Kolymsky Heights (8 page)

He was taller than Lazenby remembered, and quieter than he remembered. He was very quiet indeed: a grave, composed figure, exceedingly reserved. They had dinner together, and Lazenby took stock of him across the table.

The staring young bull of the seventies had gone. His fringe had gone and the heavy helmet of hair. It was drawn sleekly back now, lengthening the face and chastening it; an austere pigtail hung down the back. Only the moustache seemed to add a normalising touch.

Lazenby set the ball rolling by asking if he had met Rogachev again, and he said he had. He had met him again and talked with him again, two nights running – had talked both nights away, all on that same visit, those years ago; but afterwards had had no contact with him. Yet he showed no surprise at Lazenby’s story, and made no comment when it was over.

Lazenby chewed at his own meal for some moments.

‘Anything you’d like to ask me?’ he said.

The Indian consulted a neat forkful of food.

‘Well, he said I looked like his Siberians. I guess that’s why he wants me, is it?’

‘That and your other qualifications. But that, yes. I should think certainly.’

‘How does he suppose I could get there?’

‘This man Walters knows about that. That’s Walters of the
CIA
.’

‘Uhuh. These – messages. You have them with you?’

‘No.
I
don’t. This man Walters has copies of them, I believe. Will you meet him?’

The Indian examined his forkful again, and ate it.

‘Yes. I’ll meet him,’ he said.

They found Walters having his dinner on a tray in the bedroom. He scrambled to his feet to be introduced; and he said he was honoured to be introduced.

The Indian merely shook his hand, and said nothing.

‘Well now,’ Walters said, as they were seated, ‘I guess we know why we are here. How do we feel about it?’

The Indian produced a small tobacco sack and rolled himself a cigarette.

‘Are you the one in charge of the arrangements?’ he asked politely.

‘No, sir, I am not. I am here as an escorting officer, and I would continue in that role for you. But I can answer any general questions you have.’

Porter lit the cigarette.

‘You have some messages for me,’ he said.

Walters reached in a breast pocket and produced an envelope. There was a wax seal on it. The Indian didn’t bother with the seal. He inserted a thumbnail under the flap and tore the top off. Two sheets marked A and B were inside. He read one and then the other, and smoke began slowly to issue from his mouth. Then he read them again, and carefully pocketed the sheets. His face had shown no change.

‘You know where I am supposed to go?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘And how I get there?’

‘Yes, sir. I know that too.’

‘Tell me,’ Porter said.

Walters looked at Lazenby. ‘I don’t know if you are authorised to hear this, sir,’ he said.

‘Not at all. I am sure not,’ Lazenby said hurriedly, and rapidly left them; and in the room behind him Porter smoked as the plan was laid out for him.

When it was over he carried on smoking.

‘Is there anything more I can tell you, sir?’ Walters asked presently.

‘I didn’t hear how I was to be dropped there,’ Porter said.

‘That part isn’t fixed yet.’

‘Or how I get back.’

‘That isn’t fixed, either. Obviously it won’t be the way you go in. But a number of options will be arranged for you, and you would have back-up.’

‘What back-up?’

‘Operatives on the ground. You don’t need to worry about that. I stay with you through training, and anything that isn’t clear, I get it clear. That’s right up to when you go.’

Porter stubbed his cigarette out.

‘This job I’m supposed to be expert at out there,’ he said. ‘You know I’ve never done it before.’

‘Yes sir, I know that. At camp you’ll be doing it in your sleep.’

‘I would need to know the area. If nobody has been there, how do I get to know it?’

‘All I can say is that if you don’t, you won’t go. That applies to any stage of this operation. If you don’t feel you can do it, you cut out – right up to the drop-off. Because at that point you’ll be on your own.’

‘What about that back-up?’

‘Just then there isn’t any … but I can assure you there’s no way you’ll go in unless you’ll feel one hundred per cent at home in the place.’

‘With my own apartment.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I just turn the key and walk in?’

‘That’s what you do.’

‘In this sealed area where nobody’s been?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What do the neighbours say?’

‘You’ll learn about the neighbours. We’re working on it.’

Porter thought about this.

