First Time Out
1
Robert Lyle leaned back and looked at the rest of his breakfast, and looked at the clock, six minutes to nine. Then he looked out of the panoramic window that made up the side of the bar and placed him on the top of the visable world.
On any other day he would be now downing the last of his coffee, which he was not, clenching the half eaten slice of toast on his plate between his teeth, which he wasn't, and rushing off to class, which he had no intention of doing.
He had no more classes. He was done. And the first morning of this new state of affairs seemed frighteningly and uncontrollably empty. He didn't have the slightest idea what to do. He had half a month to clear his rooms, and an apartment in Edinburgh already at his disposal. Just across the park from the safe house he occupied two years ago.
The morning was all his, and he had nothing to do with it. He hadn't had to allocate his own time for eighteen months. What was it he used to do? Sit about mostly by his memory. Well he was doing that now and it was just making him nervous, anxious and tetchy. He tried to lean back and enjoy a leasurely breakfast, the cascade of scottish mountians rolling away into the heather misted deapths of moody cloud. But he felt uncomfortable with such lack of pressure.
He left his half eaten breakfast, and view, and took only his coffee back into the deapths of the Heights, through the enormous mahogany doors out of the reception area and into the rest of the manor. He could sign out a car and go for a drive, but when it would authorised and with permission a stolen jaunt through the highlands lacked its usual appeal. There was no denying it, he was graduated. And there was only one person he wanted to see.
Gordon Arnold, as if summoned into existence by this very thought barked Robert's name from the far end of a corridor that he was passing. Robert had noticed Arnold did this effortlessly and with remarkable efficiancy, appearing.
"Going mad yet Agent Lyle?" Gordon began to grin as he neared. "Yes you are aren't you... feel the need for some thing to do... and can't bare the idea of sitting and having a good measured and relaxed day."
"Well, i'm feeling a little restless... as you ask."
"As I ask indeed." Arnold's eyes brows soared high up his forehead before plunging down relentlessly like some deranged furry theme park ride. Gordon Arnold was a man in possession of the wildest eyesbrows ever seen. When he was angry they gave the appearence of being moments away from reaching out from the top of his face throttling anyone who caused offence. Gordon Arnold claimed vermently that this was absolutely unintentional.
Gordon cracked a smile and let the folder in his arms fold open, he removed and passed to Robert a thin dossier file. "By a striking coincidence I have an errand I need running." He smiled and the fistfuls of fur over his eyes laughed at what they knew but Robert did not. The folder snapped shut and Gordon Arnold, the man who brought Robert in from the cold strode away down the corridor, flung open the heavy doors, and walked out of the building and back into it. His coat dancing in the wind and he disappeared from view, the doors clicking shut and a small red light re-establishing itself over the door way. The dossier was labelled, with his name. And a case number, RJL000001
2
Robert signed out a car, Vauxhall Astra, at least ten years old, though he couldn’t be sure, the registration number would not be its rightful one. The seat seemed to be offset at an angle and Robert guess there was a kink in the steering column from the way it seemed to stick slight when he turned the wheel past four o’clock. Leaning back and putting the Heights far behind him he began to think about his new life. Anyone graduating from the agent academy at Forest Heights deep in the Scottish Highlands would drop into a liaison role, running odd jobs for the agency on a basic wage until they secured a permanent position on a team or in an office. Then you work on assignment from your line manager. A few lucky people would at some point get to go what is called freelance, when they build up a good enough list of contacts they become a roving agent with near unlimited expenses to put into what ever they see fit, though you can only rove for five years, then you can go back, or become a team head. Gordon Arnold had been a rover, unusually for seven years. But Robert was just out of boot, and sliding down the winding mountain road on his first assignment, his very first timeout on his own, below he eyed the thick line of motorway that ran along side the river as his road headed towards it.
Professor Alder Johnson lived at Pendlebury Gr. In one of the top flats. Robert eyed the window a he drove passed and parked three blocks round. He walked back along the park, then took a wrong turn so he could suddenly double back and see if anyone ‘jolted, bolted or turned’, as they say. No one did, he would have been amazed if they had, but habit was habit, he needed to learn it as a way of life, starting now. He bounded up the stairs to Johnson’s door, and slowly raised his finger to the appropriate doorbell, scanning all the other names as he did so.
There was no answer, so he rang again.
Still nothing, he rang Johnson’s neighbour, who answered almost immediately. “Hello?”
