced that Harland’s laptop contained some clue to Griswald’s secret. Still, it didn’t seem quite right to him. A professional team from SIS would have stolen into the apartment and gone through his things without leaving a trace. They certainly would not have made the mistake of opening his e-mail and then leaving the computer open and in sleep mode.

He left the apartment and went down to the lobby where he found Boris who was leaning back in his chair, distractedly pulling a strand of gum from his mouth.

‘Did I have any callers when I was out, Boris?’

‘World and fucking wife try reaching you,’ he said without turning round. ‘Too many people looking for you come here.’

‘Too many people? What do you mean – the media?’

‘Many people. Not media.’

‘Well, who then?’

Boris’s sallow features looked up at Harland. ‘Two men from UN. I show them apartment.’

‘What! Which men from the UN?’

‘They have ID and documentations. They take nothing. I check.’

‘You mean you let some strangers into my apartment.’

‘They have documentations; they have ID.’ Boris stood up and thrust his hands out with the exaggerated innocence of a footballer caught fouling. ‘Like the woman she come yesterday.’

‘Which woman?’

‘The woman who take clothes to hospital.’

‘Yes, that was my secretary who you gave a spare set of keys to. But who were these men? What did they look like?

‘One tall with grey hair, like Bill Clinton. Other man, younger. They stay in five minutes. I wait outside door. Then they go.’

‘This isn’t bloody Russia, Boris. You don’t have to do what everyone tells you just because they flash an identity card at you. Why didn’t you say something when I came in just now?’

‘You deen aks me.’

Harland briefly marvelled at Boris’s mastery of street idiom.

‘How on earth was I supposed to know that you had let a couple of complete strangers into my apartment? I think we’re going to have to talk to the building manager about this, Boris.’ He turned to the lift.

‘You deen aks me about kid neither!’

‘What kid, for heaven’s sake?’

‘A man like my age – maybe more young. He speak Russian and English like me. Smart kid. He say he come back later.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall like you, Mr Harland. He wears big jacket and hat – like this.’ Boris clamped his hands over his head.

‘A woollen hat?’

‘Yes, a wooden hat,’ said Boris triumphantly.

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘He say he see you when you come back.’

‘Fine, call me if he appears. But don’t let him come up to the apartment. Have you got that?’

The moment Harland closed the apartment door behind him, the buzzer went. Boris was on the other end, now evidently anxious to help.

‘Kid with wooden hat is in street. I see him now. He come in building … No … He stand outside door. Now go away.’ The commentary trailed off.

‘I’ll come down.’

He got downstairs to find Boris lurking at the side of the front door. Without bothering to hide himself, Harland peered through the glass and saw the figure across the street.

‘Are you sure it’s the same man?’

‘Yes,’ said Boris definitely. ‘I tell him fucking get lost?’

‘No, let’s see what he wants.’ Harland opened the door and saw the man more clearly. He had moved into the light of the street lamp and was looking in his direction, stamping his feet in the cold. Harland moved out into the wind and called out.

‘What do you want?’

The figure made a hopeless gesture with his hands and seemed to smile, although it was difficult to tell in the dark. Then he started across the empty street.

‘Do you need something?’ Harland shouted again.

‘Is that Mr Harland?’ called the man. ‘Yes, I would like to talk to you for a few moments.’

Boris had moved to stand behind him, apparently expecting trouble.

‘He looks okay,’ said Harland. ‘Why don’t you go back inside, Boris? You can call the police if there’s a problem.’ But Boris wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

The man came up to them wearing a rather odd, eager smile. Harland gauged he was in his mid to late twenties. He had a thin, fairly handsome face and a sparse growth of stubble on his chin. He wore a padded ski jacket, black denims and tan-coloured boots. A dark blue woollen hat was shoved tight over his head and around his neck was wrapped a bulky olive green and black scarf.

‘Mr Harland?’ he said, still smiling.

‘Yes. What do you want?’

‘To talk to you. I have some things to say – important things.’

Harland registered an educated foreign accent and a pair of light brown eyes, which were perhaps a little troubled – or at least hesitant.

‘What things?’

‘It’s quite difficult to explain.’ He was now standing about three feet from Harland. The wind whipped the steam of his breath from his lips.

‘What’s this about?’ said Harland impatiently. ‘I’m not standing out here all bloody night.’

The man opened his jacket and rather deliberately slid his hand inside, which caused Boris to shift his position at the door. The young man held up his other hand and said to him in fluent Russian, ‘There’s nothing to be worried about. I am a friend.’ Harland noted that the accent was again faultless.

He pulled out a wallet and withdrew a card which he shielded from the few flakes of sleet that were being borne down the street by the wind. ‘I wanted to show you this.’

Harland took it and held it up to the light. It was an Italian identity card, frayed at the edges and discoloured. A picture of a young woman was rippled with the impression of an official stamp. He looked closely. There was no mistaking her. The name on the card confirmed his fears.
EVA HOURESH
was printed in capital letters and below the photo and in a different type face were the words ‘Design Student’. The card was dated 1975.

Harland felt his stomach churn. But he did not react – he could not react, because he was certain that Vigo must have put the boy up to it. He wondered wildly whether the encounter was being observed. Was he being filmed? He glanced to the darkened windows of the apartment opposite and then to a blue van which stood under the line of gingko trees on the other side of the street.

‘You don’t recognise her?’ said the young man, who had removed his hat and now stood looking rather crestfallen. His eyes were watering and his face was pinched with cold. ‘Then I will show you these.’ He took out two further cards and presented one to Harland. ‘They have different names. I will tell you why in a moment.’

Harland examined the first one, a membership card for the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, dated 1980. Eva Houresh appeared as Irina Rath. No occupation was given. Her hair was shorter and her face was a little older. If anything, she looked more attractive. The photographer had caught the expression of mockery that he remembered so well. Her eyes looked boldly at the lens and her lips seemed about to part in a smile.

The last card was party membership for 1988 and had belonged to Irina Kochalyin. The photograph was almost identical to the one taken eight years before. The card was in better condition and everything seemed in good order – the stamp, the serial number and regulations appeared authentic. Harland concluded that the outfit in SIS that had undoubtedly produced the cards had done a pretty good job. But how had they obtained the pictures of Eva? That worried him a lot.

He handed the cards back. ‘I don’t know why you think I should be interested in these.’