‘What information is there on the place?’

‘It’s being collected. Is there something special you’d want to know?’

‘Sure, the slang, the dialect. What they talk about there. Knowing the languages isn’t everything.’

‘Okay.’ Walters produced a small book and made a note. ‘I’ll try and get you it,’ he said.

‘From this sealed area you can get it?’

‘I’ll try.’

Porter took out his tobacco sack again.

‘Who are the operatives on the ground?’ he said.

Walters smiled. ‘Even if I knew that, sir,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t tell you. You know what you have to know. That protects the operation, and it also protects you.’

Porter slowly rolled a cigarette.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I don’t believe that without me you have any operation.’

‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’

Porter lit the cigarette. ‘Why the end of August?’ he said.

‘That’s the date for getting you in position on time. The schedule is very exact. After that there’s no point in getting you out there at all.’

‘Why do you want to get me out there?’

Walters smiled again. ‘I don’t know the object of this mission, sir. I was not authorised to see the papers you have. I do know we’re the only ones that
can
get you there. But my orders are not to press you in any way. If you want to go, you go. But if so, I’ve got to know fast. Could you be available right away?’

‘No. I’ve got to run down to Prince George,’ Porter said. ‘I’ll be there until – maybe ten days from now.’

‘That’s too long,’ Walters said.

‘That’s too bad.’

‘Can’t you drop it? We really don’t have that margin.’

‘I can’t drop it … Maybe I could cut it a little.’ The Indian thought a while. ‘This stuff you’re going to get me – when would you have it?’

‘In a few days, perhaps. Where are you staying there?’

‘The general post office,’ Porter said.

Walters made no comment on this but merely noted it in his book. ‘Well, do I tell them to start?’ he said.

The Indian paused.

‘I’ll see this stuff first,’ he said. ‘Tell me again – it’s guaranteed I can pull out any time?’

‘That’s guaranteed.’

‘With no arm-twisting, no funny stories planted about me in funny places?’

Walters put his book away. ‘Look, sir,’ he said, ‘I know you have problems over contacts with us. It’s certainly not in
our
interest to reveal them.’

‘Not at this time,’ Porter said.

‘Not any time. We have other critical relationships. It would be counter-productive even to try.’

‘So long as we both know that.’

‘I think we do. Well, thanks for this meeting, anyway. We got over that one,’ Walters said smiling.

‘Sure,’ Porter said, and for the first time smiled back.

‘Well, now,’ Lazenby said. ‘What do you think?’

They had the room to themselves, and the Indian was carefully rolling himself another cigarette.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m being fixed.’

‘Fixed? In what way fixed?’

‘I don’t know the way, just the smell.’ He neatly licked the cigarette. ‘I expect you know I’m a big pain in the ass out here. This government we have, they’d like me far away and in deep shit. But could they set up something like this, with
their
brains and resources? I doubt it. The CIA, now – that’s a different story. So what is with them, I wonder?’

‘Well, I don’t think,’ Lazenby said, ‘that there is anything with them. I gave you a very fair summary, I believe, of events as I saw them for myself.’

‘You didn’t see any events yourself.’ Porter lit the cigarette. ‘You saw what they showed you. All this rigmarole with satellites, lead pencils, ballpoints. You analysed any of it personally?’

‘Obviously I didn’t.’

‘That’s right.
They
did. Don’t trust the bastards – governments, government agencies. They rig things, they fake things.’

‘You’re not suggesting somebody faked all
this
?’

‘Why not?’

‘I didn’t receive these bizarre papers from Rogachev?’

‘You received bizarre papers from somebody.’

‘Then if not Rogachev that somebody was certainly a most gifted clairvoyant. There were things there that couldn’t possibly have been known – things I barely remembered myself.’

‘Pissing up against the wall?’

‘That, yes. Who else
could
have known it?’

‘My room mate at Oxford? The guy I told next morning – the Yankee Rhodes scholar who went into their State Department. He couldn’t have remembered the crazy story and passed it on to the Department of Spooks?’

Lazenby stared at him.

‘You told somebody about it next morning?’

