Vagabond (27 page)

‘Yes.’ It didn’t matter to him whether he believed the effort worthwhile and the risk justified. He was pleased to be asked. ‘And, Mr Bentinick?’

‘Yes.’

‘What I did, used to do, I’m not apologising for it.’

‘Why would you? For bringing you in, Danny, I’m out on a limb.’

Danny Curnow smiled ruefully. ‘You always were, Mr Bentinick, when the target seemed worthwhile.’

Many walking alongside the river that divided Yekaterinburg, fourth biggest city in Russia, administrative centre of the Sverdlovsk
oblast
, would have seen it.

There were policemen nearby and families with small children who threw bread to the ducks. Some posed loved ones against the the rails where boys put padlocks, then threw away the keys as an expression of eternal devotion, and there were shoppers.

A van pulled up in the centre of a new bridge. A policeman could have waved it on because stopping the flow of traffic was illegal, but his back was to it. Another officer saw two men get out and go to the back but did not reach for his personal radio or make any attempt to contact his headquarters. A man, bound and gagged but not blindfolded, near naked but for his underpants, was dragged out. He was heavy and difficult to manoeuvre because of the concrete that encased his legs below the knees. He was heaved up. For a moment he seemed suspended, feet over the rail, backside on it. Then he toppled. There was a splash, and he was gone. The river in the centre was deep and the current strong. Those who had seen it would have disbelieved what they
thought
they had seen.

It would be reported and talked about. A young man had climbed too fast and given offence. That would be remembered.

The head came round the door of Jocelyn’s office. ‘Heard from our man?’

‘Hello, George – only at sparrow fart this morning. Right now he’ll be out on his rounds.’

The eyes sparkled and the mouth had a trace of mischief. Few in the building – no one else of Jocelyn’s rank – knew the director general by name. She could have analysed the long-standing friendship between him and the withdrawn, distant Matthew Bentinick. To George, Bentinick was ‘our man’. She knew that George came by often and would hear in her room, if the door was open, the light tap at Bentinick’s window. The men were opposites but respected each other. She fancied that the director general envied the loose reins on Bentinick’s activities, and sanctioned them. She’d heard others on the corridor and on different floors refer to the closeness of the relationship as ‘inappropriate’. Now he came in and eased the door shut.

She grimaced. ‘I can only offer you water.’

He shook his head. ‘You understand the motivation?’

‘Once we had names in the frame, places and dates, the focus was sharp.’

‘As expected. It won’t be about some personal vengeance – legitimate targets and legitimate motives.’

‘A good target, George, and worth the effort.’

‘He said something to me about nailing the miscreant to the floorboards. Big nails.’

‘He won’t do it, of course. Flies out of there tomorrow and it’ll come to climax a couple of days later – unless we hit a head wind.’

‘The man he took . . . ?’

The mischief had left the mouth and the light the eyes. Jocelyn found it hard to imagine her director general with a killer streak.

‘Matthew knows what to do with him. He’s taken him out for the day. They’re doing the rounds of age-old atrocities. I think Matthew was concerned that in the years since he went adrift then—’

She was interrupted, quietly but firmly: ‘What’s his name?’

‘We called him Vagabond.’

‘I remember.’ Fingers together, joints flexed. ‘Matthew spoke well of him.’

‘He was damaged by the old work – enough were, but he was the best. And Matthew needed the best this time.’

‘He’s got a nice girl out there, promising, but probably squeamish with a thumbscrew. Matthew said her Joe was stringing her along, but Vagabond wouldn’t allow it.’

‘Vagabond’s being toughened up today before things start tomorrow and catch fire. Matthew’s confident he’ll do the business.’

‘Thank you, Jocelyn. Always good to be in the picture.’

‘Any time, George.’

The door closed, and she again opened her screen.

They waited at the bus stop across the road from the entrance.

Nothing much had changed. He was even wearing the same shirt and socks as he had at Gough – and registering the same sensations. He recognised them.

It was always slow at the start. They used to say, ‘Prior Planning and Preparation Prevent Piss Poor Performance.’ The seven Ps were part of the creed. In place in good time. A look at the ground and a tweak to the motivation. He didn’t complain. The pace would quicken. It always started slow and the trick was to squash down impatience. When the climax came it would be at the pace of a scudding storm. It always was. He thought he was ready.

They were two of a kind, who did not do small-talk, not even about the weather. They stood, at first in silence, neither looking at his watch to see if the bus would be along soon or was running late. Bentinick’s pipe smoke smelt good. Bentinick would never have fiddled his expenses, but that might be where honesty ended. As minutes went by, they began to talk. Suggestions and refinements, how it might happen at the end, if the cards stacked well. A query from Danny, and a nod from Bentinick. Much was uncertain, but a plan had been hatched before the bus came.

Chapter 9

It had been Matthew Bentinick’s idea.

They had gone past the cobbled space with the sculpture of the half-buried cross. Karol Pilar, who had shown it to Danny, had not remarked on it this time. Danny had followed Bentinick up the steps, into the museum, a relic of empire and grandeur, for a concert.

He seldom listened to music on the radio and never at the house in Caen, though it would be switched on in the kitchen. He had the car radio tuned to pick up traffic warnings when he was alone. He could not have said what music he liked and disliked. Bentinick had the tickets and the programme.

