The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby (19 page)

From the moment of Arne’s departure, Uri concentrated on his quarry. Throughout the evening, I could not help but break in occasionally to lend support to what Uri said. I told Paul that I thought he could go far in the US government intelligence service. I did not tell him about my connection with Willy: it would have been unwise to tell anyone. Paul could draw his own conclusions. I could see that Paul was interested. His imagination was stimulated by the idea of covert work. He was not foolish enough to believe that he would become an American James Bond. He realised that the greater percentage of intelligence work is hard graft, routine work, collation, sifting, report writing, analysis, documentation of one sort or another. In fact, it had its boring, civil service side to it. Yet it required intellectual ability, persistence, concentrated focus, and, in the field, a variety of human contact, much travel and often considerable excitement.

Paul had no illusions. He was quite prepared to leave Arne and Myrex, and even more ready to serve his country in the ways that Rovde described. By the end of the meal, Rovde declared that he would like to transmit the burden of their conversation to his superiors back in Washington and report that Paul was a willing new player in the Great Game. In the meantime Paul should continue working conscientiously for Myrex and pay close attention to Arne and his role in the corporation’s proceedings. He mentioned that even if Paul were to be taken on by the American service, it might be thought necessary to keep him in his Myrex post for a while. What was happening in the Baltic states, and the operation of Western companies and corporations in those ex-communist countries, was of crucial concern to the US government. Someone who worked within one of those companies would be invaluable.

Just before 10.30, Rovde, who looked thoroughly pleased with himself, elated by the success of the evening, said he had to go: he was to meet Mo and did not want to keep her waiting. Paul looked happy and satisfied. I think he saw the progression of his career laid out in front of him: it all seemed most satisfactory. We finished on a high note of bonhomie. The three of us were all well pleased. Everything had gone to plan. We were in excellent spirits. I regretted that I had to leave Mark seated at his separate table. It had not been appropriate to introduce him then, although I was very keen for Paul and Mark to meet. I had no doubts about them liking each other. In retrospect, that dinner and its conclusion in the Italian restaurant was the high point of success and satisfaction. After that, it was a quickly accelerating decline into grim horror.

Arne made it perfectly clear the following day, the last day of the conference, that he, or rather, Myrex, wanted an answer from me. Was I going to be tempted and fall in with their ideas of employment for me; or was I going to refuse. At one point after lunch, Arne remarked, in what I thought then was jest, that if I was reluctant, then Myrex would make me an offer I could not resist. Subsequently I realise the import and implications of his statement. I remember thinking that it was time I made my refusal of their offer plain. I could no longer sit on the fence, prevaricate. So, I told him as we drank our coffee. Paul had gone to photocopy some papers for Arne and to send a fax to Seville – I assumed to Raoul.

‘Look,’ I said as I sipped the jet black brew of my espresso, ‘I am quite clear in my own mind. I don’t want to make a change. It’s very generous of you and Raoul, and whoever else might be concerned, but I am content with my life at the moment. I don’t want to shift. You’ll have to tell Raoul, I’m afraid.’ I thought to myself that Raoul could have consulted his wife. Roxanne would know how I felt, although she would obviously not know all my reasons for refusal. She could explain; offer some sort of credible explanation for my turning down of what most people would see as a brilliant opportunity. Yet I knew that to mention the intimacy of a husband, wife, lover, relationship, would embarrass Arne and, almost certainly, annoy Raoul. I decided to keep my thoughts quiet.

‘He is going to be extremely disconcerted, put out, I think you say. He will not like it. He has been determined to have you with us. My instructions were to engage you at all costs. Myrex’s conditions could not be more generous. Raoul, and some of his other board members, are not going to be pleased. In fact, he will be furious. I know he was relying on your cooperation. I do not know what he will do next.’

‘Oh come on, Arne. I’m not as important to Myrex as all that. You’re being melodramatic. I’m a small fish who likes swimming around Raoul’s wife. What’s so great about employing me?’