The Indian blew out smoke and shook his head. ‘No. There was no Yank. I merely illustrate a point, Goldilocks. Take nothing on trust. Many tricky dicks walk the trail. You want a drink?’ He had taken a half-pint flask from his jeans jacket.

Lazenby gazed at this most cautiously.

‘A very small one, perhaps. What is it?’

‘Rye.’ He poured for them both into tooth mugs. ‘This is a weird plan they make for me, Goldilocks,’ he said.

‘Don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to know.’

‘Okay.’ He took a long drink. Then he took the two papers from his pocket. ‘This the stuff they showed you?’

Lazenby examined the sheets. ‘Yes. The same.’

‘What do they think it means?’

‘Well – what it says. That he obviously believes he has something important and thinks you can get to him.’

‘That’s
it
?’

‘Do you think otherwise?’

The Indian poured himself another glass.

‘Maybe. These are
tricky
tricky dicks,’ he said.

Lazenby watched him drink the whisky.

‘Tell me,’ he said mildly, ‘why you suppose anyone should
go to such great labours to insert you into trouble in a distant place?’

‘Scenarios?’ Porter nodded. ‘Sure. Maybe they want somebody in that place. But nobody
can
get to the place. So they look in the computer, and bingo,
I
can get to it. I’m just the girl. I have the looks, I have the patter. For what? God knows for what. To take something, bring something? You’d never know even while you were doing it.’

Lazenby gazed at the Indian. The sudden loquacity, after his reserve at dinner, did not disguise an essential stillness about the man. There was an austere, watchful quality about him.

‘Well,’ he said, terminating the discussion, ‘I’ve told you what I came to tell you. All I can add is that at one time I also didn’t think much of it. But not any more.’

‘You think a lot now, eh?’

‘Oh, yes. Certainly.’

‘Would you go yourself?’

‘I?’ Lazenby stared at him. ‘
I
wouldn’t. Good God, no!’

The Indian didn’t say any more. He didn’t even look at him. He just sat and smoked his cigarette. He did this until it was finished and then pocketed the bottle, and nodded, and went.

And two days later, job completed, Lazenby himself went – home. He watched most contentedly as portions of British Columbia receded at 600 miles an hour.

What the Indian had decided to do he had no idea. A very complicated fellow, tricky. Suspected everybody of tricks. Up to plenty himself, of course. He’d decide nothing in a hurry.

In Prince George it was raining and the girl came in drenched, with a dripping umbrella and a bag of groceries.

‘Oh God, are you still watching that?’ she said.

Porter’s eyes hadn’t left the screen.

‘Quiet. The man is making a joke.’

‘He was making the joke when I left.’

‘That was another joke.’

‘Who
is
that little bastard? Why are you watching him?’

‘He’s a jolly little bastard. I like him.’

The little man on the screen was very jolly. He wore high reindeer boots and was smacking them as he laughed. His male companions were also smacking theirs. The women’s boots couldn’t be seen, but they were all elaborately dressed and just as jolly, dark eyes sparkling under their centre partings. They were taking part in a talk show.

‘Is that Eskimo they’re talking or what?’ the girl said.

‘Eskimo is
Inuit
. The people are also called Inuit. This isn’t Inuit,’ he said. The leggy blonde was an ex-student of his and should have known better. At the present time she should have known much better for she was editing a book, his last, which was about the Inuit. ‘Go and take that bath,’ he said.

‘You said you were going to take it with me.’

‘All right.’ Porter reluctantly switched the tape off. There were about twenty snippets on it, bits of newscasts, talks, chat shows. Snatched by satellite evidently. No information had come with the tape. Just the tape. He’d watched it a few times and would watch it some more.

He reached for his wallet and took out the much-folded messages again, comparing them side by side.

What the hell! Had they
really
not seen it, the geniuses of the CIA? Or had they manufactured the thing themselves? He still couldn’t tell. There were phrases here meant only for him, to be understood solely by him. Could they possibly have known what had been discussed?

He wasn’t clear what to do. Drop the whole thing and go back to Montreal, east? Or find out more at the training camp the young spook had mentioned, south?

He followed the girl into the bathroom, brooding. Sleep on it, and then decide.

East, south, where?