Rogue Elements (17 page)

It was a small, forgotten village. thirty-eight residents by the last count, three of them English. Two early risers knew of Kolatch, and they provided directions to his house, set on a hillside between an olive grove and an untended apricot orchard three kilometres outside Lemona. But neither knew anything about him. He never appeared at the taverna in the neighbouring village, did not buy his bread from the bakery or his wine from the Tsangarides Winery. He had a car – a white car – but no wife, girlfriend or maid. The last time any builder, plumber or electrician had been near the place was eight years ago.

They estimated he was between forty and seventy years old.

By 8.30 a.m., Arkell was established on the same hillside, two hundred metres above Kolatch’s house. In Paphos, he had found a hardware store whose proprietor lived in the apartment above and was prepared – after much grumbling – to open up early. He had bought canvas, a shovel, a clasp knife, a long hardwood broom handle and a roll of agricultural bird netting. The Olympus 12x50 binoculars, dark glasses, soft khaki hat and sunblock came from Frankfurt airport. He had made one further stop on the way out of town, at a convenience store, collecting twelve litres of mineral water and a bag of assorted cereal bars, dried fruit, electrolyte sachets and salami. The hire car he had left on the other side of the hill, a safe distance from his observation post but close enough for a swift departure if necessary.

He had selected a position on the jutting edge of a terraced vineyard. It commanded excellent views down the deserted hillside to the chemist’s house. The only approach to the vineyard was a winding path that showed no recent tracks. Small-bore irrigation pipes took automated care of the day-to-day needs of the vines; there was no sign of regular human attention.

Crouched low, Arkell dug a shallow trench in the soft dusty earth between two rows of vines. He lined the trench with the canvas and positioned bottles of water along each side. The food and binoculars went at the end of the trench. Stretched out on the canvas, Arkell layered the bird netting over himself as makeshift camouflage. Satisfied that no part of his body protruded above the ground – that a casual observer would catch not so much as a glimpse of him unless they happened to walk along this particular row of vines – he turned his attention to the house.

The windows were broad and clean, allowing him a perfect view into Kolatch’s sizeable kitchen, his bedroom and his well-stocked library. There was no sign of any laboratory, chemical apparatus, or indeed any chemist. Arkell scanned each room carefully through the binoculars, noting every object on view, however trivial. He called Wraye.

‘His car’s there. No Kolatch or Yadin yet. What about the airlines?’

‘Last-minute bookings to Larnaca and Paphos from all over Europe. None in the name of Yadin, of course, and we don’t even know if his reservation was last minute. So it’s up to you to pick him up.’

‘“Pick him up”?’

‘You know what I mean. Have you got a weapon?’

‘Of course,’ said Arkell. The broom handle lay beside him and the clasp knife was tucked in his jeans pocket.

‘Good, because we found something strange in Dortmund. Our friend Dejan wasn’t in great condition when my guys reached him.’

‘I had to hurt him a bit. He was –’

‘Nevertheless, I would guess you didn’t put the Sig .45 round in his brain.’

Behind his dark glasses, Arkell’s eyes blinked. He stared out across the dry Cypriot landscape. ‘The Bosnian pickers?’

‘All gone. The place was empty, unlocked, lights on – little piles of high-value goods abandoned. Oh, and someone had very cleverly wiped the CCTV.’

‘You think it was Yadin?’

‘Or someone watching Yadin’s back. Be careful, Simon. He may have been alerted.’

For a few hours, Edward Joyce had been buoyed by Wraye’s words. Long enough to devise a plan. He had considered simply ordering up the Salis file, but then he would be personally liable for it. ‘Losing’ a YZ file was a sackable offence, and he was on thin enough ice already. The only answer was to smuggle it out of central registry, and after Wraye’s rare flattery he was ready to believe he could do it. But as Joyce worked through the Vauxhall Cross night, compiling fictional Social Security records and Special Branch reports, scribbling imaginary letters, printing out reams of loosely related news articles and hurriedly fabricated CX reports, his confidence began to sag. By the time he had showered and shaved in the gym on the ground floor, the lunacy of his proposed action was blindingly clear to him.

The paper records of the Secret Intelligence Service are monumental, dating back to before the First World War. Much of the material has now been digitized, but there is art in intelligence analysis and many officers still prefer to look for truth in original documents. One never knows what insight might be gleaned from the texture, scent or condition of a document, what stories a slight stain on the back of a letter might tell. Some of the older archives are stored in a variety of undisclosed locations around London and the Home Counties; everything else is housed in the purpose-built central registry at Vauxhall Cross.

Weighed down by a document box full of his night’s work, Joyce arrived in the registry to find the most notoriously ferocious keeper presiding. Jeanette Fortune had already eyed him with great suspicion as he searched operational logs and expenses records for Wraye, surreptitiously photographing documents in various CCTV blind spots behind the stacks. Now that he was embarked on an even more foolhardy venture he was sorely tempted to retreat with all speed and nevermore venture into her lair. But he remembered what he was supposed to be – what he
wanted
to be more than anything else – and he forced a smile to his lips and said, ‘Jeanette, good morning! Lovely to see you again.’

