Run for Home (5 page)

‘Just get back to Prague.’

Jackson pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment and glanced at it with disbelief.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘I hope you’re not questioning my orders?’

‘No, of course not.’ He caught Murphy’s eye and shrugged dramatically.

‘Gibson has left the country again. We don’t know where he is but my guess is he’ll end up back in Prague. So that’s where I want you.’

‘Fair enough.’

Afterwards, Murphy said, ‘What now?’

‘He wants us back in Prague. He says that’s where Gibson will eventually end up.’

‘So he’s left the UK?’

‘Apparently.’

Murphy grumbled on a bit about all the extra driving. Jackson let him. He was thinking about Gibson, trying to see the world through his eyes. What would he do? Where would he go?

‘It’s obvious,’ Jackson announced with some satisfaction. ‘The boss is right. Gibson has to return to Prague. That’s the
only place where he knows people. He’s been out in the field too long. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we?’

Murphy nodded. ‘They used to call it bush happy – going native. In the old days.’

Jackson agreed. ‘They aren’t happy anywhere else. It gets to them in the end.’

‘Then we get to them,’ Murphy said with satisfaction.

‘What would they do without us?’

‘They’d struggle.’

And that was the truth of it, Jackson thought. The department would be unable to cope with its awkward ex-employees. It would be on its knees with accumulated lawsuits and enquiries, its operational budget draining away into the sand.

‘Remember that one we followed to Patagonia?’ Murphy said.

‘The ends of the earth!’ Jackson grinned. ‘Thought he’d got away, didn’t he?’

‘They always do. This one will be the same.’

‘They don’t get away from us, though,’ Jackson said. ‘They never do.’

Murphy nodded agreement.

They were a good team, Jackson reflected. The best. Even the Russians wouldn’t have anybody better than them.

‘The thing is,’ Murphy said, equally reflectively, ‘in our line of work, you have to be an enthusiast. You have to like it. The hunt, the kill, everything.’

Now it was Jackson’s turn to nod agreement. That was the truth of it. You had to like it, enjoy doing it, and they did. They had proved that over and over again. Sometimes he wondered if maybe Murphy didn’t enjoy it too much, but. … What the hell!

‘Which airport do you want to go from?’ he asked.

Murphy chuckled. ‘Am I glad to hear you ask that! I’m sick of this damned car.’

‘So which one?’

‘Any one but Heathrow.’

He hesitated. He was anxious to get on, but rushing into it might be a mistake.

For a start, he didn’t know if she really was here still. Her name was, but she might have moved out and sublet the flat. It was a common enough thing to do. The right to occupy a flat, whether owned or rented, had always been invaluable. People hung on to that right when they had it.

Even if she was living here still, he had no idea who else might be with her. And how eager would she be to see him anyway? His finger fell away from the button. He turned and walked off. He would wait. It was safer.

There was a small children’s play area fifty yards from the entrance to the flats. Next to it was a picnic table with a couple of benches. He tried sitting there but he felt too conspicuous. He got up and walked around for a while, always keeping sight of the entrance to the block of flats where she used to live, and perhaps did still.

There was nothing special about the building, not on the outside. It was simply one of many such blocks of flats alongside the main road and the tram tracks, in long lines stretching away into the distance. The flats would have been prized new housing when they were built, and not only for
manual workers either. It hadn’t been like that here. People had been all in it together under socialism; road sweepers and headteachers, factory managers and bus drivers, all living side by side. Sometimes in heavenly peace, sometimes in a makeshift Bronx. It had all depended on your neighbours.

He was nervous, anxious. Had he got it right? Could he trust her? Was she even here still? The questions went round and round in his head. If the answer to any of them was no, he would have to think of something else.

She came out in a rush at 7.45 in a well-rehearsed start to her day, a particular tram in mind. So she was still here, he thought with relief.

He caught up with her halfway to the tram stop, coming in at an angle, knowing she would be aware of his approach even though she hadn’t turned her head to glance in his direction. He fell in behind. He didn’t want to startle her.

‘Don’t stop, Lenka!’ he urged in Czech. ‘Don’t look round. Keep going. But I need to see you.’

