The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby (25 page)

I was not in a good state of mind when I arrived at St James’s. I knew I was going to have to talk about Mark. That was not an attractive prospect. In spite of what Linda Evans said, I had been trying to block the images of his very last moments from my memory. I was going to have to relive them. I went up the few steps between the iron railings reluctantly. A new secretary, a fashionably dressed young woman in her mid-twenties, with fair shoulder-length hair, carefully made up, giving off a perfume I did not recognise, smiled at me and ushered me into one of the first-floor debriefing rooms. Its tall windows looked down on to the square. I imagined it as being originally an elegant drawing room that might have hosted tea parties and pre-dinner drinks. Its role had seriously altered. I was there for the most part to explain what had happened in Tallinn, an alien city miles away to the north. It was strange to be there in those secure and civilised surroundings and to have to describe the details of what had happened in that run-down outbuilding in Paldiski.

Willy greeted me almost immediately. The director came in a few minutes later. I had always thought him perfect for the job. He looked like a bank clerk, meek, subservient, bespectacled, the top and back of his head bald: you would not notice him in a city crowd. Yet his looks belied his ability. His intellect was acutely sharp. No detail escaped him, and he combined a photographic memory with interpretative judgement and shrewdness. I had often said to Willy that he was destined to be the next head of the whole establishment. At once the director said how sorry he was about Mark. The three of us sat in high-backed chairs around the highly polished dining table: we might have been meeting for a private lunch.

The director asked me to describe what happened from the time that Lars delivered us in the Mercedes to Paldiski: I was to lead him through the events right up to the time I was taken back to Tallinn. Every so often he would interject questions, ask me for some clarification, make me define my reactions more precisely. I found it a great strain.

‘When Mark was first brought in,’ the director asked, ‘what do you think was going through his mind? Do you think he realised he was
in extremis,
with his executioners? What was his mental state?’

I did not know what to say. That line of questioning was intensely disturbing for me. I had no idea what had been going on in Mark’s mind. It had been impossible to tell. The situation had been starkly awful. Anyway, what difference did it make to the director to know? How did it help him or any of the rest of us? Much of the director’s line of questioning made no sense to me. I kept calm, but with difficulty.

Eventually, it came to a point when Willy broke in and suggested that it might be a time in our discussion when I would like to say something unprompted. Was there anything that I saw as important that was occupying my mind?

‘There is one matter above all others that concerns me,’ I responded. ‘The director wanted very much to find out how far Myrex was prepared to go in making sure that they secured my services. Well, we now know. I was put in an agonisingly awful position, morally, spiritually, and I think I may have made terrible, wrong, decisions. There is no consolation for me. Mark is dead. What about the Service? Has it succeeded? Myrex is prepared to murder to get its way. What happens now? Did I do what was right?’

The moment I asked the last question I reflected how absurd it was. I was not speaking to my father confessor. I was talking to two professional spies at what amounted to a debriefing session. I could expect no spiritual salve from either of them. The Service had learned what it wanted to know. I was beginning to understand from my experience that I was now under judgement. Had both my efficacy and efficiency been eroded by the way I had behaved? If so, then I was of no use in the future. The director had to judge whether I stayed in place and worked both for the
Journal
and Myrex, known to both sides as a double agent. Or, should I now be side-lined, marginalised, and left impotent, merely patronised by Myrex. I knew my future was in the balance and it was dangerous for me either way. If ever I were considered a real danger to the Service, I would be eliminated. If Myrex tired of me, they would have no compunction in ridding themselves of my tiresome presence. Supposing Raoul were to die as Uri seemed to intend, or even that Raoul and Roxanne were to split, then no doubt I would end up in a road accident or as a floating corpse in the River Thames. Such thoughts did nothing for my sanity.

The director replied to my questions. He assured me that I could have acted in no other way than that in which I did. He understood the huge emotional upheaval I suffered because Mark, my closest friend, had been so cruelly butchered in front of me. He stressed that the moral responsibility was not mine: it was the Service’s. I should reconcile myself to Mark’s sacrifice. I should stand back and be objective. In the circumstances, I thought what he said was laughable, except that it was impossible for me to laugh. I felt like weeping, as I so often had done in private over the past days.

