Nom de Guerre Page 6

‘Fucking …’ He shook his head, hair falling over his eyes. Tal-Salem watched Stahl gather his fingers into a fist. The long-haired guy stared at him and then down at his trousers. ‘Fucking tosser,’ he muttered and made a loose gesture with his right hand, curling the ends of his fingers and thumb together.

  Stahl was half out of his seat, when the weight of Vaczka’s hand on his arm stopped him. Vaczka leaned over the table and spoke to the long hair, holding out a five-pound note as he did so. ‘Buy yourself another,’ he said, voice lifting over the music. ‘Drink it at the other end of the bar.’

  The long hair snipped the note out of his hand, made the gesture of shooting a pistol at Stahl and staggered away. Vaczka sat back, and then his eyes met those of the bearded man at the bar, who held his gaze for a moment, before turning once more to his drink.

  ‘You should’ve let me take him outside,’ Stahl muttered.

  ‘That would be really clever.’

  Amaya squeezed his hand, as if to remind him she was there, but he ignored her. He looked at the bearded man’s back, then shook his head and picked up his glass. He drank, wiped his mouth and lit a cigarette. Stahl was brooding, half watching the band, half looking for the longhaired guy. Blunski shifted in his seat and looked up at Vaczka.

  ‘So, what do you know?’ Vaczka asked him quietly.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You sure?’ Again, Vaczka was looking at the man at the bar.

  ‘Certain.’ Blunski sucked froth from his beer. ‘We’re clean, safe. Nobody is looking at us.’

  Vaczka looked up at the bar. There was a space where the bearded man had been.

  Tal-Salem sat in the car he had rented and smoked Lebanese gold in a long, loose joint. He liked to roll them loose to allow the tobacco some breath and let the smoke thicken before entering his lungs. The streetlights were dull, and his breathing easy as the hashish gently probed his veins. He could feel the fragment of sweat at his hairline and the slight weight in his eyes, as he watched the walkers approach. One of them, the man, had metal-tipped soles and Tal-Salem could hear him clip-clopping through the slight gap in the window. He slouched lower in his seat and saw them walk up to the front door of the ground-floor flat. The street was quiet, though the traffic still moved on the Goldhawk Road. The blonde girl was still with him. He would have to find out her name.

  Swann could not sleep. He got up and went to the roof of his building. He had a small roof garden, fenced, though he did little to keep the plants in any kind of order. When he had had the children living with him, the nanny used to tend to them, but since they had gone so had she, and the plants were left to themselves. He put on a dressing gown and stood in the freezing November air with the weight of winter cloud stretching over the city, and smoked a cigarette in the darkness. He could hear the vague movement of traffic on Waterloo Bridge, but his street was quiet at this time of night. The flat felt soulless and empty.

  He recalled the day Rachael, his former wife, came and took the children away, reminding him that he could go back to the life he had had before with Pia. Little did she know then that Pia Grava was really Brigitte Hammani and Brigitte Hammani was owned by the Storm Crow. He thought about her a lot; those eighteen months had felt real and he could not just drop them from memory. At night, nights like these in particular, he could sometimes smell her in his bed; a hint of how it used to be, the soft nakedness of a woman; warmth when he woke from his dreams. Ironically, in a way, he had not dreamt for ages. Perhaps he had exorcized some of the demons when he poured his heart out to her that night, last winter, in Scotland. She had listened intently, had touched him, stroked his face, told him everything was all right; but it did not feel that way. Right now, he felt as though he had opened himself up for no reason. Nothing was sorted out, everything remained as before, fractured; like the broken pieces of some interminable jigsaw puzzle that he had been trying to finish for years.

  Back downstairs, he looked at the telephone, the need to speak to somebody was all at once acute. Sweat gathered on his brow and he felt vaguely feverish. He let go a stiff breath and told himself to get a grip. He wondered then at how lonely he felt. He had rarely felt this lonely before, except perhaps when he woke that awful morning, high on the Diamir face of Nanga Parbat, having killed his climbing partner. This feeling was reminiscent of that, part of that, inextricably linked to that. Swann picked up the photo of his two girls, both of them smiling in that exaggerated way children do when faced with the lens of a camera. Rachael was living with her boyfriend now and he was back to every other weekend. He hated the thought of some other man bringing up his children. He glanced at the telephone once more and thought of Cheyenne Logan. She had called him out of the blue. He looked at his watch—too late. He only had her number at FBI headquarters, not her home phone. Switching off the light, he went back downstairs to his bed, and lay there till morning, staring at the patterns woven by streetlights on his ceiling.

