The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby (11 page)

After the dark corridors through the pine trees it was a great relief to reach the lights of Tallinn. After all, it was an international city. It had a certain buzz to it. It was busy, commercial, intent on making a going concern of itself. We both welcomed its embrace.

‘I’ll leave the car outside the garage. Then we can walk the block to the Gloria and have some supper in the cellar. Is that a good idea?’ I asked Rovde.

He agreed. As soon as we entered the cellar, the manageress who often looked after the reception upstairs told me that there was a message for me. An official-looking, smart, expensive envelope, had been delivered by hand and left for me. I left Rovde to order a bottle of wine and I went to fetch it. When I opened the envelope, I saw that it was a short note written on Myrex-headed notepaper, signed by someone called Christiansen, telling me that Arne had informed him that he would be in Newcastle for the following four days. If I were to be back in England within that time, he would be pleased to see me if I contacted him at the Malmaison hotel there.

The note came as a surprise. I had not told anyone at Myrex where I was staying. Of course, it is not difficult to discover someone’s lodging place in a small city, but it did mean that they had gone to some trouble to find out. I experienced an uneasy feeling that they were keeping an eye on me. Furthermore, someone had felt it important to inform Arne that I had been asking for him. Their network was efficiently operational.

I thought it would do no harm to show the note to Rovde.

‘Take a look at this. They’re certainly keeping tabs on me,’ I said.

‘They’re careful, professional,’ he said. ‘They want something from you or they’re suspicious of you. Otherwise they’d ignore you. I wonder what’s going on. You should meet him. Don’t miss out.’

‘That’s what I feel. It’s odd though. There’s a bit of keenness on their part. If they’re any good, by now they will know that I’m not just a journalist. You’re right. I’d better sort him out. There’s no story anyway about the murdered man here. It’s more likely that I’ll find out more about that in London, or, who knows, even in Newcastle.’

‘Yep. That’s my feeling, buddy. You’ve been invited. Accept it. Myrex isn’t known for its friendliness. You’re a special person.’

I decided to ring Mark. I wanted to let him know what was happening. He, too, thought it strange. He was more cautious. He sensed danger. Myrex knew what I was doing and they wanted something from me. He was convinced of that. He told me that as soon as I was back in the UK, I should let him know. He would monitor me: it was important to keep contact.

I did not prolong the call from the cellar. Rovde and I had an excellent Chilean Syrah, younger than I usually prefer them, but it was extremely palatable and delicious. After some discussion with Rovde, I decided to leave for London the next morning and continue to Newcastle on an internal UK flight. I thought I would ring Lorel in the morning and ask her to book me into a Thistle hotel near the railway station, an average, acceptable transit hotel in the centre of the city, walking distance from the Malmaison. My plan of campaign settled, I enjoyed the rest of the evening with Rovde, secure in the knowledge of American support. Around ten, Mo appeared. While I had been collecting the Myrex letter, Uri must have phoned her. She was cheerful and happy. Uri kissed her directly on the mouth when he greeted her. I kissed her on the cheeks. I bought her a cognac and coffee. That night I fell asleep wondering if Rovde and Mo had gone to bed together, unable to picture the intimacies of love that the heavy-footed Rovde might be capable of. Inevitably my mind took me into my own amatory realms of Roxanne and Lena. I enjoyed a few highlights and slept soundly, not at all worried about murders or Myrex.

I was back in London by mid-afternoon the following day. I immediately contacted Mark. He was delighted to hear from me and told me some welcome personal news that he had received the day before. An old uncle had died: he was a legatee and had inherited just over £80,000. It solved a number of his pressing financial problems. To celebrate, he wanted me to go with him to Tower 42, the old NatWest building in Old Broad Street, the tallest building in London. There on floor 42 was a bar that ran round the top of the tower and afforded the most spectacular view of London. He invited me to share a bottle of champagne with him.

We met outside the Tower and went in through heavy security. We were checked by X-ray machines and given identity tags. It was infinitely different from going for a drink in the local pub. The fast lift took us straight to the forty-second floor where we looked out over the huge metropolis lit not only by artificial lights but by an almost full moon. The sky had cleared after the rain of the day: the view, all the way round, extended for miles. We sipped champagne and nibbled at lobster claws. After about twenty minutes, we were brought a small salver of sushi. The contrast between that elevated experience and the world of dreary, depressed Paldiski made its mark upon me as I gazed out towards Canary Wharf. I could overhear other people talking, brokers, bankers, venture capitalists, financial analysts. I picked up that one of a group next to us was a spin doctor who worked for the Lord Chancellor’s department. This milieu was a world away from the decrepitude of Paldiski. Yet then I thought of the IRA bombing at the end of the eighties. Everywhere in the vicinity of that great tower had been a sea of broken glass and twisted metal. The engine of the van that had been packed with explosives had risen with the force of the blast and slammed through the windows of the thirty-second floor to land in the middle of the offices there. Even with Mark present, I began to feel uneasy. We were at a great and vulnerable height at the summit of that tall tower. I imagined what it must have been like to be in the World Trade Center on that fateful 11th of September. I began to wish that we had chosen to go to a subterranean champagne bar of which there were many to choose from close to the Bank. I expressed my nervousness.