Arne replied unusually sharply, ‘I do not know. But there is something about you that Raoul and his colleagues want to secure. You cannot ask me: I do not know what it is.’

I began to feel awkward. I did not like the way the conversation was going. I could not calculate whether to believe in Arne’s ignorance of motives or not. He seemed to be on edge, even annoyed.

He continued, ‘I shall have to let Raoul know at once. In a sense, we have kept him waiting. He has been very patient. He will not like it. Like Napoleon, he is used to having his own way.’ I had to work out if Arne’s Napoleonic observation was a joke or not. I decided not: Arne was not in a joking mood. I am not sure that he ever was.

In fact, the mood had changed. Arne was more clipped, more curt than he had been. His few words became fewer. Paul returned from his secretarial tasks and did not realise that a mild frost had fallen on the proceeding. He soon discovered the proper register. He observed light-heartedly that the girls in the office where he had just been, were attractive and companionable: there were three of them and perhaps we could invite them for supper. Arne was not amused and quickly called Paul to order by asking him to fetch the agenda for the final plenary session of the conference. Paul detected the tone, flat and determined, in Arne’s voice, glanced at me, and hurried off. Unnoticed by Arne, I had widened my eyes, but Paul saw the hint in my look, took stock, adjusted the tenor of what he was saying and behaved appropriately.

It was good to see that Paul was adjusting to his new situation. He was more aware than he had been that life was not as simple as he first imagined. His work with Myrex had suddenly become important now that he had talked to Rovde. His position there with Arne was not just a job to gain some sort of passing experience of the business world. He knew that it would have some other significance. Rovde had intimated that without giving him any specific idea at that point what it might be. Paul knew he was on a different course. He was watchful and alert to nuances of behaviour in, as it were, the players on stage. Prior to his meeting with Rovde, it would not have occurred to him to look out for signs and signals. Nothing, of course, had been finalised between Rovde and him, but we all knew that Paul was launched in the direction of service with the Agency.

Later, after the finish of the plenary session, I was standing in a group discussing US dominance over the EU member states, especially in matters of defence. There was an Estonian government minister aged about thirty, dressed in a hand-made suit, with styled hair, and smelling of eau de cologne, another journalist from
Le Monde
, a woman director of a Dutch consultancy company, Arne and myself. We came to no conclusion except to agree that US commercial expansion, supported by massive military superiority under the White House administration then in power, was aggressively active, strident and effective. Privately I reflected that their intelligence service was very similar. Gradually the meetings of one or two people here and there broke up. The conference began to dissolve. Taxis drew up outside. Delegates with their suitcases appeared out of lifts and were driven off to the airport or to the hydrofoils. Arne asked me when I planned to leave. I told him that I would stay for the rest of the week and leave Saturday in the late afternoon.

‘We must meet tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Let us walk around the old city in the afternoon. Then perhaps, if you were not doing anything on Friday, you would like to come out to Paldiski to see how we progress with our labs. Who knows, I might still be able to persuade you.’

‘That would be good. Tomorrow I can write my copy for the
Journal
. I’d love to see how things are going at Paldiski. I look forward to that.’

When I remember what I said to him, I see the acute and awful irony. I had no idea of what lay in store for my friends and me.

That evening we all relaxed. Rovde, Mo, Paul and I, met for dinner in the Gloria’s cellar. Mark and I still thought it best to maintain a discreet distance but I continued to keep him aware of where I was and what I was doing. Arne no doubt went to bed early. His change of tone, his tartness, would not have been welcome. The rest of us were in ebullient mood. We drank good Chilean wine in front of the open fire. It was strange to think that in frozen Estonia we were drinking wine from the warmth of a completely different hemisphere. Mo was totally enraptured with Uri. She attended to every word he uttered. They were a good matching pair. Intellectually, they were sounding boards for each other. They discussed and argued, but never bitterly to the last ditch. They complemented each other. Uri was a physical heavyweight, tall, broad, big-boned: Mo was also tall, but slender and stooped. If you had combined them together somehow, you could have produced two normal-sized people.

