Debut for a Spy
Authors: Harry Currie
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #International Mystery & Crime, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Espionage
© Harry Currie, 2014
Harry Currie has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1995 by Rivercrest Publishers.
This edition published 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Cambridge
,
Ontario
–
May
,
1995
He turned into the driveway of the house on Caledonia Road, weary from a tiring day. This secluded corner of Cambridge had become his sanctuary, not only from daily routine, but from the intrusion of the past.
The house itself was old by Canadian standards, built somewhere around 1830 by one of the original group of Scots settlers. Grey fieldstone construction, it had been added to and modernized over the years with varying degrees of success.
Thanks to a previous owner a board and batten attached garage had been turned into a recreation room with a stone fireplace. Now it was a spacious and comfortable living room.
It was here he chose to sit on this unusually warm spring day, sun-drenched windows open wide, sipping a Drambuie, listening to Rob McConnell and 'The Boss Brass' on a new compact disc, the music punctuated by the periodic snap of the flag flying near the just-opened swimming pool.
His wife was out – a note left to say she was doing research at the public library, home around five-thirty. He glanced at his Rolex. Half an hour.
The front door opened and closed – perhaps it was she, home early. No. A blonde fifteen-year-old youth popped into the room with a bright grin on his face. The man pressed the remote mute switch.
“Hi, Dad,” the young man called cheerily.
“
Hi, Son,” he replied with a smile, “how was school?”
“
Okay. I got my math test back today – 86.”
“
Hey, not bad. You still like math a lot, don't you?”
“
Yeah, it's pretty good. But I have to do a make-up history project on the Falklands Conflict. I won't do very well.”
“
Anything I can do to help?”
“
I dunno, Dad. Maybe. We each had to come up with our own way to write about the war, and I decided to use an airplane. I don't think Miss Stevens'll like it.”
“
An airplane?”
“
Yeah, it's called the Harrier Jump Jet. It got started in England, but now they're made in the States, too. The U.S. Marines had them in the Persian Gulf. They even used one in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie last year called 'True Lies'.”
The older man’s pulse raced. He took a deep breath for control.
“How are you using the Harrier and the Falklands Conflict?”
“
It hovers, Dad, and doesn't need airfields, so the British used it both as a fighter and for ground support with the troops. It's pretty awesome. I think it's the main reason why the British won the war. But you probably don't know much about VTOL jets like the Harrier, do you, Dad? Your generation was into Spitfires and planes from World War II.”
They often joked about the 49-year gap.
“Come on, now, don't sell your old dad short. I know a little about the Harrier and where it came from.”
Just a little, he thought, just a little. The pulse again.
“Cool. I'm gonna hit some balls with the guys. Later, Old One,” the boy grinned, heading out the door and waving at his father through the window.
He waved back, smiling, but the coincidence of his son researching the Harrier had opened the floodgates of memory, a process which had begun with a trickle following the disintegration of the Soviet Union.
While the decline of the Communist Party and the failed coup against Gorbachev had been surprising enough, it was the purging of the KGB which had been the key to hidden recesses of his past. Was it all just a ploy? It would be like them, he contemplated. Perestroika and glasnost sounded idealistic, certainly, but were the realities of the Russian mind-set more deeply rooted in economic and strategic necessity, with all the usual subterfuge? No one ever knew where they were coming from.
Instinctively, he knew it wasn't over. Just last year a CIA analyst named Ames and his wife had been arrested for supplying intelligence to the Russians. As long as there are political boundaries, he mused, there will be spies.
Despite himself, misty, forgotten pictures began to form in his mind, most of the scenes from his own experience, some reconstructed after the fact. Perhaps now, once and for all, he can confront it and finally put it to rest.
When had it begun? There were many strands in the weave, but one in particu
lar stood out as the catalyst…
Paris
,
France
–
Monday
,
June
11
,
1962
The man stood with the shadow of his broad frame blending into that of the pedestal upon which the statue of Henri IV on horseback was mounted. Two steps up from the pedestrian walk onto the
Square
du
Vert
-
Galant
on
Île
de
la
Cité
, he was completely inconspicuous were anyone to regard
Pont
Neuf
from either side, but his own line of sight covered the whole bridge which ran across the island.
It was a cool night, but his shiver was one of anticipation, not of chill. He was about to do what he was good at – what he was paid for – what he enjoyed.
He kept looking toward the Right Bank, for some sign of the approach of his assignment. Over several days he had checked on the movements of his quarry, a senior curator at the Louvre. At midnight on those days when he had night duty, the curator would leave the museum by a private door, walk along the Seine on the
Quai
du
Louvre
, and cross
Pont
Neuf
over
Île
de
la
Cité
to the Left Bank. His apartment was near the end of the bridge. Habitually the curator strolled behind Henri IV to have a quiet pipe as he regarded the Seine.