  Tal-Salem, skin dyed black, perused the Polish bookshop, listening to the clatter of dishes in the café next door. The assistant asked if she could help him and he smiled, but said no, he was only looking. His nose was a latex prosthesis and his hair was nappy and kinked like an Afro-Caribbean and the assistant gave him barely a second glance. He was pleased. Boese had taught him well and the sensation of power this generated set the adrenalin pumping. He asked the assistant if the poetry, Polish one side and English the other, was any good and she told him it depended on his taste. He nodded, smiled and thanked her, then went through to the green and white cafeteria. Vaczka was there with the one called Jeconec, seated at a table eating potato and flour balls filled with meat. The fat waitress served them, all lipstick and dyed blonde hair.

  No sign of the girlfriend, and then she appeared, hair moist, from the shower no doubt. Her skin was flushed with the red sheen of hot water and sweat. She sat down with Vaczka and ordered a cup of coffee. Tal-Salem watched her, gaze flitting from Vaczka’s face to the waitress and the street outside. He sipped from his own cup and considered. Earlier he had wandered the building, free to look around according to the receptionist. He had witnessed Vaczka’s class through the glass door of the studio and nodded to the workmen in the theatre auditorium. Vaczka and Jeconec carried on their conversation as if the girl was not there. Tal-Salem got up and wandered back to the street. The newsagent’s on the corner of King Street intrigued him; all those people gathered outside the window, looking at adverts placed on cards against the glass. He crossed the road and paused outside the high school. From here he could see the cafeteria; Vaczka and Jeconec still seated at their table. No sign of the girlfriend. And then he saw her, walking down towards King Street.

  She paused outside the newsagent’s, giving a cursory glance at the cards before moving on to the tube station. Tal-Salem followed her, hands in the pockets of his raincoat. On the platform heading east into London, she seemed in a daze and if she noticed the black man who had been in the café, she did not show it. Tal-Salem got in the same carriage, but further up, a seat against the window, and flapped out a copy of The Times. The girl seemed lost in thoughts of her own, a troubled expression crowding the beauty of her face.

  She got out of the train at Victoria and went up to the main line station. Tal-Salem followed at a discreet distance, wary of his exposure now to any third eye looking out for the girl. He followed her outside and into the winter sunshine, a frost on the pavements this morning and a biting chill to the air. Tal-Salem had travelled down Victoria Street before, but that had been in the back of a taxi to collect an economist named Jean-Marie Mace. Not long after, Mace’s children were orphans.

  The girl walked hurriedly now, purpose in her stride, her hair blowing out at the sides of her face, pink and yellow striped bag dangling from one shoulder. Fifty yards behind, Tal-Salem passed the Army & Navy Store and then McDonald’s, and then she crossed the road and went into Pret A Manger. He slowed now; there was plenty of time and he could learn all he wanted from this side
of the street. He drew parallel with Pret A Manger and saw the girl sitting at one of the circular metal tables with another woman. She was neatly dressed in a two-piece jacket and skirt, dark hair, and had an earnest look on her face as she sipped cappuccino. Tal-Salem had seen the signs before. He knew now what had happened.

  Amaya sat with Christine Harris and nibbled a sandwich. Harris stirred her coffee and scanned the street outside. ‘They were talking last night,’ Amaya was saying. ‘The four of them, together at the house. Stahl, Herbisch, Blunski and Jorge.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Something about time, waiting. They seemed very frustrated.’ Amaya flicked hair from her eyes. ‘I’d already gone to bed and I had to listen through the wall. Then I got up and went to the door, but I couldn’t stay too long in case they came out. They were drinking beer, getting up and down to go to the toilet.

  ‘What exactly did they say?’ Harris asked her, eyes on the other lunchers.

  ‘I only heard a few snippets. But they’ve been waiting for something, some word. I’m sure it’s due to be posted in the newsagent’s. Jeconec looks every day.’

  ‘Did they say anything about guns, Amaya?’

  Amaya lifted her shoulders, lips turned down a fraction at the corners. ‘If they did, I didn’t hear it.’