Paul was elated. I suspected he saw his life taking an unexpected turn. He saw, no doubt, excitement, adventure, an extraordinariness that would mark him off from most other people. I kept damping down his sense of exhilaration by pointing out that what he might be committing himself to was in essence dangerous. No matter how obscure you were in the service, you were nevertheless a target in the front line. It was known to the enemy that you were there. They did not necessarily know your identity, but you were in direct line for elimination. Anyway, I stressed, the Agency might turn him down. Just because Uri thought him suitable, it did not mean that his superiors would. That I knew was not a strong argument: it seemed to me that Paul was an ideal candidate. When I thought of some of our own agents, individuals we had recruited for a variety of odd reasons, I could see clearly that Paul would be outstanding. If the Americans could not see that then they deserved to fail in all their intelligence quests. Compared with some of our old drones, Belmont for example, Paul would become razor sharp. Belmont had been a certain typical sort of British operative, seedy, inefficient, in the end a liability. Paul would quickly become a professional. I saw him as a future Washington favourite, destined for high office.

It was a good evening. We enjoyed each other’s companionship, conversation, concern for values in the world. We broke up about eleven. We were all slightly drunk, pleasantly, warmly so. I saw the three of them away. I stood outside the Gloria on the frosted pavement. It was cold and the temperature was still dropping. In saying goodbye, we all hugged each other. Paul’s embrace was distinctive. He conveyed in it a powerful concern and care for me. I wondered if it was the same for the other two. As I stood outside the hotel, I felt like the owner of some great manse who was saying goodbye to his dinner guests as they left after a particularly convivial evening. I waved as they disappeared into the gloom of that cold night, Paul back to the Myrex house and the spectral Arne, Uri and Mo, more than likely, to his place. I wondered how the night would end for them.

I was alone. In the vestibule I rang Mark’s mobile.

‘You all seemed to be enjoying yourselves. It’s not much of a holiday for me. I’d like to meet those two Yanks. They look good fun.’

‘You will,’ I said. ‘All in good time. Now look, I think we should meet for breakfast. What do you reckon, here or in the English café?’

‘The café,’ he said. ‘It’s more in the open and safer. We can make it look as though we met by chance. Nine o’clock?’

‘Fine. You arrive at nine. I’ll be there at five past. I’ll grab my breakfast from the counter and as I pass your table, I’ll drop my newspaper. You pick it up and that way we’ll get into conversation. I’ll then join you at your table.’

‘OK. See you in the morning. Sleep well, dear prince.’

The following day was sorted out. I could spend most of the morning with Mark and maybe arrange for him to meet Paul; and in the afternoon I would walk with Arne around the old town. When I reached my room, I felt languorously tired. As I lay in bed, I was haunted briefly by erotic thoughts of Lena. I suppose it was the Washington connection. Thoughts of the Agency, Rovde and Paul were running through my mind. Lena soon appeared in my imagination. Her shape, her form, her delight and enjoyment, all came back to me. Then I slept, deeply and soundly.

All went as expected the following morning. I went to the English Café as we had planned. I appeared to drop my paper accidentally as I passed Mark. I rested my breakfast plate and coffee on his table, stooped to pick up the paper, he reached for it before me, and so we struck up, what must have seemed to any onlooker, a casual conversation. Loudly enough for most people in the café to hear, Mark invited me to sit at his table.