‘Mr Joyce, do you realize that yesterday you left a WE/ZUR file open on a reading desk?’ She had not looked up; her hand continued to make notes in a ledger. ‘You do understand this is a
secret
service?’

‘Won’t happen again,’ he promised. ‘I wonder if I might beg your assistance on a training exercise for IONEC.’ He hefted the document box. He had already made sure the guard by the elevator had clocked him bringing it into central registry.

The keeper looked at the stack of papers in the document box with undisguised disgust. ‘And this is?’

‘Eight imaginary villains. My finest creations. We’ve got a Saudi prince funding AQ, a Chinese visiting professor spying for the Ministry of State Security, an Iranian ballistics expert, a –’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Joyce, what are these fabrications doing in central registry?’

‘With your permission I’d like to plant them for my eight students to locate.’
Eight
. It was important to keep repeating the number.

‘Impossible. We’d have to assign them all registry numbers, catalogue them on the system –’

‘Actually, I’ve already assigned them numbers,’ he said with what he hoped was a helpful grin. ‘I’ve made sure they aren’t already in use. And there’s no need to put them on the system. Each of the eight students will find a reference to their villain’s file number hidden away in a set of documents they’ll be given.’

Fortune considered this outlandish proposition with an expression of great weariness. But she could find no solid objection to make. ‘I’ll need a list so we can ensure all the files are removed. We can’t have works of fiction floating around indefinitely.’

‘Of course,’ promised Joyce. ‘I’ll purge them myself straight after the exercise. Might it be possible,’ he ploughed straight on, heart beating wildly now, ‘to borrow some empty registry files? Used and battered ideally, to keep it authentic.’

‘I don’t know that we have any old ones,’ Fortune muttered bleakly, but her assistant, who had been silent throughout, looked up and said, ‘There’s a load I was about to throw out. From the re-org of the Syrian security services records.’

He led Joyce to a side table on which a pile of empty pink and powder-blue files had been neatly stacked. Each still bore a white label on its spine, with a registry number written in black ink. ‘You can stick a new label over the old one,’ said the assistant, handing him a roll of adhesive labels. ‘Do write clearly though,’ he said, with a warning nod towards Fortune.

Joyce worked fast, increasingly frightened that another officer – God help him, even Martin de Vries – might appear and demand to know what he was up to. The fabricated dossiers were already assembled, and it was the work of moments to slip them inside eight powder-blue files. But when it came to writing out the labels, he found himself jinxed by the assistant’s parting words. He kept making a hash of it, writing too big, too small, smudging the ink, having to discard label after label. Finally he had the files ready, and he approached the keepers’ desk with a casual, ‘I’ll just slot them into place and be out of your hair . . .’

It had been too much to hope for. ‘Leave them on the desk. We’ll do it.’

Joyce realized his hands were numb. He had to get this right. ‘Mind if I come with you? Get a feel for where they sit in case anyone needs a steer? Otherwise the students will only bother you again.’

Fortune sighed monumentally, glanced at her watch – could any player imbue that action with more meaning? – and stepped out from behind the desk. ‘Give me the first one,’ she commanded.

Following meekly in her wake, fictional dossiers clutched in his arms, Edward Joyce felt the pressure of the stacks building around him. The secrets of a nation – of an empire – were piled high on all sides. He had arranged the files in accordance with the registry’s layout, and Fortune, recognizing this thoughtfulness, thawed slightly. After the third registry number had proved to belong in the neighbouring stack to the second, she demanded the fourth in a slightly milder tone. Nevertheless, to Joyce her manner seemed increasingly terrifying, for they were now approaching SQ/ alley, as he thought of it, home of SQ/83774, also known as the Salis file.

He handed her the fifth file, in his nervousness – and for the first time – reading out its number: ‘SQ/83281.’ His voice sounded absurd. Squeaky. Surely she must know! He compounded his appearance of guilt by involuntarily choosing that same moment to glance up at the ceiling-mounted cameras.

‘That one’s an African despot with a stranglehold on strategically important mineral resources,’ he gabbled helplessly.

If he was caught, what then? A secret court and a lifetime in Wakefield? What would it be like to be imprisoned for espionage? Murderers and rapists could be frighteningly patriotic, he’d heard. Would they consider his crime as unspeakable as paedophilia?

‘Then you’ve given it an entirely inappropriate number,’ snapped Fortune. ‘SQ is organized crime.’ For a moment he contemplated with horror the possibility that she might actually insist on renumbering the file, taking them away from SQ/ alley. Could her librarian’s sense of propriety be so offended by the idea of even a fictional villain berthing in the wrong category that she would be willing to waste her time correcting his carelessness? But with another, different species of sigh she started down SQ/ alley and found her way swiftly to the right shelf.