  Harris sat back and studied her. ‘I need more than that.’

  Amaya glared at her suddenly. ‘This isn’t easy, you know. What am I supposed to do? Hey, Jorge, tell me what’s going on, will you? The secret service wants to know.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Harris’s eyes were suddenly cold.

  Amaya looked away, bit her lip. ‘How much longer does this go on?’

  ‘Until we get what we need.’

  ‘You’re blackmailing me.’

  ‘No we’re not, Amaya. We’re helping you, helping you get the qualifications you need, so you can go home and help your family, your country’s economy. This is a gesture of magnanimity.’

  ‘Oh sure, right.’ Amaya slipped off the stool. ‘You know what. Maybe I’ll finish my degree in Moscow. They’ll let me alone there.’

  Tal-Salem sat through a lecture on Polish architecture in the POSK auditorium and looked at his watch. Ten minutes to twelve, ten minutes and the method acting class would be over. He smiled at the elderly Pole sitting next to him, a beaten-looking man with coarse white hair and watery eyes that leaked now and again at the corners. He dabbed at the spillage with lean, blackened fingers and he smelled of life on the street. Tal-Salem wore his Muslim costume, complete with full beard, and keffiyeh tied Yasser Arafat-style. He could hear the drone of the lecturer’s voice as he indicated various wonders of pre-war Polish construction with his laser pointer, but he wasn’t listening. He sat with his hands in his lap and his eyes half-closed, until his watch read a minute to twelve. Then he rose, nodded to the dishevelled figure beside him and slipped out of the room. Vaczka was teaching in one of the basement studios and Tal-Salem hovered about the stairwell, looking at the original oils that lined the walls, until the hubbub of conversation crescendoed as the would-be actors and actresses crowded up the stairs. As soon as the door opened, he moved up one more flight, and from there witnessed who passed and who did not. He was only looking for one face, the girl he had seen in Victoria. She came up second to last, talking with another girl whom Tal-Salem did not recognize. He could still hear voices as he walked down the final flight to the black-walled basement studio. The door was open and he saw Vaczka and the one called Jeconec deep in conversation. Vaczka looked up and frowned. ‘Can I help you?’

  Tal-Salem walked inside and closed the door. For a moment he did not say anything. Jeconec hovered a little awkwardly.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Vaczka said. ‘If you want to enrol, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till next term.’

  Tal-Salem looked from him to Jeconec. Jeconec looked away. ‘I would like to speak with you in private,’ he said.

  Vaczka paled, then he motioned to Jeconec, who moved past Tal-Salem and closed the door.

  When he was gone they stood in silence, Tal-Salem, the Arab, looking closely at Vaczka’s face.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Vaczka asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then …’

  Tal-Salem pulled the blackout down the window in the door and stepped forward. Vaczka stepped back, eyes suddenly tight in his face. Tal-Salem looked coldly at him.

  ‘You’ve been careless,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Every day Jeconec looks in the window on King Street. You might as well have broadcast on the television.’ His voice was chill and he was looking for a reaction, trying to decipher just what exactly was what.

  Vaczka’s face blanched. ‘We’ve been waiting.’

  ‘Yes, but there is waiting and there is waiting. Have you been contacted at all?’

  ‘No. Nothing since before May.’

  ‘Not a word?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’ Vaczka lifted a hand. ‘Believe me, I’d know.’

  Tal-Salem considered for a moment, his tongue tasting the inside of his teeth. ‘You have a leak in your organization,’ he said.

  Vaczka’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because, unlike you, I remain vigilant.’ He could see the sweat break out on Vaczka’s brow.

  ‘Is that why there’s been no contact?’ Vaczka said. ‘Were you aware of something, then?’ He was trying to sound apologetic.

  ‘The leak is close to you,’ Tal-Salem told him. ‘Yesterday I followed Amaya Kukiel, your girlfriend. I followed her from here to Victoria, where she met somebody from the security services. Your hosts seem to know about you.’

  ‘Amaya?’ Vaczka felt the blood thud in his temple. ‘Who did she meet?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who. It will be MI5 or Special Branch. British security services.’

