Debut for a Spy (2 page)

“
What's he want?” I grinned. “An autograph, or a ticket to my new show?”

House looked suddenly serious.

“I really don't know, David, but do me a favor. Don't commit yourself to anything without thinking it over very carefully.”

“
What on earth are you talking about, House? I'm a civilian musician chasing a career in London. I wasn't even in the British Army. What could he want from me?”

“
Well,” he paused, “it's just that I've heard rumors about some of his activities. I know I agreed to introduce you, and I really had no choice in the matter, but I couldn't throw you to the lions without a friendly word of warning.”

I sipped my drink, reflecting on what House had told me, then tried a shot in the dark.

“Your colonel wouldn't be a cloak-and-dagger type, would he, House? You know, MI5 or MI6 and all that stuff?”

House just looked at me.

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” I laughed, “do you know how funny this is? British stiff-upper-lip nonsense! You're all nuts!”

“
David…” he began.

“
No, House, listen to me. I'll meet your phantom colonel for a few minutes, but what the hell do I know to interest him?”

“
Okay,” he said, downing his sherry. “I hope you're not annoyed that I said I'd introduce you.”

I was amused at his discomfiture.

“Not a bit, House,” I replied. “In fact, it'll be a chuckle to see what he wants and then disappoint him, because that's what's going to happen. Where do we meet him?”

*

Paris
,
France
–
the
same
day

Still savoring his assignment of the night before, the broad man let himself in to the safe house, a nondescript apartment in a rundown building off
Boulevard
de
Clichy
in
Montmartre
.

It was raining in Paris. He wiped the precipitation from his glasses as he climbed the stairs.

As usual it had been a circuitous route using buses and the metro. When he was certain there was no tail he came in.

The Russian was already there. They spoke in that language.

“Ah, Dragon. I read in
Le
Monde
that you were successful.”

“
Of course. Isn't that why you use me?”

“
To be sure, to be sure,” the Russian purred. “Have a vodka with me while you relate the details.”

Over several vodkas the tale was told, the Russian nodding and clucking approval during the telling.

“Splendid, splendid,” he chortled. “Now for the next step.”

“
You wish me to remove this Cantero?”

“
He will be only a cut-out. What happens to him is no concern of ours. But we do want the British agent who meets Cantero, and we want him alive. Can you accommodate us? I know it's a little tame for you.”

The Russian laughed at his own joke. His companion did not.

“Of course. Cantero will tell me what I need to know. That will be sport enough for this job.”

The eyes glinted behind the thick lenses. The coldest eyes I have ever seen, thought the Russian. He hated dealing with this man, in fact, he hated this man, but he did his work thoroughly, and since he was not a Soviet citizen he was
persona
non
grata
, which suited them well if things were to go wrong.

“
Another assignment must have priority. We close in on an American who causes much trouble with the Middle East oil countries. He eludes us because of the way he moves around, but this afternoon we set a little trap for him in London, and then we pounce. There will be a large bonus for this one, my friend.”

He paused for reaction. There was none. Miffed, he continued.

“For the next few days you must remain by your telephone. This means 24 hours a day. When we find out what we need in England it may be necessary to move with lightning speed. We can't take the chance of missing you – even minutes may count. I apologize for this inconvenience.”

“
No matter. It is permissible to sleep?”

“
Will the telephone awaken you?”

“
A whisper would awaken me.”

“
Then sleep, by all means. But be dressed and ready to move.”

The Russian continued, ignoring the look of disdain.

“We have also commenced a major operation in England concerning an aircraft presently under research and development. We may need you there next week. You will be available?”

The eyes stared through the lenses, unblinking.

“That is the arrangement with my government, and you pay me well for each commission. Of course I will be available.” He paused briefly. “Is the blonde bitch still there?”

The Russian stiffened.

“There will be no repetition of that incident. It could have been your undoing, and mine as well. You were lucky to walk away with a reprimand. Remember that, my friend. Now I must go. Stay, and finish the vodka.”

