A Spy's Life (42 page)

‘The answer is, no, I can’t leave this alone. You above all people know how this man has possessed our lives – yours, mine, Tomas’s and countless others. He has infected us, Eva, he has used us, used you – he’s a bloody aberration. He must be stopped. That’s why I need to find out everything I can about him to nail him once and for all. It’s not just Tomas I’m doing this for. It’s for Griswald, for the people on the two planes. Those crimes in Bosnia extend right to the present.’ He paused. ‘You know, when I mentioned the plane crash this morning, you didn’t bat an eyelid. You didn’t ask about it. Perhaps you’re no longer affected by these things. Just think of what he did, this man you’ve lived off for a quarter of a century. Two planes – twenty people wiped out like that. Good, innocent people, who were doing their unremarkable best in a bewildering world. People who worked for a living. They earned their keep, Eva. They didn’t lie on their backs being fucked to get their money. They had families and friends and loved ones. Then nothing. And you know what? He still didn’t destroy the evidence which Tomas gave to my friend. You see, I didn’t tell you the final irony in all this. I was on that plane. I was with the investigator who was about to reveal that Viktor Lipnik was Kochalyin. I was the sole survivor. In fact, that was how Tomas found me. He saw my picture in the papers.’

‘A photograph again,’ she said.

‘Yes, a photograph again,’ he said, without interest. Some part of him didn’t care any longer.

‘How did you get out?’

‘Luck and a rear-facing seat.’

It was past midnight. He had said all he could. He paid the bill and they went back to their couchette. He waited in the corridor while Eva got ready for bed then entered to find that she had taken the top bunk and turned off her reading light. They said nothing. He lay down in his clothes and listened to the carriage wheels keeping time on the track. Twenty minutes later he gave up trying to sleep and went back to the restaurant car where an understanding waiter gave him a tumbler of whisky.

He sat nursing the drink for several hours as the black void of Middle Europe slid by.

Tomas was having difficulty with the name. Was it Lyhorn or Lithethorn? Or was there a hard sound in the middle of the name? He tried out variations in his head. He wanted to test the sound in his mouth, to bring his tongue down from behind the upper teeth to form the hard, explosive ‘t’. That was the thing about language, he realised. So much of it relied on the little womb of the mouth where the words were made and born. Now he no longer had the use of his mouth in this way he found difficulty in remembering the new words that came to him.

When the doctor addressed the man for the fourth time, Tomas decided it was Lighthorn with a hard ‘t’ sound in the middle – Commander Lighthorn, evidently a policeman who had come to ask him questions. They had learned he was able to respond with his eyelid. But they didn’t know about the equipment Harriet had obtained from another hospital. He’d been working with it all day, but Nurse Roberts had removed it a few minutes before their arrival. She said that the software was going to be checked and then leaned over him and gave him a conspiratorial wink.

Besides the doctor, three men were in the room now. There was the crisply dressed, unsmiling Lighthorn, a man called Navratt – no difficulty with that name – and a third character who was carrying a case that Tomas glimpsed as they came in. The atmosphere was tense. Smith-Canon wasn’t bothering to hide his hostility and Lighthorn’s companions plainly had their doubts about being there. He could see that Navratt was appalled by the sight of him and the man with the case was doing everything he could not to look down. However, Lighthorn’s eyes fastened on him with a look of unfeeling appraisal. He moved to the side of the bed.

‘So, the doctors tell me you are out of any immediate danger and that you have been feeling better. I’ve been wanting to speak to you since the shooting because I believe you can help us, Lars.’ He paused. ‘The first thing I have to tell you is that I know that you have another name. I’m quite sure that you are not Lars Edberg, and I’ve begun to doubt whether you are even Swedish.’

He peered at Tomas’s face for a reaction.

‘I have read that with your condition it is sometimes possible for the patient to use his or her eyelid to communicate. Dr Smith-Canon concedes you may be able to do this. You are lucky, he says, to be able to blink. So perhaps you could blink once to show me that you have understood what I’ve been saying?’

Was this man stupid? thought Tomas. He had few things left, but he’d still got the right to silence.

‘Just blink once,’ said Lighthorn. ‘I know you can do it – a bright lad like you.’