The time – seven minutes past midnight. Not long now.
The night was clear, the visibility good, but the watcher removed his thick glasses and gave them a quick polish.
There. A pedestrian at the end of the bridge. Perhaps it was he. The time was right. Shrinking deeper into the shadow, the watcher observed the approaching figure. He was glad that traffic was extremely light on the bridge.
A slight stoop, a shuffling gait. It had to be. Still, one must make sure, he thought. Might as well be paid for the right one. He pulled his hat lower on his head.
Moving around the statue’s protective iron fence, the watcher kept out of sight as the smaller man walked behind Henri IV, stopping by the rail. Timing it exactly, the watcher moved to the perfect intercept. Surprised by the sudden appearance, the man was startled.
“Excuse me,” said the watcher in French, “I wonder if I might trouble you for a match. I dropped my lighter into the Seine.”
He held a cigarette in his hand as the older man fumbled nervously in his pocket.
“Yes, of course… a moment, please. I myself smoke a pipe.”
I know you do, thought the watcher. Found and struck, the match flared, the watcher satisfied by what he saw in the glow.
“Thank you,
m'sieu
, you are most kind.”
The watcher turned as if to depart.
“My pleasure,” murmured the curator, relief in his voice. Unnerved, deciding to get away, he took a quick step.
He heard nothing, but his head was snapped backward by a hand under his chin, and a white-hot pain in his back brought tears to his eyes as he stumbled to his knees.
“Please, please!” he begged through clenched teeth, “take my money! Don't hurt me!”
“
I don't want your money, old man,” the watcher whispered, crouching behind him. “You have one chance to remain alive. The pain in your back is from a stiletto long enough to reach your heart. Tell me what I want to know and you are free to go.”
“
Wh-what do you want?”
“
A name, old man. We know how you get the information. We know all about your pretty boy at the embassy. Now, who do you pass it to? Tell me, and you live.”
There was a hesitation, and the fire in his back raged as the point was pushed in, scraping a rib.
“
Mon
Dieu
,
Mon
Dieu
!” he sobbed. “All right! Please! I'll tell you! He is Armand Cantero!”
“
Where does he live?”
“
Rue
Saint
-
Laurent
near
Gare
de
l'Est
!”
“
The number.”
“
I don't know!” he gasped. “Black double doors! Third floor!”
“
And how do you make the transfer?”
There was a pause. The point moved in.
“No! Have mercy! Oh, God! At the museum! I use the facilities to prepare the material, and the transfer is made at the ticket booth! There is nothing more!”
“
Of course. Very ingenious. Are you telling the truth?”
The point moved again.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” came the choked reply. “Yes, it's the truth! I swear on my mother's grave!”
“
Then it's time you went on your way, old man.”
The point slid in smoothly, nicking a couple of bones, piercing the lung, entering the heart. For an instant the curator tensed rigidly, then released his life with a rasping sigh.
The watcher, his glasses fogging, held the stiletto in place while he silently counted five, then withdrew it with a steady pull. Wiping it carefully on the old man's coat, he replaced it in a sheath on the inside of his jacket.
He checked several pockets before he found the old man's wallet, then removed his watch and a diamond ring. A smokescreen.
Picking the old man up, he walked to the rail and effortlessly threw the light body far enough so it dropped into the Seine behind a tour boat pier. Glancing both ways, he chose to walk to the Left Bank to avoid people coming from the other side. Striding, he cleansed his glasses of the residue of his victim's fear.
He walked briskly, glancing at his watch. Not bad. Barely 3 minutes from contact. He felt good. Aroused. Ready for a
putain
.
*
London
,
England
–
Tuesday
,
June
12
,
l962
“Secrets – take two!”
The band kicked in with a driving beat, setting up my entry after four bars of intro. I relaxed on the stool and sang from the heart. This take went well – much better than the first. My voice was warmed up, and Don Lusher's trombone solo really swung.
My main worry was the high note at the end. This time it held strong and firm – on the first take I'd sounded like a strangling duck. The band hit the last shot. We froze till the reverb died.
“
Bang on, David,” piped the thin voice over the intercom. “Come into the booth and listen.”
A new tune I'd written, HMV were recording it since it was in the running as the theme for the spy movie filming at Pinewood.
The playback was fine, and once the electronic boys got through with it even the notes I winced at would be perfect. As the last sounds faded I grabbed my coat.
“
I've gotta run, George. I'm meeting House Paynter near Charing Cross, and I didn't bring the car. Too much bother to park, especially in the rain.”
“
I'm going to the Strand, David. Why don't I drop you?”
“
Thanks. No bother?”
“
Not a bit.”