‘I only hope there are no aircraft around this evening. This height right in the centre of the City makes me extremely nervous.’

‘Relax. Enjoy. The chances are negligible. Anaesthetise yourself with champagne.’

So that is what we did.

Mark treated me to supper. He took me to a little French restaurant behind Bart’s Hospital. I told him of my visit to Paldiski, about Myrex finding me and about Arne’s message suggesting I went to Newcastle. I said I would go there the next day.

‘How extraordinary! You’d better be careful. They definitely want to keep track of you. What’s their reason? Someone must think you can be useful. Or, on the other hand, they might see you as a possible danger that can be neutralised. Either way, you must be careful, dear Pel. I don’t altogether like what’s going on. I don’t understand it.’

‘Nor do I. Of course, it might be quite straightforward and innocent. The trouble with my profession is that we are trained to be suspicious. Arne is probably just being helpful.’

Mark came back at me quickly. ‘I very much doubt that. He doesn’t have that philanthropic reputation. Still, I’ll be fascinated to hear what happens.’

The
Journal
had no objections to my going to Newcastle. The Baltic Centre, that old flour mill converted into a magnificently trendy art work space and gallery, was exhibiting some of the work of Julian Opie, the fashionable line-drawing minimalist artist whose portrait print of the pop group, Blur, had been acquired by the National Portrait Gallery. My editor wanted me to write a general piece on Geordie reaction to London’s artistic invasion of the North East. That, I thought, would be a contrast to the darker side of my life to do with national security, Arne, Myrex and murders.

My train left King’s Cross at nine and remarkably I was in the centre of Newcastle by noon. I checked into my hotel. It was a dull, drizzly day, but I decided to walk down to the Malmaison on the quayside to reconnoitre Arne’s territory. From there it was a short walk across the new winking eyelid millennium bridge to the Baltic on the Gateshead side of the river. Somehow, even in the fine rain filling the air mistily out of a dark sky, the city still had a glitter to it. There was an abundance of new architecture, buildings had a new gloss to them, the whole of the city seemed to buzz with vibrancy. Dejected Paldiski came to mind. What a difference. This city hummed with life, shoppers, business people, students from the university. I returned to my hotel and took my one light travelling bag that I had left at the desk, to my room. Myrex had given me a number to ring. I dialled and was answered by a young woman’s accented voice. I could not quite place the accent. It might have been German or it could have been Dutch. Either way, the English was perfect and overlaid with the usual slight American tone. She recognised my name and said that she had been expecting a call from me. That surprised me. Myrex’s confidence in knowing that I would accept their bait annoyed me. I resented that my compliance with their suggestion had been taken for granted. I felt too much like their puppet at that particular moment and I wished that I had delayed my follow-up of Arne’s invitation. I should have delayed, missed the Newcastle rendezvous, and waited to see if they would then pursue me.

The young woman, who appeared to be Arne’s personal assistant, proposed that I should meet Arne for dinner that evening in the top-floor restaurant of the Baltic Centre. She said that the view of the city at night was stunning. From the Baltic’s vantage point you could see both ways along the river, a lively, lit-up city, with streamers of moving car lights criss-crossing this way and that. I agreed that the venue sounded pleasant and said that I would be there at the time she suggested.

The view was splendid. The Millennium Bridge was illuminated and every so often its colours changed. The Quayside with its smart hotels, restaurants, cocktail bars, apartments and offices twinkled and glittered in the night air. I was standing with a glass of champagne in my hand looking out on to the panorama of the city. Arne was not to be seen when I arrived. I was there before him. He was expected. I mentioned his name to the major domo and he said he had been instructed to offer me champagne at the bar if I preceded Arne. Again, it was simply Arne: no mister, just that single-syllable name. I stood sipping my champagne and surveyed the sparkling city.

A few minutes later I felt a touch on my elbow. I turned and Arne was standing before me, smiling. He extended his hand and I shook it.

‘How very good to see you, Mr Rigby, or perhaps I should say Pelham as you prefer,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s not too much trouble to come all the way up here. I had to be here. We are have a huge property development going on and certain business interests that are best served here to do with our trade with Scandinavia and the Baltic states.’

‘Not at all. We hacks are used to travelling around the place. The story’s the main thing. Where it is and where it leads is where we go. Sometimes it’s worthwhile and sometimes it’s not. Anyway, I am combining it with writing something about London’s export of art to this part of the world.’

‘Sure. I see what you mean about this project.’ He looked expansively round the Baltic’s restaurant. ‘The whole of this Baltic enterprise is a brave piece of artistic investment. I hope it works. I hope, too, that you are provided with lots of copy here.’

I noted that he saw even artistic ventures in terms of financial investment. I doubted that he had any aesthetic sensibility at all. If he collected works of art at all he did it for investment purposes, capital gain, percentage profit.

‘Well, there’s plenty I can write about. I’ve only been in Newcastle this afternoon, but already I can give a good slant on cultural development here. It’s a lovely place, so much going on. Have you seen the Julian Opie?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t, Mr Rigby. My time seems to be taken up with Myrex affairs. Maybe I shall have the opportunity before I fly out.’