‘Look, this isn’t on,’ said Smith-Canon fiercely. ‘I told you that it might be possible, not that he definitely possessed the ability. Please treat my patient with respect. There will be none of your bullying here.’

‘I’m not bullying the patient, sir. I’m asking for cooperation in a very serious inquiry. Two of our police officers were shot and this man’s girlfriend was brutally murdered because of him.’ He returned to look at Tomas. ‘That’s true, isn’t it? She was murdered because of you. I expect you have a fair idea who killed her, which means that you know who was responsible for the events on Christmas Eve. Look, Lars, I know you were up to your neck in something. We took fingerprints from the flat and the same set of prints have subsequently been found on a piece of equipment – two pieces of equipment, to be precise.’

Two, thought Tomas. They’d found both computers. He wondered how much had got out before they’d shut them down.

‘I’m seeing something in your eye which says you know exactly what I’m talking about. Of course, you have much more idea about what was on those two machines than I do. Highly classified material, as I understand it. I believe those machines were set in operation by you on or before the evening you were shot. We’re here to tie those machines to you, Lars, and to work out how they fit into this story, which brings me to the man you were with. The mysterious Mr Harland.’ He stopped and put his face closer to Tomas’s. ‘Robert Harland has gone missing. He just vanished into thin air on New Year’s Day and we haven’t heard from him since. I believe he told you where he was going. It’s a great pity that you can’t tell me because I very much want to see Mr Harland again.’

Tomas stared at the wall that he had been looking at since he came round and wondered if Harland had traced his mother.

‘I don’t understand where Mr Harland fits into all this,’ continued Lighthorn. ‘I know that you went specifically to see him in New York because you cut out his picture from the newspaper coverage of the crash at La Guardia airport. But why? What caused you to drop everything that day and fly to America? Perhaps it had something to do with the information on those computers.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Smith-Canon interrupted. ‘Have you any idea how taxing this is for a person in his condition?’

‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ asked Lighthorn quietly. ‘I believe he knows exactly what I’m saying and can answer my questions.’

‘But you’re not asking questions,’ protested the doctor. ‘You’re telling him things which you know will distress him. I’m sorry, I can’t allow it.’

‘Doctor, I understand your concern for this patient, but has it occurred to you that he cannot decide whether he wants to help us until he has the full facts, which is what I’m trying to give him now?’

‘There’s no knowing what he understands.’

Tomas listened as from the room next door. It was odd how people talked in front of him nowadays.

‘But, Doctor, in your office just now you said that it was likely that Mr Edberg had no cognitive impairment. That was the phrase you used. I didn’t dream it up. So he can understand everything I say to him. You can’t go back on that.’

‘Yes, and a victim of a heart attack has no cognitive impairment,’ said Smith-Canon, ‘but you wouldn’t treat him in this way. This man had a bullet removed from his brain less than two weeks ago. And I don’t have to explain to you that there are few more distressing conditions than the one he is in now.’

This silenced Lighthorn for a few seconds. ‘You won’t object if we take his fingerprints?’

The doctor sighed. Tomas assumed that he had nodded his consent. It was outrageous but there was absolutely nothing he could do, and before he knew what was happening the man with the case had grasped his right hand and was rolling each finger in turn along an ink-pad and then planting it on a strip of paper. The operation took some time. Tomas decided to remove himself and think about the things he had learned that day on Harriet’s equipment.

It was quite a simple idea. A screen was placed in front of his head, while electrodes were attached to his forehead and behind his ears. Before Harriet and the technician even explained, he understood that the machine would measure the electrical activity in his brain. By simply thinking he could move a light point up the screen to hit a group of letters. At first it had been rather difficult to grasp the idea that he could actually move something in the outside world, but gradually he got used to charging his mind with thought and then emptying it when he wanted the light ball to drift to the bottom of the screen. He repeated the procedure, gradually eliminating all but the letter that he wanted. The program was designed to second-guess the operator with a version of a spell check. The letter T appearing at a certain stage in a word might mean that an H followed. There was some difficulty because the program was written for English speakers and his English spelling was not good. Also he had to get used to retaining in his mind the word that he wanted to spell out, at the same time as alternately filling and emptying his brain. Still, the first sessions had been successful and the technician Harriet had brought with her said he was the quickest beginner he had yet seen. Harriet clapped when he wrote his first message, ‘hi thnk u email?’