The Russian handed over an envelope which was received contemptuously and stuffed into a pocket. Not another word was spoken as the Russian walked to the door to let himself out. Glancing back at the wide shoulders and back of the mercenary, he wondered for a moment when the time would come that this one would have to be taken out.

Pity the man who draws that assignment, he reflected.

Adjusting the flower in his buttonhole, he stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him.

Inside, the mercenary downed another shot of vodka.

One of these days, he thought, I'll have to remove him.

Another slug of vodka.

What a world, he pondered.

There are no good people left.

*

London
,
England
,
Horse
Guards
Parade
–
the
same
day

On Whitehall we entered a gateway guarded by mounted troopers of the Royal Horse Guards, crossing a courtyard to a door beneath an arch. A sergeant of the Scots Guards saluted House and asked politely who we wanted to see.

“
Colonel Hammond,” said House, producing his identity, “and tell him I've brought a guest.”

After duly signing in and placing visitors' tags on our coats, we were ushered up a narrow stairway to the second floor by a duty corporal. He knocked on a door partway down the corridor, opening it when a voice called
“Come!”

House entered first, standing briefly to attention as he did
– the civilian clothes salute. I didn't feel the necessity of saluting – I was no longer in the army – and yet the tug of habit and training was hard to ignore.

The colonel rose as we entered, partially closing the door of a small safe as he did so. He was tall, slender, and wore a neatly trimmed moustache. He was immaculately dressed in a navy blue pin-stripe suit, gold watch chain across his vest, a white starched collar attached to a blue and white striped shirt, and, of course, the regimental tie.

“Ah, Major Paynter,” he said, “it was good of you to come.”

He swung his eyes to me. He had a steady, direct gaze which didn't waver – not even a blink. The look was so intense it was hard to return. I sensed a very resolute man.

House performed the civilities.

“
Sir, may I introduce David Baird? Late of the Canadian Army, and presently working in London as a musician and singer. David, this is Colonel Hammond.”

“
A pleasure, Captain Baird,” said the colonel, taking my hand. “I'm pleased you could spend a few minutes with me.”

“
Not 'captain' any longer, sir,” I replied. “I've been out of the army over a year now, and I never use my former rank as a title. It would be a terrible affectation in show business.”

I smiled as I said this, hoping for a glimmer of understanding from this career officer. I was disappointed.

“A military officer is a little like a priest, Captain Baird. Once you've taken the vow you are considered to be in for life, whatever your status. I happen to know you are on the Supplementary List of Officers in the Canadian Army, and so you are technically still an officer holding Her Majesty's commission, and subject to recall to active duty during a national emergency.”

The frost melted a bit, a ghost of a smile appearing as he continued.

“Now, I didn't ask to meet you to discuss protocol. Will you sit down, and may I offer you some tea?”

As though on cue House spoke up.

“Sir, if you don't mind, I'll be off. I have some paper work to tidy up in my office.”

This I knew to be a flagrant lie. House detested paper work and had his band clerk handle everything for him except his signature, and I think he was trying to remedy that oversight.

“Very well, major,” said the colonel, “and thank you for bringing Captain Baird along.”

House had departed, tea had appeared in moments brought in by an orderly, and we settled down in our chairs. More sipping and chatting – about the weather, London traffic, and the musical
Bye
Bye
Birdie
, one of the few musicals which the colonel had seen.

“
Not a patch on
My
Fair
Lady
, of course,” he commented, “but then, how can one compete with Shaw?”

I murmured some words of agreement, wishing he would get on with it. And then he did.

“Did Major Paynter comment at all on my line of work?” he queried.

“
Only that he wasn't sure what it was you did, sir.”

“
Quite. Well, suffice it to say that I deal in intelligence matters, and it's along these lines I wished to speak with you.”

“
Perhaps I could save you some time, sir,” I interjected. “Are you aware that I was a Director of Music in the army, and that I've never done any intelligence work?”

He studied me for a moment.

“Captain Baird, let me relate what I know about you.”