However startled she was by his arrival, her pace never faltered and she didn’t look round. She kept going, a couple of paces ahead of him. It would have been surprising if an observer had detected any communication between them.

The tram stop was in the middle of the road, a long, thin, unguarded strip of raised pavement, with traffic passing dangerously close by on both sides. They crossed two traffic lanes to reach it and then separated, mingling with a dozen other people also waiting, in a sprawl rather than a formal queue.

He studied the empty spaces between blocks of flats on the other side of the road. Others stared along the tracks, willing the tram to appear round the distant corner. The waiting
game. It was up to her now. He had made contact. She would decide how she wanted to play it, if indeed she wanted to play at all.

She would have been surprised, astonished probably, by his approach, but she didn’t know how toxic he was. In the circumstances, she had responded well. She had followed his lead. He had given her time to think, and now he awaited her response.

When she left the tram, he stayed where he was and watched her head across the street and enter a small café on the far side. He stayed on the tram as far as the next stop. He got off there and waited to see who else did. No one at all. He walked back at a brisk pace, sure that no one had followed him.

The café was small and busy. A lot of the trade was from people passing through to pick up a coffee to take with them. He joined her at a small table tucked away in a corner.

‘Mr Gibson!’ she murmured in English with a small smile. ‘Such a delightful surprise. How are you, Harry?’

‘Hello, Lenka.’ He smiled back ruefully. ‘I’m all right – so far. Thanks for agreeing to meet.’

She shrugged.

He sat down. ‘Coffee?’

‘I’ve already ordered – for both of us.’

‘As efficient as ever!’

She laughed and took out a cigarette packet. He shook his head when she offered it to him and waited while she lit a cigarette for herself.

‘I’m in trouble, Lenka,’ he said then. ‘I’m hoping you might know, or be able to find out, what’s going on.’

She gazed out across the café, lifted her head slightly and
blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

‘How bad is it, this trouble, on a scale of one to ten?’

‘Ten.’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘Then it’s not me you need to see, Harry. I’m not the one to give help on that scale.’

A waitress came near, collecting dirty cups and plates. Then another one arrived with their coffee. Nothing more was said while they were in earshot.

‘So what is the problem?’ Lenka asked when both waitresses had moved away.

‘You know what I do?’

She nodded. ‘Of course. Like us, you keep an eye on the Russians.’

‘Yes, the bloody Russians!’ he said with a sigh and a shake of the head. ‘How many of their agents are here in Prague these days?’

‘At the last count?’

‘To the nearest thousand,’ he said with a smile.

She chuckled. ‘They have been reluctant to let my country go. I think they have more agents here now than ever.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe they just like it here.’

He watched her draw on her cigarette and waited for her to cough, remembering how it used to be for him in the mornings when he was a smoker.

She cleared her throat and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette.

‘I should give up,’ she said ruefully, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand.

He kept his thoughts on that subject to himself.

‘Parliament was shocked the other year,’ she said, ‘when for the first time the minister described the situation with Russian agents in his annual report on the security service.
He admitted there were more now than ever.’

‘I remember. We thought then that something might be done about it, once it was out in the open. But it wasn’t, was it?’

She shook her head. ‘What could we do? We just live with it – and with them. They’re everywhere. As with you, in London. Maybe it’s better this way, better than how it used to be. I don’t know.’

Maybe it was. He didn’t know either. This had always been a country where the intelligence services watched each other, and made contact and arranged deals when necessary. It wasn’t neutral territory, like Austria. More of a common stomping ground. But that wasn’t his concern right now.

‘My unit has been wiped out,’ he said, leaning forward.

Her brow wrinkled in a query.

‘Unit 89, as it was called – after the big convulsions in this part of the world. Eliminated. I’m the only survivor, and I don’t know how long that will last.’

She stared at him. ‘What do you mean, Harry?’

He told her. Everything. He told her about the safe house, the regular meetings, the care they took, and the massacre he had discovered a few days ago.

‘It’s worse than you might think,’ he added wearily. ‘The Russians didn’t do the killing.’

She listened with a grim face as he told her what he had observed and about the efforts made to hunt him down since then.

‘It is incredible,’ she said when he was finished.