Towards half past three, our meeting came to an end. The director stood up first, Willy and I followed suit. He shook my hand and patted my shoulder. The gesture had the feeling of a farewell. I did not like it. He left.

I said to Willy, ‘I didn’t like that. It had an air of finality. What’s in his mind?’

‘Look, stop worrying. You’re unsettled. Take things calmly for a week or two. We won’t want anything of you for a bit. Get some rest and enjoy what Myrex gives you.’

I did not like what he said either.

As we went towards the door, he said, ‘Do you think you need some help? I mean counselling. Have you thought about that? Do you think it’d be any good?’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ I said. ‘I’m on to it. I’m seeing someone at the Tavistock. It probably helps. I’m not sure. Anyway, I’ll go on with it. I’ll give it a try, or, “that way madness lies”,’ I added jokingly.

It was an awkward moment. I knew I should not have attempted a joke. A first rule in that sort of situation is not to joke. Nothing at the St James’s house reassured me. I felt extremely vulnerable as I went out into the square.

And that was the last time I saw the interior of the St James’s house for a long time. I was cut adrift. I went on writing for the
Journal
. A fortnight later I rang the St James’s house and asked for Willy but was told that he was out of his office. A message would be left for him and he would be in touch with me. The director had instructed that I was not to telephone directly until further notice. I heard nothing from them. So, another two weeks later I called at the house. I rang the bell and spoke through the intercom.

‘Who is that?’ a voice asked.

‘Pelham Rigby,’ I replied. ‘I’d like to see the director.’

‘There is no one here, Mr Rigby. He will get in touch.’ The intercom clicked off. I was shut out, excluded.

That particular evening, I went to my club for dinner. I took an underground train from Swiss Cottage where I had been seeing my psychotherapist for an hour, the one recommended by Linda Evans. The session had made no difference to the way I felt. I consoled myself with the thought that the effect would be long term. In the bar I met Willy. Until then I considered that he had been avoiding me. He was the first person from the Service I had met since my debriefing, and, of course, debriefing and interrogation were his intelligence specialties. I was pleased to meet him there and we drank some champagne. He was dining that evening at the club, and so we ended up having dinner together. I learned from him upsetting news.

We were sipping some club Burgundy, waiting for our first courses to be served. I said to Willy, ‘I can’t seem to make contact with either you or the director. I don’t understand it. I feel cold-shouldered. No one’s been in touch with me since my debriefing.’

‘But it’s as if you’re on permanent sick leave, old boy,’ Willy said in a surprised way. ‘After all, you’re under treatment.’

‘What do you mean?’ I was astounded. No one had informed me, and I explained to Willy my lack of contact and information. He expressed amazement and said that everyone knew at HQ that I had suffered a nervous breakdown and was having treatment. I was therefore not to be engaged with.

I was outraged. ‘I haven’t been told. What do they think they’re doing? I’ve been very useful.’ I could not believe what I was hearing.

Willy explained that the Service line on me was that, in the course of events, Mark had been murdered in Tallinn and his body had been found in the docks. The version of events according to the director was exactly the same as the story I had written for the
Journal
on my return, based on what the Tallinn papers had reported. So, that was the official line. It was ironic. I was branded as mad. I had been unbalanced by the death of my dear friend and was no longer reliable. I was having psychotherapy and that, of course, proved that I was mad. In those circumstances, the director, in consultation with his political bosses, had decided to take me out of action. My account of the horrors of Paldiski and Mark’s murder there was attributed to fantasy. My intelligence work and the trauma of Mark’s death had turned my wits. That was the simple story they would make public if ever I were to start talking about what really happened.

I barely touched my soup. I felt sick deep inside. My inner being was in utter turmoil. I felt confused and, increasingly, I felt betrayed. Then the sickness gave way to anger. How could they treat me like that after what I considered loyal service? To describe me as mad was similar to a device often used by the KGB in the old days of the Soviet empire: I knew that. I realised that the Service had no sentiment. I was worn out, expendable. I should have known. The Security Service has no conscience, is entirely pragmatic, and anyway, I had served my purpose.