There was a long way to go, but he was already thinking of short cuts. If only he could have a brief conversation with the technician, he’d be able to suggest ways of improving the software.

He returned to what was going on around him. The police officer had taken his fingerprints and was now apologetically wiping the ink from his hands with cotton wool and cleaning spirit. Lighthorn appeared at the other side of his bed and scrutinised him.

‘Of course!’ he said. ‘It’s been staring me in the face all along. I couldn’t think what it was. Now I see the resemblance plain as day. You’re Harland’s son, aren’t you?’

The doctor coughed.

24

HISTORY LESSONS

They boarded the ferry from Calais to Dover late on Sunday night. A problem with the weather in the English Channel meant they did not set out until five the next morning by which time the gale had swept through leaving a nasty swell. Harland had called Macy Harp from France the night before to ask if he knew a safe place for them to stay in London. He said he would arrange for them to be picked up at Dover and taken to a place Harland knew well, but which no one else would think of.

Harland slept a little on the ferry then went out on the upper deck for some fresh air. Eva joined him on the soaking decks with two cups of coffee. They had said little to each other since the previous evening but now she seemed to want to talk.

‘It’s nearly twenty-eight years since I was in Britain,’ she said. ‘Do you like it here?’

‘It’s good to come home to. But I prefer to live abroad.’

‘Was your wife English? You haven’t mentioned her. You
were
married, weren’t you?’ He noticed her face and hair were beaded with droplets of spray.

‘For nearly ten years. We divorced in 1991, although she had moved out before that. She was American – a banker. Louise Brinkley was her name. We met when I did a few months in one of the merchant banks after university and later hooked up and got married.’

She looked at him with curiosity. ‘And no children. Why?’

‘I was abroad a lot. Louise had a good job and she didn’t want to be left at home with no money and looking after children. We said we would leave it until later.’

‘Did you tell her what happened to you in Prague?’

He didn’t answer. He remembered now that Walter Vigo had given her a bare outline. Louise liked Vigo and thought of him as the respectable side of espionage. She wanted the Vigos’ kind of life and couldn’t understand why Harland hadn’t got it for her. By the time he returned to England, Louise had gone. She never came to see him in hospital in Vienna, but he suspected that this was because Vigo had been vague about the extent of his injuries.

‘So you kept it to yourself.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘What was she like?’

‘Restless, outspoken, mobile, ambitious, attractive.’ Harland thought of her constant anxiety. She always looked as if she thought she was missing something. ‘She lives on the West Coast somewhere now. We haven’t seen each other for ten years.’

‘And did she call you after the crash?’

‘She wouldn’t have known where to find me.’

‘Tomas did.’

‘Yes, he was very determined.’ He thought for a moment. Somehow they were on neutral territory – they could talk. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘You saw him.’

‘Only twice.’

She looked out to sea.

‘He’s a solitary person, like you. For a period his teachers at school were worried that he was withdrawn because he took no part in group activities. In a communist country this kind of individualism was considered a dangerous sign. But he did well at his lessons and he wasn’t badly behaved. Later I decided that it was better for him to go to a country school and let him find his level without being watched too much.’

‘What did he study? What were his strengths?’

‘Math and languages. But when he was a small boy he was fascinated with stories and history. He liked the Middle Ages – anything to do with knights and wars and the crusades.’

‘You mean they dared to teach the proto-imperialist campaigns of the crusaders in a communist school?’

‘He read about it,’ she said impatiently. ‘At thirteen he started showing incredible abilities, particularly in mathematics. He won all the school prizes and then a place at university. They said he possessed great intelligence – one of the best minds of his generation. The problem was that he could do everything so well. He left university early and went into music. He made friends for the first time and because he’d had so little practice he chose the wrong people. That is when the drug problem started. There was a girl – his first girlfriend. She introduced him to drugs. He was picked up by the police in a flat in Prague. Oleg got him released and paid for the rehabilitation.’