‘Isn’t it?’ He shook his head and added bitterly, ‘It took me a while to get used to it.’

‘But you came back here?’

‘Here is where it started. Here is where I’ve been for many
years. The explanation has to be here, somewhere. That’s what I was hoping you might be able to help me with.’

She shook her head. ‘I know nothing about any of this, Harry. I don’t even know if the bodies of your colleagues have been found yet.’

He gave her the address of the safe house, but warned that the bodies might have been removed in a clear-up operation.

‘What were you working on?’ she asked. ‘At the time, I mean. Anything special?’

He shook his head. ‘I certainly wasn’t. Routine stuff, basically. Tracking. Keeping an eye on the agents we knew about. The usual.’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary? No warning signs?’

‘Nothing. To be honest, I’ve been wondering for some time why we bother any more. It’s all so routine. It might have been important in the past, but these days. …’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘I was hoping you. …’

‘I’ll see what I can find out.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But now I must go. I have a meeting to attend.’

‘Of course.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I’m moving around. I don’t feel I can afford to stay anywhere for long.’

She reached into her bag, took out a pen and scribbled an address on a piece of paper. ‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘It is safe.’

‘Officially safe?’ he asked dubiously.

‘No, not that. It is a building owned by a friend. Give him my name, and ask for accommodation. I will come this evening.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Take care, Harry,’ she said, leaning forward to peck him on the cheek.

He stayed where he was, watching her through the window until she boarded a tram that would take her into the city centre. She knew nothing, apparently. He wondered why he had thought she might. And he wondered again if he could trust her. Probably not, he decided with regret. He couldn’t afford to trust anyone.

He found his way to the address Lenka had given him. It was in Malá Strana – The Little Quarter – on the west bank of the river and close to the city centre. He got off the tram at Divadlo Národní, the National Theatre, and walked over Charles Bridge, easing his way through the visiting hordes of tourists, increasing numbers of whom were Russians these days. Sign of the times, he thought. The Russians were everywhere now they had money, and they especially liked it here. At least they didn’t come in tanks these days.

The street he sought was a narrow canyon between nineteenth-century apartment buildings that fronted directly onto the pavement. Dark and quiet, it sheltered a thousand people, perhaps more, behind its sandstone walls. He felt conspicuous, possibly watched, as he walked alone along the street, mindful of the quiet. He grew uneasy, and almost sorry to have left Charles Bridge and its teeming, noisy visitors behind.

He walked past the address he had been given, carrying on without pause to the end of the street. Then he turned, stepped into a doorway and waited a few moments before setting off to retrace his footsteps. There was still no one in sight. It felt too quiet, but what could you do? Nothing. He
walked the full length of the street again and then headed over towards the river. He had seen enough.

The ground floor of the building he wanted was occupied by a small restaurant called Jana, a combination bar and café. The menu board outside suggested it was not aimed at tourists. The meals on offer were simple and traditional, and a tenth of the price they would have been just a couple of blocks away on the tourist trail up Mostecká towards the cathedral and the castle. The name he had been given was presumably the name of the proprietor: Jan Klaus.

He would come back later, he decided. There was no reason to spend longer here, or in any other place, than necessary. Movement suited him better. What he needed was not a bed, or even a meal: it was information. And for that, he was pinning his hopes on Lenka.

It was a long day, a day spent unobtrusively in the shadows at the edge of a busy, noisy world. He fretted, inevitably, but he steeled himself to wait and see what Lenka came up with. If it was nothing, which he half-expected, he would have to move on and think again. Meanwhile, he tried not to think about Lisa. That was hard too, but necessary.

He moved the car across the river, parking it on a quiet street a couple of blocks away from Jan Klaus’s establishment. Then he whiled away the hours on a small island, a little way upstream from Charles Bridge, where there were wandering visitors, but not too many. From where he sat beneath a lime tree, he could see what was happening all across the island, and felt reasonably safe.

Leaves drifted down gently from the great trees all around him and the scent of autumn was heavy on the air. But the sun was warm still, despite the month, and in other
circumstances it would have been a Prague day to enjoy. As it was, his mind was racing too fast, constantly retracing recent events, trying to make sense of them but getting nowhere.

