The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby (6 page)

It is one of the pleasures of investigative journalism and of intelligence work in general. You have to keep second-guessing all the time, putting yourself in the shoes of your adversary, even your allies. No one ever tells the whole truth, if there is such a thing. It is like a game of chess or poker. You put yourself in the place of your opponent and think what he would do in the circumstances. Mostly you get it wrong: sometimes, alleluia, you are right.

The waitress appeared and asked if we had considered the menu long enough. She spoke excellent English, plain, straightforward, unaccented and correct. I made conversation with her and asked where she had been in Britain. I assumed she had lived in the country for some length of time.

‘I have never been to England,’ she said. ‘I learned my English at school and practised it with my aunt.’

We all ordered wild boar. It was a dish of the region and was served with red cabbage and sautéed potatoes. Rovde described how he had been to Princeton while back in the States: he had given a lecture to the politics faculty on emergent Russia after the break up of the Soviet Union. He delivered it as a luminary of the U.S. foreign service, not, of course, as a CIA executive. He admired the people who taught there, able, experienced teachers, and applauded the students, bright, dedicated and mostly charming. He had met one or two Brits studying there who had chosen the Princeton route of higher education rather than that of Oxford or Cambridge. He called them the new internationalists. Naturally enough, Rovde and his colleagues were always on the lookout at such venues for new recruits. The good universities, particularly the Ivy League ones, provided good picking grounds for finding new personnel.

I thought of our own country’s methods of recruitment, recently overhauled, but much less organised and aggressive than those of our American counterparts. Maybe it was this factor that ensured that many of our people were eccentric and variable. Willy was an example; and many of his colleagues seemed to have drifted into the work. They had no real vocation for it. It was just something that they found they could do and it all seemed acceptable. They had some special knowledge, or access to people or places that others had not. For most of them the chance to work for the service was fortuitous. That was not to say that we did not have our Oxbridge graduates: we did. They were mostly clever linguists, Russianists, experts in Serbo–Croat, Chinese. The School of Slavonic Studies was another source of our recruitment.

Rovde reckoned he had found a potential recruit in a young Anglo–American, holder of both passports, when he had dined with a selection of teachers and students after his talk. He was obtaining a file on the guy and would then present it to his bosses. He thought this youngster should eventually work in a similar way to Mark and myself. He should have a regular job with some institution, such as the World Bank, or some NGO, but the difference would be that he would provide intelligence directly to the Agency at the same time.

I wondered if the young Princeton recruit would know what he was letting himself in for and I doubted it. You had to live in two worlds, one clear, ordinary, sensible, the other, obscure, devious, evasive. The only person you could wholly unburden your mind to was your controller. He acted as your counsellor, therapist, guru, the person you could confide your deepest worries to, discuss those subjects you could not even mention to your wife. It is a hell of a life and requires extraordinary devotion. I remember listening to Greville Wynne give an evening talk at my club. He was an extreme patriot, who suffered terrible humiliation and torture at the hands of KGB but who kept emphasising that he never had any respect for their officers because their fingernails were dirty. I felt an urge that as well as listening to someone like Rovde, recruits should also have to hear someone like him talk about the realities of an intelligence agent’s life.

We finished our meal, drank the last of our wine, and decided to walk for a little round the old city. It was cold, the temperature just below freezing, but it did us good: the air was sharp and bracing.

We were in Tallinn for four days. There was plenty going on. The new Italian-owned hotel was full of international businessmen. Everyone was on the prowl to find out what was there to be exploited. Mark and I sat in the bar and made conversation with a variety of men who had been commissioned by their companies to see how the land lay in that country emerging from the hug of the Russian bear.

