The Swiss Spy (2 page)

A
shade after 1.30 on the afternoon of Monday 14
^th
August, 20 people
emerged from the terminal building at Croydon Airport and were shepherded
across a runway still damp from heavy overnight rain.

They were a somewhat disparate group, as
international travellers tend to be. Some were British, some foreign; a few
women, mostly men; the majority smartly dressed. One of the passengers was a
man of average height and mildly chubby build. A closer look would show bright-green
eyes that darted around, eager to take everything in and a nose that was bent
slightly to the left. He had a mouth that seemed fixed at the beginnings of a
smile, and the overall effect was of a younger face on an older body. Despite
the heavy August sun, the man was wearing a long raincoat and a trilby hat
pushed back on his head. In each hand he carried a large briefcase; one black,
one light tan. Perhaps because of the burden of a coat and two cases, or
possibly due to his natural disposition, he walked apart from the group. At one
point he absent-mindedly veered towards a KLM airliner before a man in uniform
directed him back towards the others.

A minute or so later the group assembled at the
steps of a Swissair plane, alongside a board indicating its destination: ‘Service
1075: Basle.’ A queue formed as the passengers waited for tickets and passports
to be checked.

When the man with the two briefcases presented his
papers, the police officer responsible for checking looked through them with
extra care before nodding in the direction of a tall man who had appeared
behind the passenger. He was also wearing a trilby, although his had such a
wide brim it wasn’t possible to make out any features of his face.

The tall man stepped forward and impatiently snatched
the passport from the police officer. He glanced at it briefly, as if he knew
what to expect, then turned to the passenger.

‘Would you come with me please, Herr Hesse?’ It was
more of an instruction than an invitation.

‘What’s the problem? Can’t we sort whatever it is
out here?’

‘There may not be a problem sir, but it’d be best if
you came with me. It will be much easier to talk inside.’

‘But what if I miss my flight? It leaves in 20 minutes.’

The taller man said nothing but gestured towards a
black Austin 7 that pulled up alongside them. By now the last passenger had
boarded and the steps were being wheeled away from the aircraft. The short
journey back to the terminal was conducted in silence. They entered the
terminal through a side door and went up to an office on the second floor.

Herr Hesse followed the tall man into the small
office, which was dominated by a large window overlooking the apron and the
runway beyond it. The man took a seat behind the desk in front of the window
and gestured to Hesse to sit on the other side .

‘Sit down? But I’m going to miss my flight! What on
earth is this all about? All my papers are in order. I insist on an
explanation.’

The man pointed at the chair and Hesse reluctantly
sat down, his head shaking as he did so. He removed his trilby and Hesse found
himself staring at one of the most unremarkable faces he’d ever seen. It had
the tanned complexion of someone who spent plenty of time outdoors and dark
eyes with a penetrating stare, but otherwise there was nothing about it that
was memorable. Hesse could have stared at it for hours and still had difficulty
picking it out of a crowd. The man could have been anything from late-thirties
to mid-fifties, and when he spoke it was in grammar-school tones, with perhaps
the very slightest trace of a northern accent.

‘My name is Edgar. Do you smoke?’

Hesse shook his head. Edgar took his time selecting
a cigarette from the silver case he’d removed from his inside pocket and
lighting it. He inspected the lit end of the cigarette, turning it carefully in
his hand, admiring the glow and watching the patterns made by the wisps of
smoke as they hung above the desk and drifted towards the ceiling. He appeared
to be in no hurry. Behind him the Swissair plane was being pulled by a tractor
in the direction of the runway. A silver Imperial Airways plane was descending
sharply from the south, the sun bouncing off its wings.

Edgar sat in silence, looking carefully at the man
in front of him before getting up to look out of the window for a full minute,
timing it on his wristwatch. During that time he avoided thinking about the
other man, keeping any picture or memory out of his mind. When the minute was
up, he turned around and sat down. Without looking up, he wrote in his
notebook:

Complexion: pale, almost unhealthy-looking, pasty.

Eyes: bright-green.

Hair: dark and thick, needs cutting.

Nose at a slight angle (left).

Smiles.

Build: slightly overweight.

Nervous, but sure of himself.

A colleague had taught him this technique. Too many
of our first impressions of someone are casual ones, so much so that they bear
little relation to how someone actually looks, he had told him. As a
consequence we tend to end up describing someone in such general terms that
important features tend to be disregarded.
Look at them for one minute,
forget about them for one minute and then write down half a dozen things about
them.

A man who at first glance was distinctly ordinary-looking,
who in other circumstances Edgar might pass in the street without noticing, now
had characteristics that made him easier to recall.

You’ll do.

‘There are a number of things that puzzle me about
you, Herr Hesse. Are you happy with me calling you Herr Hesse, by the way?’ As
Captain Edgar spoke he was looking at the man’s Swiss passport, as if reading
from it.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Hesse spoke with an impeccable
English accent that had a hint of upper-class drawl.

‘Well,’ said Edgar, tapping the desk with the
passport as he did so. ‘That’s one of a number of things about you that puzzles
me. You’re travelling under this Swiss passport in the name of Henri Hesse. But
do you not also have a British passport in the name of Henry Hunter?’

The man hesitated before nodding. Edgar noticed he
was perspiring.

‘I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if you removed
your hat and coat.’

There was another pause while Hesse got up to hang his
hat and coat on the back of the door.