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“You're 31 years old. You attended McGill and Mount Allison Universities, and hold graduate diplomas from three British colleges of music. You were an athlete in swimming and track, running the hundred-yard-dash in 10 seconds flat.

“
Before becoming a Director of Music you held a regular commission in the Royal Canadian Army Service Corps. You are a small arms expert, holding the bronze, silver and gold medallions of the Dominion of Canada Rifle Association. For two years you held the Canadian Forces championship trophy for small arms, using a whole variety of weapons at various distances. Your aggregate score has never been equaled.

“
You qualified in all types of service vehicles, both wheeled and tracked. You excelled in hand-to-hand combat, and completed a special flying course, qualifying as a pilot.”

Hammond sat back in his chair with a rather pleased look on his face.
“Shall I continue?”

I contemplated my reply, drawing in a large breath.

“Sir,” I began, “your facts are basically correct, but you must look at them in context. I haven't fired a weapon in over ten years – that was all done when I was an officer cadet. The same is true for driving anything but my own car.” I hesitated. “During a practice bout of hand-to-hand combat there was a tragic accident. I flipped my partner too hard. His neck was broken. He died.”

The dreadful memory resurfaced.

“I never continued with it. As far as flying is concerned, I took a special
ad
hoc
course which the authorities turned a blind eye to. I have barely a hundred hours both dual and solo in Harvards, and I've never taken a civilian license. It was even placed on my personnel file that I should never fly operationally – I don't have enough training or experience. With all these skills you've mentioned I'm stale and out of date.”

I finished speaking, and for a few moments we regarded each in silence.

SMASH!

The window shattered, spraying us with shards of glass. I leapt to my feet as the cause landed with a heavy clump on the floor, inches from my right foot.

“Grenade!” I yelled.

I knew we were both dead.

CHAPTER TWO

London
,
England
,
an
office
in
Whitehall
–
a
second
later

Self-preservation caused me to react.

Grabbing the grenade I yelled to Hammond.

“
The
safe
!”

He pulled the handle as I threw the grenade, skimming it off the desk and barely making it through the door. Hammond slammed it shut and we both dived flat onto the floor. I stuffed fingers into my ears and opened my mouth.

The explosion lifted the safe off the floor, blowing the door clear across the room. But it had contained the blast and the shrapnel, saving our lives. Thank God it had been a delayed fuse.

Despite the ringing in my ears I heard shouts from outside and shots being fired – two singles, then a burst from a submachine gun. More shouts.

“Look alive! There's another!”

A longer burst from the SMG. Silence.

The door flew open and a squad of regulars hurtled to the window, weapons ready. The sergeant knelt by Colonel Hammond.

“
You all right, sir?”

“
Yes, I think so. A bit cut, but nothing serious. That was close. Captain Baird, how are you?”

“
A couple of nicks and my ears are ringing, but that seems to be all. What happened? Who threw it?”

“
I expect we'll have some answers shortly. Is the situation in hand, sergeant?”

The NCO looked toward the window.

“Wot's 'appening, Corporal Miles?”

“
There were two of 'em, sergeant, from what I can see I think they've got 'em both.”

“
Then let's get out of here and down to the first-aid detachment,” said Hammond.

*

Twenty minutes later I was holding another cup of tea, but this time laced with brandy.

“
For medicinal purposes only,” winked the medical orderly when he handed it to me.

Alone in a small sitting room, I sipped with a trembling hand, spilling much of it into the saucer. The grenade incident had left me shaken, and the brandy wasn't working. Hammond and I had been cleaned off and patched up before he left me to find out what had occurred. He wasn't gone long. Subdued when he returned, he sat down wearily.

“We've been having some roof repairs done. It's a contract with a carefully vetted firm. The two roofers who have been here all week didn't arrive today, and two other characters showed up instead. They were checked out, and the contractor confirmed he'd taken them on as temporary labor. He didn't know they were IRA.”

I considered this.

“Were they after you, colonel?”