I decided that I should try to discover Arne. I was not sure how to go about it. Fortunately one of the men I chatted to in the Italian bar had a Myrex contact and agreed to introduce me. I explained that I was a journalist wanting to write a story about the way in which Estonia was developing its economy. Myrex, as a substantial corporation interested in the Baltic states, would have much to say about what was going on. So, the following day I was present at a breakfast meeting where a middle-aged representative of Myrex discussed finance for research and development in general terms with my bar friend of the night before. There were no specifics mentioned with regard to amounts of money, just general principles of the sort that Myrex might be interested in pursuing. Afterwards, when we were shaking hands and saying goodbye, I asked if there was any possibility of an introduction to someone called Arne who had been talked about when I was in Seville. I explained that I knew the chairman’s wife. The Myrex man was impressed by that information and said that Arne was in Tallinn at that time and he would see what he could do to arrange a meeting. He would call in on Arne’s secretary later that morning. Not very many people knew about it, but Myrex had set up offices on the top floor of a converted, redeveloped, elegant building that had once been one of the great houses of Tallinn in the nineteenth century.

Sure enough, that evening, I heard from him that I could call in on Arne just before lunch the following day although, he emphasised, I was to realise that Myrex had little or nothing to say to the press. I reported the news to Mark.

‘He’s only agreed to meet you because you know Roxanne,’ he commented. ‘You’re not going to get much out of them. This guy Arne is going to be pretty shrewd.’

‘We’ll see. It’ll be interesting to meet him anyway – according to Roxanne.’

‘You must be careful, Pel. They’re a strange bunch and I reckon dangerous.’ Mark, quite rightly, could never bring himself to call me Pelham and always used the diminutive.

‘You must not get yourself into trouble. Rovde’s crowd can do the sharp-end stuff if we find out anything is happening. And you must remember that it’s quite possible that, by now, Myrex, or Arne through his own sources, will know the sort of work you do for the
Journal.
I don’t want you harmed. You’re too precious to lose.’

That was typical Mark. He was an old romantic at heart and he meant every word he said. He valued my friendship as much as I did his. It was a close bond. We would have done anything for each other.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think I have my own built-in protection because of Roxanne. They’ll have to be careful with me because I know Roxanne.’

‘Still, take care. These outfits are thoroughly ruthless if they think their interests are threatened.’

‘I know. And thanks for your concern. I listen to you, you know that.’

So, the next day I turned up at the Myrex offices at about a quarter past twelve. Nobody would have known that the gorgeous building, fabulously restored, meticulously crafted to regain the nineteenth-century splendour of the grand house that it once was, contained the heart of Myrex’s Estonian, and for all I knew, complete Baltic, operations. There was no indication that any commercial or industrial enterprise was lodged inside it. It might have been an embassy or the city dwelling of a business magnate or corrupt politician. There were no brass plates advertising occupancy, and not even a street number. It was as though the house stood in its own right and everyone should know whose it was and what went on there. Those who might be ignorant about it were not worth bothering about. Thus the house had a confident, arrogant, aspect to it.

A high wall ran round the perimeter and at the front presented a handsome pair of wrought iron gates. The gate pillar on the right held a bell and intercom speaker, and a letter box. Behind the gates and up half a dozen steps was an imposing double-doored entrance, the doors positively shining with lacquered black paint. The rest of the frontage presented seven tall double sash windows, one pair either side of the door, and three on each of the next two floors. I rang the bell.

A voice spoke briefly through the intercom in Estonian, then in English. It was clearly a female secretary:

‘Good morning. Who are you? Can I help?’

‘Hallo,’ I said. ‘Pelham Rigby. I have an appointment with…’ It was then that I realised that I did not know Arne’s surname. There was nothing I could do about it. I continued after a small hesitation, ‘…Arne.’ I hoped that, what I thought was the over-familiar Christian name, would be sufficient, and it was. There was no flicker of surprise or affront in the voice.

‘Yes. You are expected, Mr Rigby. Push the right-hand gate and come in.’

I followed her instruction, entered, then pushed at the house door which opened freely to reveal an open vestibule with a girl sitting behind a capacious, wide, desk. She rose and greeted me.

‘Myrex’s offices are on the top floor, Mr Rigby. I’m afraid we have no lift. You won’t mind, I’m sure, climbing the stairs. Arne’s office is facing you at the top.’