Seconds, now, he had just seconds to locate the Salis file, and do it nonchalantly for the camera behind them. Fortune had a finger on her shelf, had the spot, was parting the files, making space for the cuckoo. SQ/83712, SQ/83736, SQ/83781 . . . The African despot was sliding into place, uneasily, between two criminals of the organized persuasion. SQ/83774. There! But it was too late. Her hand still on the African despot, Fortune was turning back to him. ‘Next?’ she demanded, giving the file a last, expert tap to ram it home.

Mutely, he offered her the sixth file.

She glanced at the number, rolled her eyes, and said, ‘I suppose this one is a long-dead KGB officer? You do know all TZ files are pink?’ Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past him and marched towards the next bank of stacks. Last chance. His back was to the camera. Fortune, too, was blocking the CCTV line of sight. Slipping finger and thumb around the base of the powder-blue file he tugged it sharply off the shelf and palmed it under the remaining two dummy dossiers. In the same movement, he turned and followed Fortune.

Had they seen it? Were the guards in their control centre three storeys above even watching? Joyce imagined Martin de Vries standing beside them, insisting on constant surveillance.
Follow him everywhere. I want to know what he does in the toilet even.
The guard by the elevators was in radio contact with the control centre; was he even now rising from his seat under de Vries’s instructions and marching towards SQ/ alley? The Salis file felt clammy in Joyce’s hands, soaked with guilty sweat, ridiculously heavy. His footsteps were insanely loud. Why didn’t Fortune turn and stare? She was sliding the TZ file into place, tutting at the powder blue anomaly in a sea of pink. Accepting the seventh file from him. Another sarcastic comment, lost on him, and then on to a new stack. Cuckoo in place. Christ, this was a lunatic idea! Fortune reaching for the eighth file, please God can she count, the hesitation as he gave it to her, the frown, the bureaucrat’s stare, and then –

‘You said
eight
files.’ An accusatory tone, but to Edward Joyce it was like the Hallelujah Chorus. Oh, wonder!

He looked down at the innocent powder-blue file in his trembling hands. Were they really trembling? He couldn’t tell; his vision was blurred. ‘That’s right. Have we done eight?’ Too innocent! He sounded like a kindergarten child reaching for the biscuit tin.

‘Yes, Mr Joyce, this is the eighth.’ Referring to the file in her hands but staring still at the file in his. Could she tell? Was she so master of her universe that she could recognize this very file? Could she
smell
Rodrigo Salis?

No possible excuse could explain why he was holding SQ/83774. His hand over the spine number, he had to trust in powder-blue anonymity. Had to believe in his own plan, though his heart was battering in triple-fast time against his lungs. ‘How odd . . .’ The next part was so rehearsed in his mind that it happened almost as if he were nothing more than an observer. The sheet of paper extracted from his jacket pocket and smoothed flat over the red-hot powder-blue. ‘Let’s see . . .’ The finger counting moronically down the typed list of fictional names and file numbers. ‘Bloody hell, you’re absolutely right! I made up nine. How stupid of me! Could have left the office two hours earlier.’ Tucking the Salis file swiftly under his arm, spine down, he concluded, ‘Well, there’s only eight students. I’ll hang on to this one for next year.’

There it was: his part played. Now it was for the audience to decide whether to clap or jeer. He smiled a foolish smile and waited for the Fortune verdict.

He nearly missed it through the blur of his distressed vision. The slightest rolling of eyes and then she was off to the final stack. The last of the eight fictional files planted – Christ, he mustn’t forget to have the students come and collect them – and the job was done. Or nearly.

He pulled out a Pentel rollerball and crossed the last name and number off his typed list before handing the sheet over. ‘The imposters, for your records,’ he said.

‘If you could try to ensure,’ said Fortune, in her best martyr’s voice, ‘that your students come here only when we’re not busy . . .’

Glancing around the empty, silent space, Joyce nodded sympathetically. He tossed the Salis file casually into the document box. ‘Thanks so much, Jeanette. You’re an angel.’

At the lifts, the guard, an ex-Grenadiers sergeant with a permanently red nose, jolted himself out of a long reverie and staggered to his feet. ‘A shufti in the box, if I may, sir.’

Heroically casual, Joyce glanced back at the keeper, a quizzical look on his face that would have made even Madeleine Wraye proud. She called out, ‘It’s all right, Charlie. He brought that material in with him.’ Though the word
material
was loaded with distaste, Joyce could have hugged her.

‘Very good, sir.’

The padded envelope was already addressed and waiting in the bottom drawer of his work station. He stopped there only to collect it, unwilling to take out the Salis file where others might see. On the route to the post room he knew of three CCTV blind spots. The first was deserted, and he paused just a few seconds to slip the file into the envelope. Even inside the bubble padding it felt stickily hot. With a sense of profound relief, he dumped it two minutes later into the Fort Monckton post bag and went to get a drink on the terrace. It was only when he reached the bar and found it shut that he realized it was not yet 9.45 a.m.