  Vaczka could feel the sweat gather under his arms. He was cold and hot at the same time. He knew when he had accepted this job what the price of failing was. When he had passed the information of the approach back, he had been told by Abu Nidal himself: If you mess up, don’t look to me when they come for you. Tal-Salem could smell his fear. It disgusted him; he was filled with the desire to kill the Polish fool just for being so stupid. But there was a bigger picture here and things he had to resolve. Vaczka too was thinking hard and quickly. ‘What do we do now? How can we proceed if they’re watching?’

  Tal-Salem snapped a glance at him and then looked at the floor. ‘You cannot. You’ll have to subcontract,’ he said. ‘The financial loss will be yours.’

  ‘Of course.’ Vaczka was breathing again.

  ‘Think about what you must do. I will contact you again.’ He turned then and walked out of the room. On the stairs he almost bumped into Amaya coming down them. He bowed and apologized and felt her eyes on his back as he climbed the rest of the stairs.

  Vaczka took Amaya back to his flat. She was not working in the cafeteria today, having taken a few days off so she could concentrate on her studies, and she was talkative and lively. He wanted to strangle her, strip her naked first, fuck her really hard and, just as she was about to climax, put his hands about that white throat and shake the life out of her. His mood showed, but not that much. She sensed the quietness in him and asked what the matter was. He told her: nothing, everything was fine, he was just conscious of the leap of faith the class needed to take if they were to progress now, and he was not sure if they could make it. She accepted his comment and traced lines on his chest with long fingers, letting her hand slip down to his groin. He stirred when he did not want to. He knew he could not take her to bed, because if he did, he would definitely kill her. So he feigned tiredness, suggesting that she go home and take the time to study.

  After she had gone, he watched the road from behind the curtains, but saw no one. Then he showered and changed and went out. Surreptitiously, he scanned the
parked cars for people who shouldn’t be there, but again saw no one and knew he had to quash this sudden paranoia. Stopping at the phone box on Goldhawk Road, he fished in his pocket for change, then considered the box, its proximity to his flat and moved on to the next one. He watched cars, looked at the faces of the people paying in the petrol station, the shop windows, those people sitting on the common, and shook away the thoughts. Fool, he told himself. Get a grip. At the next box, he phoned Stahl on the cloned mobile he used. This, at least, was secure.

  They had an appointed meeting place for non-social gatherings, the cinema complex in Leicester Square. It did not matter what was playing. Vaczka arrived first and paid his money, then sat in the seats farthest from the entrance of Screen 2. Ten minutes after him, Stahl came in, looked round the half-empty auditorium and sat next to him. He sucked Coca-Cola through a straw. Vacska told him what had happened. ‘We need to subcontract,’ he said. ‘Any idea who?’

  Stahl sucked noisily, eyes on the screen—a woman’s features filled it in close-up, huge green eyes and the softest hairs on her cheeks. The image cut to a street where two men sat at traffic lights on motorcycles. He passed the carton of Coke to Vaczka. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have.’

  6

  THE BLACK MAN FLIPPED the butt of his cigarette out of the truck window and rolled it up again, the sudden blast of chill November air cutting across his shoulders. He slowed out of Anderson and took 81, which he knew would rejoin Highway 29 if he took the right fork for Hartwell. She would be waiting on the bridge that crossed the Savannah River. The old Chevy rattled and shook as he ground the pedals, and thick, oily smoke spluttered from the muffler as he changed down. The towing gear clattered behind him, the swing hook coming loose yet again from its housing. He looked behind—no traffic, no state trooper or sheriff’s deputy, he’d leave it till he got to the river.

  He did not see her car, parked at the back of the old iron bridge, until he pulled off the new bridge and swung down towards the riverbank. The water was deep here, perhaps twenty feet, which would suit his purpose later. The slope down from the twist in the road was gentle. Slender silver-trunked trees, bereft of their leaves, lined the road on either side and the world was quiet save the choked cough of the diesel. She was driving a blue Toyota with dark-tinted windows, and stood at the end of the iron bridge, with a camera in her hand like any other Yankee tourist. Blue-black hair cut short to the neck, she wore tight-fitting jeans and a heavy checked overshirt. The black man gunned the dying truck once more and then pulled off on to the unmade road that used to be the highway. He sat a moment in the cab and waited. She stood at the end of the bridge with her camera, looking out over the still water, the bank sloping sharply with willow trees all but down to the paint-black surface.