“
I expect so. I've been responsible for a good number of them being caught and sent up, and they would like to pay me back, I'm sure. I must tell you that that was the closest I've ever come. Quick thinking on your part, Captain Baird.”

“
I didn't think at all, sir, I just reacted. We were both lucky the safe was there. I don't understand why the damned thing didn't go off sooner. Most grenades in my experience have a four second pyrotechnic train. That one had to be longer, or we wouldn't be here talking about it.”

“
Fortune smiled, Captain Baird. The grenade was an old one of ours, a type 36. Several weeks ago a box of these disappeared in an ammunition depot break-in. But the fuses they took were 7-second delay, normally used when the grenade is rifle-projected. It's not like the IRA to make mistakes like that.”

“
What happened to the roofers, sir?”

“
Both dead, unfortunately. The security detail kept a sharp eye on them. They only had time for one grenade. They were carrying four more in their tool kits, and two hand guns.”

A long period of silence ensued before Hammond spoke again.

“This rather precipitates what I wanted to talk with you about. I said these two chaps were IRA. Much of the funding and the covert direction of the IRA's activities in Britain comes from the Soviets. Are you aware of the KGB?”

“
Yes, sir. Isn't it the Soviet counterpart of the CIA and your own MI6?”

“
Roughly speaking, yes, but much larger, and completely ruthless and unscrupulous.”

I figured they were all like that, but thought better of saying it.

“I don't see how any of this concerns me, sir.”

He regarded me blankly.

“We need your help because of someone you've met.”

My mind raced to come up with a name that might activate a synapse and make some sense of this. It failed.

“I can't think of anyone you'd be interested in.”

He looked at me searchingly.

“Does the name 'Vladimir Nalishkin' mean anything to you?”

The synapse fired.

“Yes,” I answered, “I've met him. I was singing at the Latin Quarter a few weeks ago and he came to see me at the end of my show. In fact, I had a drink with him and his guests, although I don't remember their names. Nalishkin told me that he was the cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy, and wondered if I would accept an invitation to sing at some embassy 'do' they're planning. Is this significant?”

There was a long hesitation before Hammond continued.

“Captain Baird, I'm going to tell you something which perhaps I should not. But I'm addressing you as a commissioned officer 'On Her Majesty's Service', as the phrase reads, not as a civilian. I trust you will respect what I am about to say as though you were still a regular officer. We were aware of your meeting with Nalishkin because we try to keep track of him twenty-four hours a day. Nalishkin, you see, is the cultural attaché in name only. In reality, he is the head of the KGB section at the Soviet Embassy in London, the
rezident
. He is a very deceptive man, as devious as he is dangerous.”

I sat there in amazement as Hammond continued.

“When your name came up I knew we had a chance to get closer to Nalishkin than ever before, if you were willing to co-operate. When we ran a check on you and I discovered your background, I was even more convinced.” He stared at me intently. “Are you willing to help us?”

I hesitated, then spoke slowly.

“What would I have to do?”

“
Just keep your ears and eyes open. If anything occurs which seems even remotely of interest, let us know. We'll arrange a private contact method to keep in touch.”

“
And that's all? No tricks, no spy assignments? You won't be asking me to steal documents from Nalishkin's desk or smuggle microfilm into Moscow?”

I said this lightly, but I meant it. Hammond actually laughed, if you can call a couple of throaty grunts a laugh.

“My dear boy, you've been reading too much spy fiction. We're not like the novels at all, you know.”

I sat quietly for a moment.

“How do you know I'll have any contact with him worth reporting?”

“
We don't, of course. But Nalishkin is well-educated and a very sophisticated man. For all his KGB work, he keeps up an excellent front as the cultural attaché, actually arranging several tours involving the Bolshoi and the Moscow Philharmonic. We know he is a great Frank Sinatra fan, and with your similarity in style and material, it would be true to his character to see a lot of you – perhaps even suggest a trip to Russia. Only time will tell, of course, but if it happens I'd like to be a step ahead and not one behind. He's done it before, you see, but not with anyone we could have counted on to do us any good. With your background, you're a godsend.”