From the vestibule, the stairs swept upwards and round to the first landing, and then upwards again to the second floor. On the wall at each landing a portrait of some Estonian nobleman looked down on proceedings. Like the house, the portraits had been recently restored. The portrait on the top landing regarded the onlooker imperiously. The artist had captured the Hanseatic aristocrat’s attitude of off-handed haughtiness. The subject had a German name and wore an elaborate uniform decorated with much gold braid, grand epaulettes, three medals and ribbons, and an ornate star no doubt denoting some imperial order of chivalry. As you stepped on to the landing, his half-hooded eyes viewed you with a distanced unconcern. How could you make any difference to his secure place in society: he had wealth, position, power. He regarded you from his world unaffected by the age of revolution.

It struck me that the new industrialists were the successors to that potent nobility. It was Roxanne’s husband, and maybe even Arne, who wielded power in a similar way to that slightly disdainful grand duke who reminded his spectators of a different era. I was again presented with a set of double doors. I knocked, and after a few seconds I was admitted into a large room, sparsely furnished with splendid pieces of early nineteenth-century period pieces, a huge writing desk, a sideboard on which there was a model of an ocean-going liner, a chaise longue, three easy chairs with arms, large, comfortable, and which reminded me of my London club, and a low mahogany, glass-topped table. The young male secretary who had opened the door for me ushered me in and invited me to sit in one of the club chairs facing the desk. I sat. He went out. I waited. It reminded me of a visit I had once made to my headmaster’s study when I was at school. Somehow the wait, I calculated, was meant to be intimidating. I refused to give in to intimidation on that occasion. I relaxed and took in the details of my surroundings. I remembered Willy telling me that part of his training was to go into a room and then he had to remember as much of the detail as possible. Afterwards he was questioned. It reminded me of a television game show where your ultimate prize depended on how many objects you could name that were in the room you had glanced at. In Willy’s work, you did not forget that the prize might turn out to be your life.

I sat there for about four or five minutes. Then behind me, through the outer doors, someone came in.

‘Good morning, or, I should rather say, good afternoon, Mr Rigby. Arne. I am Arne.’

He inclined towards me and held out his hand. I rose, turned to greet him, and we shook hands. There he was, a tall, severe, ascetic figure wearing rimless glasses. His fair hair was parted in the middle and fell from time to time over his eyes. He would flick his head back with confidence: it was a minor irritation. He wore a loose fitting dark blue suit of good make. It was better than a Gap suit favoured by so many Americans. It looked more like Ermenegildo Zegna tailoring. He carried it easily and was clearly comfortable in it. I noted as he came in that the room took on the fragrance of his aftershave lotion, something rare that I could not place. I noted, too, that because of its absence prior to his entry, he had not been in the room earlier that day. He looked at me carefully through his glasses, his pale blue eyes scrutinising my features. I felt he was trying to assess my mind from the evidence of my looks.

‘Please, sit down,’ he said, and walked to the chair behind the desk. We faced each other across the desk.

Before he had time to say anything else, I said, ‘Please call me Pelham if you prefer. It’s less formal and more friendly.’ Subconsciously I thought that he might hold a prejudice against surnames; but after I had said that, it occurred to me that Arne might be his surname.

‘Of course. As you please,’ he responded. ‘Well, Pelham, we don’t usually give interviews to the press. We don’t court publicity: it’s not our business. We do issue press releases, but you’ll be aware of that. It’s just because of your connection with the chairman that I thought we should meet. Naturally, I checked with him that you know him and his wife. He had no objection to our talking.’

He paused, flicked his hair back, adjusted his glasses.

‘Now, you should ask the questions. I’ll see whether I can give you some answers. You will have to bear in mind that I have always to consider our competitors, so much of our information is restricted. Sometimes I think I should have been a diplomat. I have to make decisions all the time, pick and choose what is for the public, soothe and occasionally provoke people. It’s often a minefield of difficult personal relationships. Anyway, please fire away.’