‘So you accept you’re also known as Henry Hunter?’

The man nodded again.

‘Passport?’

‘You have it there.’

‘If I were in your position Herr Hesse, I think I’d
adopt a more co-operative manner altogether. I mean your British passport: the
one in the name of Henry Hunter.’

‘What about it?’

‘I should like to see it.’

Henry Hunter hesitated.

‘For the avoidance of doubt, Herr Hesse, I should
tell you I have the right to search every item in your possession: the British
passport please?’

Henry lifted the tan briefcase on to his lap, angled
it towards him and opened it just wide enough for one hand to reach in. He
retrieved a thick manila envelope, from which he removed the passport and
handed it to Edgar who spent a few minutes studying it.

‘Henry Richard Hunter: born Surrey, 6th November,
1909; making you 29.’

‘Correct.’

Edgar held up the Swiss passport in his left hand
and the British passport in his right, and moved them up and down, as if trying
to work out which were the heavier.

‘Bit odd, isn’t it? Two passports: different names,
same person?’

‘Possibly, but I very legitimately have two
nationalities. I cannot see…’

‘We can come to that in a moment. The first thing
then that puzzles me about you is you have a perfectly valid British passport
in the name of Henry Hunter, which you used to enter this country on the 1st
August. But, two weeks later, you’re trying to leave the country using an
equally valid passport, but this time it’s a Swiss one in a different name.’

There was a long silence. Through the window both
men could see Swissair flight 1075 edge on to the runway. Edgar walked over to
the window and gazed out at the aircraft before turning back to face Henry,
raising his eyebrows as he did so.

‘Any explanation?’

Henry shrugged. Edgar returned to the desk and reopened
his notebook. He took a fountain pen from his pocket.

‘We can return to the business of flights in a
moment. Let’s look again at your different names. What can you tell me about
that?’

‘Will I be able to get on the next flight? There’s
one to Geneva at three o’clock I think. It would be most inconvenient if I didn’t
get back to Switzerland today.’

‘Let’s see how we get on with the explanation you’re
about to give me, eh? You were telling me how you manage to have two
nationalities and two names.’

Henry shrugged, as though he could not understand
why this would require any explanation.

‘Terribly straightforward, really. I was born here
in Surrey as it happens, hence Henry Hunter and the British passport. My father
died when I was 14 and a year or so later my mother met a Swiss man and married
him fairly soon after. We moved to Switzerland, first to Zürich and then Geneva.
When I was 18, I became a Swiss national, and for the purposes of that I used
my stepfather’s surname. In the process, Henry became Henri. So you see,
there’s really no mystery. I apologise if it turns out to have been in any way
irregular as far as the British Government is concerned: I’d be happy to clear
matters up at the British consulate in Geneva if that helps. Do you think I’ll
be able to make the three o’clock Geneva flight?’

‘There are a few more questions, Mr Hunter. I’m sure
you understand. What is your job?’

Henry shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

‘I don’t have a career as such. My stepfather was
very wealthy and had property all over Switzerland. I travel around to check on
them – keep the tenants happy and make sure they pay their rent on time, that
kind of thing: nothing onerous. I also did some work with a travel agency and a
bit of translation. I’ve managed to keep busy enough.’

Edgar spent a few minutes flicking through his
notebook and the two passports. At one stage, he made some notes, as if copying
something from one of the documents. He then consulted a map he’d removed from
his jacket pocket.

‘You said that your stepfather was very wealthy…’

‘… He died a couple of years ago.’

‘And where did you live?’

‘Near Nyon, by the lake.’

Edgar nodded approvingly.

‘But I see you now live in the centre of Geneva, on
the Rue de Valais?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And how would you describe that area?’

‘Pleasant enough.’

‘Really? From what I remember of Geneva that’s
rather on the wrong side of the tracks. Overlooking the railway line are you?’

‘To an extent, yes.’

‘Well, either one is overlooking the railway line or
one is not?’

‘Yes, we do overlook it.’

‘Sounds rather like a fall from grace. Wish to tell
me about it?’

Edgar selected another cigarette and he had smoked
most of it before Henry began to answer. He appeared to be distressed, his
voice now much quieter.

‘After my stepfather died, it transpired he had
another family, in Luzern. Of course, with hindsight that explains why he spent
so much time in Zürich on business; my mother never accompanied him on those
trips. The family in Luzern, it turned out, were the only legitimate family as
far as Swiss law is concerned and therefore had first claim on his estate. I don’t
fully understand why, but my mother’s lawyer assures us there is nothing
whatsoever we can do about it. The property by the lake near Nyon turned out to
be rented and the various bank accounts my mother had access to were more or
less empty. We quickly went from being very comfortable to very hard up: hence
the flat by the railway line. We’ve only been able to survive as we have
because my mother had some funds of her own, not very much, and her jewellery:
fortunately there was quite a lot of that. She’s had to sell most of it. I do
as much freelance translation as possible at the international organisations,
but work isn’t easy to find at the moment. These are difficult times on the
continent.’

‘As one gathers. So the purpose of your visit back
to England – to get away from it all?’

‘Family business, friends. That type of thing.’

Edgar stood up and removed his jacket, draping it
carefully over the back of his chair before walking to the front of the desk
and sitting on it. His knees were just inches from the other man’s face. When he
spoke it was in a very quiet voice, as if there was someone else in the room he
didn’t want to hear.