I felt uncomfortable with him reverting to Mr Rigby. If we were to have dinner together, it would not do. Although I hardly knew him, it seemed appropriate that he should call me by my first name. The difficulty, of course, did not arise in my addressing him: he was simply always Arne. So I pleaded, ‘Look, it seems awfully formal for you to call me Mr Rigby. Please call me Pelham.’ I wondered what strangers felt when asked to call me by that ridiculous name; but there was nothing for it. It was the name I was stuck with. Perhaps Arne assumed it was an ordinary, run-of-the-mill English name, but I doubted it.

‘Of course,’ he said. The waiter had handed him a glass of champagne while we were talking. He crossed the room to a window and pointed with his champagne glass up river towards a necklace of lights that spanned the water and then looked down as the Millennium Bridge changed, chameleon-like, from blue to green.

‘This city is now so agreeable, don’t you think, Pelham?’

It sounded so odd. Even though I had only just invited him once again to call me by my name, the sound was strange coming from the lips of someone I hardly knew. It made me feel slightly disoriented. I had to pull myself together and think very clearly of where I was and what I was doing.

‘It is. There is such a difference now that so much money had been spent on redevelopment of the North East. This is an international city. After all you’re here, and that proves it. It’s grown up. It’s taken its place in the adult world of big business and trade.’

The waiter came over and ushered us to our table. We sat and looked out over the river. I could see the lights of the Malmaison.

Arne was not forthcoming. He deflected questions about Myrex in Estonia. He said I should wait and see what they had planned. It was early days. Their whole venture might be a flop. The project was purely speculative. Once again I was up against a supreme diplomat. He sanitised his conversation. He told me only what he had planned to tell me. I thought I would try to ease his tongue with drink, but he was abstemious and I saw very quickly that if I were not careful, I should be the one whose tongue was oiled so much to reveal secrets that I should have preferred hidden. I pulled myself up and took care. What he did was to probe me. I realised halfway through the meal that his intention was to find out more about me. He asked me about Raoul and Roxanne.

‘Have you seen Raoul recently?’ he asked. ‘I know he’s been in London.’

It immediately struck me as an odd question. I was sure he would have known if I had met Raoul: he was simply testing the waters. I calculated that I should answer truthfully. Roxanne would not object.

‘No, but of course I have seen his wife.’ I decided to pre-empt him. ‘You probably know that I see her whenever she is in London, or when I’m in Seville, which, alas, is not often. Raoul, I gathered, was extremely busy. Roxanne and I have been friends for some time.’

‘Just so,’ he said. ‘She’s a beautiful woman. I envy your friendship. I’m surprised in a way that Raoul has not got you to work for us.’ He added ambiguously, ‘Your talents could be of advantage to us.’ I did not like that remark. It made me uneasy. What did it mean? Did he know more about me than I gave him credit for? I knew I had to tread carefully.

‘You know,’ I responded, ‘I think Raoul prefers to keep me at a distance. He tolerates me. Paradoxically, I serve a purpose for him. If I were merely an employee, our relationship would change.’

Arne moved the subject on to journalism. He wanted to know what I found so fascinating in writing for the press. There was not much money in it. He kept emphasising that I could make much more money working in business. Perhaps I should consider taking a position in one of the Myrex conglomerate’s subsidiaries. My relationships with Raoul and Roxanne might be preserved since Raoul would be at one remove: he would not be directly involved. I became convinced that this was a recruitment exercise. The sole reason for Arne meeting me was to entice me on board the great Myrex vehicle. He had no intention of feeding me any information about Myrex or anything to do with it. It was like an invitation to join the Freemasons: you could not know about its interior workings until you joined. The murdered American in Tallinn was certainly a dead duck. I was going to be given nothing by Arne. He was campaigning. I was the subject of that campaign. I resisted.

‘You might not believe this, but I find great satisfaction in journalism. I actually feel that I can tell the truth about various things, bring them into public view, invite scrutiny. All this is possible to effect. It’s an immense power. You know what they say, the Fourth Estate … And, in a way, it’s a privilege that others don’t have. That’s what I like about writing for the papers. I know you get a lot of lies but there is also truth there somewhere.’

Arne was unperturbed. He listened carefully to me. He considered my arguments and countered them. He was polite, unruffled. He suggested I wrote books. I could work for some Myrex company and if I were serious about writing books, it would be possible to come to an arrangement that would make the time available. He was sure that all that would be necessary would be an acknowledgement of Myrex’s sponsorship in an introduction. I had heard of the generosity of some of the big private companies in this respect, especially the Greek banks and shipping companies. They would put you on their payrolls and demand little of you. Their reasons were various. They might want to neutralise an individual, or buy him off. Increasingly it seemed to me, Arne was trying to engage me for Raoul’s enterprise while at the same time keeping me at arm’s length from him. I had been in intelligence long enough to understand that there was something wrong. Someone had decided that I was needed under control. My relationship with Roxanne slightly complicated the matter, although I did not fool myself that if they decided to remove me altogether, they would do so without a second thought.
In extremis
even Roxanne would be expendable.