Lisa was never far from his thoughts and eventually he gave up the attempt to put her out of his mind. At some point soon, he would have to find a way of checking on her. Not yet, though. He couldn’t risk exposing her to the dangers besetting him. As far as he knew, Lisa was safe. He wanted to keep her that way.

The afternoon wore on slowly but eventually the sun did begin to sink, and with it the temperature. It was almost a relief. A little before 4 p.m., he stood up and set off back towards the address Lenka had given him, trudging through the fallen leaves covering the grass. For a moment, he wondered if it would be like this in Northumberland too, but it required a greater feat of imagination than he was capable of at that moment. He let the thought go.

Jan Klaus’s street was quiet still. There were no suspicious parked cars or loitering pedestrians. He stepped into a doorway and waited there for a couple of minutes. Briefly, playing devil’s advocate, he considered again the possibility that Lenka might not be on his side, after all. He soon dismissed that possibility. If he couldn’t count on Lenka, he might as well give up and surrender – or just shoot himself now, and get it over with. He emerged from the doorway and headed for the restaurant along the street.

There were half a dozen customers in place. He could see them all as soon as he entered the restaurant. Jana was small, no more than a single, L-shaped room plus a hidden kitchen. Beer drinkers sat at tables close to the bar in the short L-part of the room, one group playing a game of cards, others watching the television mounted on the wall in a
desultory, late-afternoon sort of way. In the larger dining area, there were a dozen tables, two of them occupied by young couples eating meals. He sat at a vacant table near a window.

A waitress, a young girl, appeared very quickly. He ordered
pivo
, beer,
brambory polévka,
potato soup and
guláš
. He also asked if Jan Klaus was around. The girl scribbled his order on a notepad and said she would check about the other.

The
pivo
arrived very quickly, as normal. He smiled his gratitude.
Pivo
always received urgent attention in traditional Czech restaurants. It was part of the culture, a culture he appreciated, and in which he was at home after so long spent here.

How long, exactly? he asked himself. He couldn’t remember, not exactly. Quite a few years, though. It had all started with occasional visits, which had then become frequent visits. Finally, Cally had suggested he just stay here. That was after he had set up Unit 89. The ostensible reason was to save travel costs, but he had known the proposal was an accolade, and that in effect it meant the old man was appreciative of his work and trusted him.

He shrugged. All that was in the past. To hell with it! His priorities now were Lisa and himself. Everything else was nothing to do with him any more. He was finished with it all.

‘Can I help you?’

He looked up at the large, round man who had quietly appeared alongside his table. The man had come through a discreet door at the back of the dining room. Probably a doorway to the kitchen.

‘Pán Klaus?’

The man nodded.

‘Novotná sent me. She suggested you might be able to provide me with temporary accommodation.’

Klaus studied him for a moment, as if awaiting proof of his credentials.

‘Lenka herself will come this evening,’ he added. ‘She is an old friend.’

‘And colleague?’

He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

Klaus glanced round. There was no one in earshot.

‘Perhaps there is some difficulty?’ he suggested.

‘Perhaps.’

Klaus nodded with apparent satisfaction. ‘Eat,’ he suggested. ‘Eat, and afterwards I will take you to your room.’

‘Thank you.’

The man nodded and left.

The room was simple, clean and perfectly adequate. It comprised. … Enough! No point making an inventory, he decided. He wasn’t going to live here.

Once he had decided the room was satisfactory, he left to bring his bags from the car. Then he settled down to wait.

A slight breeze from the open window tickled the curtain. A motorbike roared along the street. Distant voices told him tourists still thronged Charles Bridge. But this building itself was still and quiet. He could hear his watch measuring out time.

Just before 7 p.m., his ears detected creaks in the corridor outside his room. He stood up, tensed.

Fingernails tapped lightly on his door.

‘Yes?’ he said quietly.

‘I am here.’

Lenka. With relief, he opened the door and let her inside.
Before he closed the door again, he glanced automatically both ways along the corridor. There was no one else. He turned to face her with a welcoming smile.

‘It is not good,’ she said with a weary shrug. ‘It is not good at all.’