We left EMI's Abbey Road studios a few minutes later in George's Rover. This would definitely save me some time.
“You met House Paynter during your army days, David?”
“
Yeah, in 1956. He was already Director of the Coldstream Guards Band and I a lowly Student Bandmaster at Kneller Hall, but it didn't bother him a bit. We became good friends.”
The difference in our status never mattered to House – rank was not his criterion for measuring people. He did as he pleased, and seemed to lead a charmed life with neither censure nor reprimand from a normally inflexible social system.
“Didn't you have a commission in the Canadian Army at the time? I remember someone telling me about the subterfuge.”
“
The Brits wouldn't let me attend the course as an officer, so on paper I became a Warrant Officer Class I for the three years I was at the school. Then I was reinstated in my rank as though the time had never happened. Ironically my pay went up with both moves, so I was far better off.”
“
What a lot of cod's wallop. The services never change, do they? All that bullshit baffling the few brains they have.”
“
I can't complain, George. Nearly ten years in the Regulars and four in the Reserves and I figure I've come out way ahead.”
“
But you didn't want to make it a career?”
“
Nope – I'd had enough. And musically it was very limiting in the Canadian Army. My appetite had been whetted by London when I was a student, so back I came. I've been very lucky.”
In the previous year I had done rather well – some recording work, a little conducting, a few commercials, a fair amount of arranging, and what was most surprising, a lot of singing in clubs and on the BBC. I had two records out, and now I was on the brink of the leading role in a major West End musical.
“Damn,” muttered George. “Look at the traffic around Trafalgar Square.”
“
I'll jump out here, George, and walk across. Then you can cut to the Embankment. Thanks!” I called, slamming the door.
I hummed the new tune as I walked. It seemed to fit the day – one of those for which London was famous – gray, overcast, and drizzling incessantly. The perfect setting for murder and espionage, I grumbled, as I sloshed past Nelson's Column. That thought, however frivolous it seemed at the time, was far more prophetic than I could ever have imagined.
'House' Paynter's real name was Howes, but no one had called him that since he had joined the army as a boy-soldier in 1936. A major now, we had resumed our close friendship on my return to London, and occasionally his contacts opened some musical doors for me. I was indebted to him, but he expected nothing in return.
Until now.
This call had been strange. Normally he was boisterous and full of gags, but not this time. I sensed a strain in his voice.
“
Got anything on this afternoon, David?” he had asked, and when I replied nothing special, he continued, “Will you meet me at the Sherlock Holmes in Northumberland Street? I have a friend who would like to propose something that he hopes may interest you.”
Why the Sherlock Holmes? I thought. We never went there, and House was almost fanatic about his pet pub in Chelsea. Then there was the way he had spoken – that was not like House. No jokes, no 'Goon Show' voices, not even a knock-knock or a riddle. But I had agreed, and now I walked over to Northumberland Street and the Sherlock Holmes, arriving there damp and curious.
The Sherlock Holmes pub was once called the Northumberland Arms Hotel, and as such it was mentioned in
The
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles
. Small wonder, then, about its present name, its decor, and its collection of Holmesiana.
House was sitting comfortably in a corner. Shooting Sherry was his favorite drink, and he had a schooner of it in front of him. He was alone, which surprised me, as I thought he was bringing someone to meet me. He was also in guards’ officers' undress uniform – dark blue suit, shirt, tie, and bowler hat. This was not like House at all.
“David, over here!” he beckoned, as I threaded my way through the crowd, and when I sat down, “What kept you, old son? I'm two up on you already.” His cherubic face beamed. He was more like himself than he had been earlier.
“
Well, you didn't tell me it was a pub crawl, 'old bean', did you?” I retorted. “I thought you wanted me to meet someone. What did you mean? Who is it? Where are they? What's going on?”
“
All in good time, old son, all in good time. Now, what are you drinking?”
We chatted as we sipped – about our army colleagues and their misdemeanors, the state of music in the country, and, of course, the fairer sex. But my curiosity was piqued.
“Come on, House, cut the B.S. This is all very nice, but it's not why you called, is it? What's up?”
He hesitated for a moment, as befuddled as a leprechaun who had misplaced his pot of gold. Once again he was tense.
“I have this friend – an acquaintance, actually – supposedly at the War Office, though that seems debatable. He's a colonel in some kind of nebulous job, though I've never been sure of what he actually does. The only thing I really know is that he asks a lot of questions every time we meet.”
“
What kind of questions?”
“
Everything in general, but mostly about people I meet and know. Always seems fairly innocent, but I can never shake off the feeling that he's probing. Well, I mentioned your name a few times and what you've been up to, and he seemed really interested. Then, yesterday, I had lunch at the mess after the changing-of-the-guard, and he asked if I could introduce you.”