I wondered to myself what on earth we were doing. Suddenly, it all seemed ridiculous. Any self-respecting security organisation would have known exactly who we were, and I was convinced that anyone from Myrex commissioned to watch me would have known our identities and relationship. Still, we performed the charade, and soon we were deep in conversation. It was such a pleasure to talk with Mark. I immediately relaxed. I became oblivious of place. We might just as well have been back in our pub on the London riverbank. I explained to Mark that Arne was going to walk with me round the old town that afternoon, and that the next day I was going out to Paldiski. No doubt Arne would further test me on my declared determination not to join Myrex. Why were they so keen to recruit me? That question exercised our minds. We talked about possible reasons in quiet tones fearful that we should be overheard. Mark reckoned that for a certainty Myrex must have been involved in business that was less than legitimate. Since Tallinn was so important in the expansion of their enterprises, he thought that Raoul and his partners must be connected with criminal activities. He alluded to drug smuggling, money laundering, arms dealing, internet conspiracy and fraud. I suggested that there might be a link with the Russian mafia: perhaps Myrex’s interest in computer technology, e-business and encryption, had to do with the many pornography sites that were based in Russia. Huge amounts of money were being made by hard-core pornography companies. I saw Raoul as an entrepreneurial exploiter who did not care how Myrex’s money was made, and Arne as his clinically efficient, amoral facilitator.

Our discussion on that subject was inconclusive but we remained sure that there was something unorthodox going on, to do with Myrex’s programme. Mark went on to tell me about the book he was reading, a powerful but extreme tirade against Islamic expansionism by an exiled Italian author in her eighties who lived in New York. At the same time, he had been dipping into Buddhist scriptures, trying to understand Buddhism’s religious philosophy.

‘What I find so attractive about Buddhism is its kind of stoicism,’ Mark said. ‘There’s no point in looking for reasons all the time. It teaches a philosophy of acceptance. There is suffering in the world and there is nothing we can do about it. You should merely accept the fact and endure as best you can. You’re wasting your time if you look for reasons, rationalising why it came about.’

‘I can understand all that, but I need reasons. At least Christianity, Judaism, Islam, put forward reasons for the existence of evil. I need explanations, or, at least, attempts at explanation.’

He started quoting bits from the Buddhist scriptures. He said he had not consciously made an effort to learn them; they had just stuck in his memory. We were talking about certain rules that are supposed to govern monks’ lives, when Paul came in. He looked around to see if there was anyone there he knew, saw me, raised his hand and waved, and joining the short queue said he would come over to our table. I was elated by his arrival: Mark and he would meet. I knew they would like each other; and I was right. Naturally, Mark was fascinated that he was at close quarters with someone who moved at the centre of Myrex operations. I had stressed to him that Paul was merely Arne’s PA in the most menial sort of way, but, nevertheless, Mark held that Paul’s privileged position must have made him privy to all sorts of matters that other people could not possibly know about. Mark did not know what kind of man Arne was. Although I had described his obvious asceticism, Mark found it difficult to believe the extent of its effect. It was not until you met Arne that you appreciated his objectivity, his cool calculation, and, as I have mentioned, his amorality. Mark had yet to find that out.

Paul could not stay long. He had simply stopped by for a cup of coffee and whatever passing company he would find in the café. He apologised for not being able to stay longer but told us that he had to report back to the Myrex house where Arne was working. He had just delivered an important dossier to someone who had booked into the Italian hotel the night before, and felt he had better return. He left hoping that he and Mark would meet again. I said to him as he stepped away from our table that I would make sure they did.

As we sat there musing about what Myrex’s real business might be in the Baltic, Mark said that it would be interesting to discover who the person was that had moved into the Italian hotel the night before. He thought he should investigate. It would be easy enough to find out who it was. Mark knew that I had to write my copy for the
Journal
that morning. While I was doing that, he said he would pursue his inquiries at the hotel. We both considered it essential to ascertain the legitimacy, or otherwise, of Myrex’s dealings. I told Mark that I would find out more about their business when I went with Arne to Paldiski the following day. He agreed that it was an incomparable opportunity.