‘So, Willy, you think I’m mad,’ I commented bitterly.

‘I’m in no position to judge,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave that for your therapist to find out. You seem pretty sane to me. But then, what is madness?’

That was a question I could not answer.

My suffering did not end there.

Later, when I was back at home, I rang my phone bank. My small house behind Olympia, comfortable, snug, somewhere that had been for me a hospitable refuge, was a lonelier place now because I experienced an acute sense of isolation. Mark was no longer close by to be called up and asked round, invited out to the riverside pub. I had no one to turn to now when I felt the approach of depression. I thought ruefully and regretfully that I should have been better off in Tallinn where there were Mo and Rovde. I saw clearly that I was going to have to cultivate more friends; but at that time I lacked the heart.

I rang the phone bank to find out what my balance was. It was healthy. I could take time off and travel somewhere should I have the inclination. In addition there was the promise of Myrex payments coming in. There had been none yet. I wondered what they would amount to, and when I would hear about my Brussels account. I did not baulk at the prospect of Myrex money, but I had no relish for it.

In the end, it was my lack of enthusiasm, or, if you like, my lack of avarice, that made my disappointment bearable. I could shrug the whole thing off as inevitable. I was resigned to the put-down, the double cross. What happened was that Myrex never paid any money into my bank account. No account was ever opened in Brussels. Every so often I checked my current account. It was always the same: nothing was ever credited from Myrex. I suppose I felt cheated for a short time. I even rang the Myrex house in Tallinn – ‘You can phone me here any time or use my mobile number,’ Arne had said. Well, I did ring the Myrex house several times even though Arne was dead. I was told by some employee that the problem would be looked into; it never was.

Then suddenly, after not hearing from him for several weeks, Rovde rang me.

‘Pelham, old buddy, we must talk. We’ve got some work for you. It’s to do with Raoul. We’re closing in on Myrex – orders from the very top. I’ll be in London on Tuesday. Can we meet at lunchtime at that Selfridge’s place, the one at the top of the building?’

Uri was clearly not in the mood for a chat. ‘Well, sure. I’ll be there. One o’clock. You’re in a bit of a hurry.’

‘I sure am. Everything will keep. See you Tuesday. It’s exciting, especially for you.’

I did not know what he meant by that final remark but the prospect of some action and being back in the Myrex loop made me feel active and less depressed.

When we met in that medley of kitchens at the top of Selfridge’s – we decided to eat Thai food – I was not prepared for the commission that Uri gave me. Nevertheless I decided to accept it.

What he wanted was for me to contact Roxanne and find out when we could next meet. I had told him about my affair with her and that it was the reason for my closeness to Myrex. He wanted me to ascertain Raoul’s movements. The Agency needed to know. He was to be tracked down and eliminated. Myrex was to be neutralised.

Uri used the language of bureaucratic administration; eliminated, neutralised. What he meant was killed and destroyed. My first reaction was that I did not want anything to do with his business. Roxanne and my relationship with her were completely independent of Raoul and his hideous commercial operation. Yet he had murdered Mark and was prepared to murder Mo. Was I to be a pimp in the service of the Agency’s concerns?

‘Well, can you do this for us, Pel?’ Rovde looked me straight in the eyes; he had lost for me the bumbling, teddy-bear aspect of his character that he exhibited in the presence of Mo. I looked away towards a franchise section just beyond the boundary of the restaurant, next to the top of the escalator, and watched for a moment steam rising from a humidifier that was on special offer. I paused and shifted in my chair.

‘Come on, buddy. He’s condemned anyway. You’ll just make it easier for us.’

Suddenly I experienced one of those peculiar situations where you think you see in the distance someone you know, someone extremely familiar. Then when you stop to work out who it is, you realise that the person you think you have seen is actually dead. Thus it was that I thought I saw Mark at the end of a long run of passageway that headed off down the store between two lines of franchise shops. The vision decided me.