“
Hardly, colonel. It's all too far behind me.”

“
The grenade rather disproved that.” He paused. “Simply stated, Captain Baird, we need your help.”

I sat still, contemplating in confusion all the information I had been told, and struggling with mixed emotions. On the one hand I felt the call to duty again – the desire to rush to the colours on seeing the poster of Lord Kitchener beckoning 'We Need You!' I disliked communist regimes, with their secret police and their suppression of human rights and dignity.

On the other hand, I was trying to build a career far removed from this sort of thing. I had even left army music to get away from military regimentation. Did I want this complication in my life? And the greatest fear – would I be drawn deeper into something I'd regret?

Sensing my doubts, Hammond tried to allay them.

“I can understand that this incident has made you extremely wary of accepting my offer, Captain Baird, but let me assure you that nothing like this could happen to you. No one will know about you, not even on our side.”

“
Colonel, I'd like to think about this before I give you an answer. May I let you know in a couple of days?”

“
Of course. I'll give you a number to call.”

He wrote one on a piece of paper, handing it to me.

“No matter who answers or how they answer, you must say 'sorry, wrong number – I'll dial again,' but stay on the line. The next person who answers will ask you to state your name, and then you'll be connected to me. Have you got that?”

I said I had, and stood to leave. Hammond stood, too, and offered his hand.

“One more thing, Captain Baird. Nothing about this afternoon should be mentioned to anyone, not even to Major Paynter.” He paused. “Opportunities like this don't come that often, you know.”

“
I'll call you, sir,” I said, turning to make my exit.

I walked to the door, subconsciously swinging back to face Hammond, and came briefly to attention.

He smiled, speaking softly.

“
Old habits die hard, don't they, David?”

*

East
side
of
Whitehall
,
London
–
a
few
minutes
later

She liked watching from here. Keeping her eye on the door was boring, but the horses standing guard with the mounted troopers in their livery were a helpful distraction. That was only on fine days, of course. With today's rain both horses and troopers wore rain capes and were stuck back in the sentry boxes.

She caught sight of him as he started across the courtyard. Definitely not British. She'd seen him go in with the other one – the guards officer – but she'd never seen this one before. Just under six feet, she guessed. His hair was dark brown, short, with a bit of a wave in it. Nice face, but no telly star. When he smiled, though, his eyes crinkled and his face came alive. He had an easy walk, looked fit and solid, but very trim. Her libido, never far from the surface, gave her a twinge of desire.

Get behind him, she thought. Should be easy. If he gets in a crowd, lift his wallet. They wanted to know about any strange blokes who came or went. Blimey, this was easy money.

*

West
Side
of
Whitehall
,
London
–
the
same
time

Walking toward Trafalgar Square I was scarcely aware of the drizzle. My mind was totally pre-occupied with the events of the afternoon and the dilemma I faced. Entering Charing Cross underground station, I went through the motions of finding the right platform and stood, in a daze, waiting for a Bakerloo train to St. John's Wood. The crowd grew around me as I heard the rumble of the train approaching through the tunnel. Because of my preoccupation I was totally unaware when the pickpocket removed my wallet.

“
Stop! Thief!” jarred me back to the present.

A clergyman pointed after a female running for an exit. A quick check of my missing wallet, and reflex took over as I sprinted after her. She was fast, legging it up the escalator, across the concourse, then the stairs to the street. I knew if she made it into the crowds I'd lose her, but I was closing the gap. With the instinct of street-survival she timed her dash across the Strand, knowing I'd be stopped by the approaching double-decker.

But she didn't see the cyclist scooting along the line of parked cars, and the collision with the bike threw her onto the street and under the wheels of the bus. Her cry ended as life was crushed from her, the terrible images of sight and sound indelibly imprinted in my mind. Amid the screams and shouts of the onlookers the bus screeched to a halt.

I stared… numb…
unable to move or think.

I'd caused another death.

That made two.