I took our used crockery back to the counter, left a tip for the girls who worked as waitresses, and we went out on to the landing. We put on our coats and Mark wrapped a dark blue woollen scarf round his face and neck. We put on our hats. It was going to be very cold outside. The giant thermometer on the side of the Town Hall read minus one and a fierce wind blew. As I held the door open for Mark, I saw Rovde striding towards the café across the square. I closed the door again and said to Mark that he should meet the burly man, whose face was not visible, who was coming towards the café and us. I explained quickly that it was Rovde.

‘So, I meet all the Americans this morning,’ he commented with a tone of satisfaction. He unwound his scarf and we waited those few moments for Uri to come through the doors. He did so with a forceful bluster, shook his head vigorously, removed his fur hat, and saw us. He smiled broadly.

‘Wow. How are you guys? It’s cold out there. Are you coming or going?’

‘Uri, we’re just leaving. But let me introduce you to a friend and colleague of mine, Mark.’

They shook hands and Uri patted Mark’s shoulder. ‘It’s good to meet you. Sorry you’ve got to go. Is there anyone else I know upstairs?’ I told him there was not. Two other tables had people at them who so far as I could tell were native Estonians.

‘Well, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to some company.’

Mark said he would be delighted to have another coffee while Uri took some breakfast.

‘I don’t have anything pressing to do. Pel has got to write his piece for the paper. So, I’ll keep you company if you like.’

‘Great. Couldn’t be better. Let’s go.’ He began to remove his coat. ‘Bye, Pelham. Ring me later.’ Mark nodded and said he would be in touch during the evening. I went out into the cold, envying them the warmth of the café and the camaraderie of their conversation.

The rest of the morning I spent hacking out an article on Estonian development, the country’s entry into the European Community and its progressive use of internet activity in every walk of life. The people I had met over those past days at the conference hotel determined the angle of its slant. Arne had left a telephone message for me: we were to meet at two o’clock underneath the thermometer on the Town Hall. I finished writing by 12.30 and thought I would go back to the English Café and have a sandwich for lunch. Like Rovde before me, I thought I might meet there someone I knew, maybe Uri himself, Mo, even Mark might have made his way back there. I was unlucky. No one was there. What were they doing? I wondered where Mark was. So, I ate my sandwich on my own. I read a newspaper, went over in my mind the article I had just written and decided to make one major revision and two minor ones. I ordered an espresso and a glass of water. At five minutes to two I went outside and strolled over to the base of the Town Hall and stood under the thermometer: it read zero. I barely had time to glance up at the reading when I heard Arne greet me.

‘Ah, Pelham. Well met. I need what you English call a constitutional. I have been sitting all morning dealing with finance. Making the books balance and always looking at the bottom line is exhausting. A good walk and fresh air is what I need. Have you spent a good morning?’

‘Thanks for asking. Yes, I’ve been productive. I’ve written an article about Estonia, the EU and internet use. I’ll have to alter it a bit; but the task is mainly done.’

‘Your talents are wasted on that sort of thing, if you don’t mind me saying so. That’s why you should come with us. We could make your efforts really worthwhile. I have not said this before, but I can say so now, we can offer you in the region of two hundred thousand dollars a year.’

He paused and waited for my reaction. I think he believed he might have hit a bull’s eye. Perhaps he was just testing me. If he believed that I had security connections, then he probably did not realise that people like me are not tempted by offers of that sort. If he were trying to neutralise me as an intelligence source that put at risk Myrex’s operations in the Baltic, then he had overlooked one thing: my colleagues and I did not work in the field of investigative journalism in order to make our fortunes. We did the work because it was fascinating in its intricacies and we were committed to the idea that what we were doing was essential for the health of our society, for the good of our fellow citizens, for the common weal. We defended our way of life, more as foot soldiers than generals. We did not expect to earn spectacular salaries. There were principles involved. Bribery was irrelevant. Few of us ever fell for financial inducements. The ones who did and Belmont immediately sprang to mind, in a sense, destroyed themselves. They betrayed their country and themselves.