He had a slightly guttural, clipped pronunciation of English but no trace of the transatlantic accent that so many Estonians had.

I explained to him that I was clear about Myrex’s interest in Estonia and the Baltic states in general. They were in the lead developing the remnants of old Soviet laboratories and exploiting the talent of many very good scientists. I wanted to know where particularly they were investing.

‘I know Paldiski must be ripe for the sort of development Myrex is pursuing. Are you active there? There are a lot of big labs there. They were very important to the Soviet navy. One in particular was full of high-powered computer scientists. Many of those must be hungry for employment. A majority of them were Estonians who were Moscow-trained, clever, sharp resourceful people. There’s huge potential there.’

‘You are quite right,’ he said, ‘and you seem to know a great deal about the situation. Of course, I myself was Moscow-trained, but not in computer science. I went to KGB school. For some reason I was spotted and recruited. There wasn’t really any option of refusal. Anyway, I received a first-class education and I learned my fluency in English there. So KGB had its uses. The other bits and pieces I picked up there have come in useful for business, surprisingly enough. It is most important in business to have a good intelligence network operating.’ I knew what he meant.

‘How do you see Myrex’s future in Estonia? What are your plans?’

‘Those are leading questions. Our competitors would surely like to read our minds. What I can say is that we are interested in two labs that we want to resuscitate. One is a certainty: the other is, we consider, less viable, but we are optimistic that we can put it on a sound financial footing. The main lab will produce security software for banking and business in general. The other, if it gets going, will be more concerned with telecom technology. That’s about as much as I can tell you, except that we have recruited some very bright people to supplement our native Estonians, mostly from the UK and Hungary. As you probably know, Budapest features in Myrex’s sphere of interest: there’s a great deal going on there.’

‘I’ve heard that. To change tack, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get involved with Myrex?’

I took a risk with that question. I thought he might evade it.

‘In much the usual way. I was very much redundant when the Russians went. They weren’t concerned about me. There was no place for me in the new FSB, successor to KGB. The Russians became paranoid about foreigners. I scratched around like a chicken for a job. I met, by chance, a Myrex man one evening in the cocktail bar of the new Italian hotel. He was interested in what I could offer – knowledge of the country, much detail about the economy, informed intelligence about organised crime – and introduced me the following week to a Myrex director. We got on well and a meeting was arranged with your Roxanne’s husband. I went to Seville and was subsequently hired. Since then, I have become, quickly, Myrex’s man in Estonia.

‘Enough, though, about me. I am intrigued that you and your paper would want to know so much about us.’

I detected in his last remark that inquisitive note of suspicion. It put me on my guard.

‘It’s all about the EU,’ I said. ‘Expansion is the news. Estonia is one of the leading contenders for additional entry and our European editor wants a feature and any story I can discover. So, I’m grateful for anything you can give me. I thought that the development of somewhere like Paldiski, a ghost town, an old Soviet Nuclear naval base, would provide the basis of a good story.’

‘You are probably right,’ Arne commented. He put a hand to his forehead and brushed away his fair hair. He turned briefly and glanced out of the window behind him. As he did so, his glasses flashed in the sunlight. He turned back to me and considered me with his pale blue eyes. His eyes were extraordinary. The lightness or depth of their colour changed according to the intensity of light. At that moment they seemed almost translucent. They were the lightest of blues, virtually colourless. ‘I should warn you, however, that there are interests that would not like you to delve too deeply into what is happening in Paldiski. As I have said, my background affords me privileged information about big business interests and, alas, organised crime in my country. To step across a certain line would be very dangerous for you, and possibly lethal. I don’t want to scare you, but I want to be realistic. You should know how things stand here. I know everyone thinks this is the sort of stuff you find in James Bond books, but where big money, huge profit, is concerned, competition is literally cut-throat. You’ll be aware, I think, that a man called Belmont suffered a supposedly accidental death in Seville a short time ago. We, Myrex, think his death an assassination not unconnected with business monopoly in Eastern Europe.’