The seats were in the front row. There was a pianist; a solo violin – the star; two more violins, a viola and a cello. Danny knew the names of the instruments because Bentinick told him. The programme said they would hear works by Bach, Vivaldi, Mozart, Bizet and Brahms; the concert would last sixty-five minutes, about Danny’s tolerance limit.

The double bleep for Bentinick’s phone sounded twice.

Savage glances were ignored. The artists never spoke. Not that he’d have understood them if they had.

Bentinick said, ‘Music is good for the soul. It reduces stress.’

He listened.

Bentinick said. ‘You’ll enjoy it when we get to the Bach. It’s the Gavotte BVW 1068, an old favourite of mine. Weren’t you accused at Gough of dancing on graves, Desperate? What about doing a gavotte on a grave, putting some welly into it?’

He thought Bentinick was moulding him, as he would a piece of wet clay. There were the leaders and there were the followers; the roles seldom crossed. They had once, and he doubted the ‘dance’ insult was yet forgotten, ever would be.

‘He’s good on the violin. For God’s sake, Danny, you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself – and we go to the countryside tomorrow.’

His buttocks ached and his stomach was cramping. He sat and suffered.

‘You know how it’ll be – one moment quiet, tranquil, and the next all hell breaks loose. When it happens, Danny, I don’t want you mucking about in your head –
What do I do now?
Go for the jugular. Get him down and disabled and have your boot across his throat. I told my lord and master we’d nail him to the floor, but that’s afterwards. Lovely, isn’t it? Restful.’

He had led once – when it mattered. Him in the front and Dusty Miller behind. They had gone out of Gough and up the road to Belfast. They had quit and he had led. He’d heard Bentinick’s voice, only time it was ever raised, bellowing into the night for him to come back. Bentinick would have gone inside and told the boys in the bar, and Julie who did the paperwork, that Desperate would be back soon enough. Certainly by the time the bar closed. As Danny Curnow imagined it, the steward would have been kept in the Portakabin half the night. Two empty beds at dawn, and an agent rendezvous that would not be met that day by the man’s handler. Desperate had led.

‘Nearly there, Danny. We might get a bite to eat after this. You’ll be all right tomorrow when the pace speeds up. My favourite, Danny, is next. It’s from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, written in 1723. We’re getting Concerto Number Two in G Minor, Opus Eight. It’s
Allegro non molto
and you’ll enjoy it. Remember what I said. Your boot on the jugular, and later I’ll do the nailing to the floor.’

A woman clucked angrily behind Bentinick. A man leaned forward and rapped Bentinick’s shoulder. Both were ignored.

‘About taking responsibility, don’t expect to be universally thanked. Many said that the Czech officer in exile who set up the killing of Heydrich had the blood of thousands on his hands – those killed in reprisals. But you never looked for thanks, Desperate, did you?’

He knew that, two or three months later, Dusty had called the steward who ran the bar. The man was a better filing system and intelligence collator than Julia who looked after the card indexes. The steward had told Dusty that the life had gone out of Gough, and the success had stalled. They’d lost people who mattered, and Captain Bentinick was moving on because his FRU command was a ‘busted flush’.

The musicians completed their programme and were applauded. Men and women scowled at Bentinick, and were rewarded with his smile. Danny understood the purpose of the day’s exercise: he had been withdrawn from normality and put on a pedestal next to the one Bentinick occupied so that he could look down on them and feel nothing. Danny Curnow had no father, brother, best friend, or lover, and knew he would follow this man into Hell. Bentinick said he was hungry, and smiled congratulations to the artists.

‘That’s what I want to know.’

‘Is “please” not in your vocabulary?’

‘I use it where appropriate.’

‘And I’m not appropriate?’

Gaby Davies had not been invited to eat. Matthew Bentinick had a bowl of goulash in front of him and a plate beside it with bread and dumplings. He was drinking a glass of a local wine. Her anger was directed at the ‘blow-in’, Danny Curnow, who had once been Vagabond. He spoke evenly, which inflamed her fury.

‘I don’t say “please” when you should be making up for failure.’

‘What failure?’

He shrugged, seemed to tell her it was obvious. Her room and Ralph Exton’s were in a hotel on Stepanska. Cosy: handler and agent on the same corridor. She had no ally. The Czech policeman was by the door, nursing a Coke out of earshot. Matthew Bentinick wasn’t standing in her corner either. The food in front of Danny Curnow remained untouched.

Her failure irked: she had been unable to answer the questions put to her.

How much contact did Ralph Exton have with Timofey Simonov? When would they meet? Where? What weapons were required? How many would be test-fired by Malachy Riordan? Would a full exchange take place? When had the relationship started? What drove it? She had no answers.

She said, to Bentinick, ‘Do I have to repeat what I said? I’m coaxing. It’s a friendship, goes back for ever. All I know is that the Russian was on the floor and our Joe gave him a first step up – it happened before the cigarettes, and before the Irish showed up. They go back. I’m getting to it, but it’s slow. Of course he’s reluctant and – believe it or not – he’s actually quite an honourable man. He wants a pay-day, his marriage is in bits. The truth’s hit him – where he is and why. He has some integrity, which sits well with his considerable courage. I’ll get everything we need and . . .’ She tailed off.

Danny Curnow was rapping a spoon on the table – the drumbeat of a
tricoteuse
waiting for the head-lopping to begin.

Matthew Bentinick wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Very good – the goulash,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Gaby. Eloquent and put with compassion, except that we are not Work and Pensions. So, would you,
please
, go to work and unlock him. Soon.’