‘That’s very generous,’ I said. ‘But as I have said, I’m really not interested. I’m happy as I am.’ We had hardly started walking, and yet Arne had already pitched his hard-sell technique at me. I wondered what was in store. He was certainly eager to make his assault. We took our way out of the main square into the narrow cobbled Voorimehe, emerged into Pikk Street and entered the Toompea by the Long Leg Gate. We ascended slowly the Pikk Jalg, gained an eminence and looked back over where we had come from and beyond to the new town and the docks. As we looked seawards the sky was clear. It gave the concrete and glass buildings, and the shining metal of refineries and factories, a frosted brilliance. We were standing in the midst of thirteenth- and fourteenth-century architecture looking out on to late twentieth-, early twenty-first-century functional, modern constructions. We continued up to the Nevsky Cathedral. Arne said we should go inside.

At various points inside the cathedral candles burned and half banished the gloom. Gold, silver and red were the colours that dominated the extravagant decoration of the interior. There were images of dark-faced saints hung as icons on walls and pillars. The heavy scent of unusual incense misted the air. A number of the faithful knelt at prayer. Arne paced slowly round. He stopped at a small shrine. A glass case revealed precious jewels and a crown of gold, embellished with silver and pearls. Arne saw the cathedral as a museum. It held no religious significance for him. I remember commenting to my inner self that if he were not working for capitalism, he would have made an exemplary communist. Religion for him was the relic of history. It had been overtaken, rendered obsolete. For him, as he told me in discussion later, God was dead. That was another factor that set me against him. I realised that he was soulless. He was a realist, a materialist. I am, and was more so then, a romantic. Our philosophies were irreconcilable. It occurred to me that also, given other circumstances, he could have been a Nazi. I could see that he would not think twice about taking life, about having to kill. I know that is a question that all intelligence personnel have to answer, but behind their conviction to kill lies a philosophic argument to do with the preservation of good in the face of evil, the mortal battle between good and evil: troops on both sides must perish in the conflict. I suspected that Arne put little value on human life, except that of his own. The visit to the cathedral, and the walk round Toompea, convinced me that he had the capacity to be utterly ruthless.

On our way out, towards the rear of the cathedral, we met an old priest coming in. He was well protected against the cold by a heavy black overcoat, under which you could see the trail of his black cassock. He wore his beard long and broad, and it was neatly trimmed. He kneeled briefly, bowed his head towards the altar and crossed himself. He straightened himself with a little difficulty and looked straight at me. I smiled. He had sharp eyes, pale blue, but when I smiled they sparkled and he smiled back. He looked at Arne and beamed warmth at him. Arne nodded at him. It was as though the old priest detected in Arne a contrary spirit: he raised his right hand in the air, and with his middle and forefinger touching, he made the sign of the blessing towards Arne. I thought to myself that Arne needed as much of that influence as possible. Arne merely turned his back on the old man and went to the door. We went out on to the steps and looked right towards the Tall Hermann Tower and the Estonian Parliament Building.

‘What do those priests do all day?’ Arne asked. ‘All they seem to do is perpetuate the practice of all that mumbo jumbo. They should be made to do a proper job.’

‘You sound positively Stalinist,’ I said. ‘They minister religion. It’s of service to the community. No matter whether it’s right or wrong, they serve a welfare purpose, keep people on the straight and narrow, preserve mental stability: they do all sorts of things. And, who knows, they may be right about the existence of God and the way he should be worshipped. You should take out an insurance policy and become a convert. There’s nothing to lose. You can gain some comfort from quietness and meditation, and from the contemplation of beauty, settle your mind and make yourself agreeable to other people.’ I did not for one moment believe that Arne would accept my analysis and proposal, but he replied surprisingly, ‘I wish I could. Sometimes I feel that I belong to the Church and somehow I have been exiled. My parents you know were strict Orthodox Christians.’ So that was it: I was listening to the conscience of the apostate.