Robert explained he needed to talk to Johnson, important, but not urgent… did she know where he might be? Could he be in?
“Oh I would have thought so dear… he never goes out on a Sunday, and I can hear his TV.”
Robert let the silence run, come on dear, open up. Finally she did, “come in and try his front door.” The door shuddered slightly with the release of the latch. Johnson lived on the fifth floor; the lift appeared to be only operable by a resident’s key, Robert took the stairs, slowly and patiently, hoping the neighbour wouldn’t be hanging around outside, but when he arrived she was. She was short and round, with the kind of nose mounted glass that give the impression of being permanently an profoundly alarmed. She eyed him eagerly but said nothing. Robert suddenly wished he’d left his coat in the car, it swept behind him more like a coat and gave the appearance of power and overbearing, inappropriate. He smiled to the neighbour and slipped his coat off and over one arm as he reached the door. He too could hear the TV, he knocked lightly on the door. Nothing. He knocked again louder. The Neighbour stood by and watched.
Under the sound of the TV there was movement, something being moved on wooden floor boards, what old person hid from visitors. What ex spook? Surely he was bored shitless and would welcome someone to… well, watch, deduce, analyse, these things became habit, unstoppable urges.
“He must have left it on and gone out.” Robert shrugged. He thanked the neighbour, walking with her slightly towards her own door, asking whether she knew if would be in through the week. Yes he would, most days, he doesn’t go out much at all.
He thanked her again, admired the cat that poked its head round the door, slipping the pre-written note through the letter box as he slipped his coat on, the neighbour distracted by the cat. Robert skimmed down the steps and almost burst gleefully out of the doors before thinking to tune it down, he had gained entrance, secretly deposited a contact slip, and learned a little about his charge. Granted the drop wasn’t too impressive but when he thought about how keenly the old bag had studied him while he knocked for Johnson, he still felt proud. In his car he drov again past the front of the building he watched Johnson’s window. He turned his mobile over in his hands. It was his first assignment; he had to ring, had to. Come on old man. He had put all the keywords in the note. Seminar on family pride. That was the calling card. He had done it all spot on, the old man had to ring. He may be retired but he was being summoned, effectively by the firm. It wasn’t optional.
But Prof. Johnson didn’t call. Robert pulled the car out and was passing behind a white transit van when in his rear view mirror he saw the front door open. Against all gut instinct his training stopped him skidding to a halt and he let the figure drift out sight.
Shit! Grey hair, it must be, had he seen he car? He was old school, of course he had. No spy hole in the old mans door. So he still had the advantage of anonymity, seconds to decide, he was going to have to risk it, he kept driving round two more corners before he parked. His gamble had been right he was now behind the old man, and to his huge relief Robert was able to cu back through, over a fence and emerge beside the front door the flats. His coat and jacket in the car he loosened his shirt and shuffled his hair, he now looked more like the clerk from a computer shop than the Inland Revenue’s keenest and most vigorous inspector. With a casual jaunt to his walk he strolled out into the car park caught sight of an elderly figure down the road near the Newsagents where the car park joined the main road.
Following the old man was easy, the tricky bit, Robert suspected intentionally so, was doing so casually while not passing him as he made his slow tottering way up the road, every now and then stopping and looking around him like he had suddenly forgotten where he was. Robert began to feel there was a very strong chance he was just following an aged dementure suffering tea cosy wearing pensioner. Well if he was it as all practice, he pushed on, slowly, crawling pace. How could he realistically stay behind someone like this and not look like was about to mug him. He had not been taught this, and would have to improvise.
Robert considered developing a limp, no, stupid, he could admire the day, and walked slowly that way. Only there was not a great deal to admire, the car park was vast and the tarmac only made to reflect the grey of the clouds, an exact colour match. No, that wouldn’t work either. The old man stopped again and this time he turned right round and looked directly at Robert. Fear, his heart leapt. It was just a glance. Not long and it didn’t mean anything. He continued walking. It didn’t mean anything.
Yes it did, it meant Robert would have to pass him, soon. He would only get away with that once. He picked up his pace. The old man reached into his pocket and Robert caught up to him. He was fidgeting with something, opening something. Robert got nearer. Eyes fixed on the old man’s pocket. Closer still. Under the old mans palm the silver shape appeared briefly. A phone.
Odd. Robert levelled and stepped onto the road to pass him. A phone, shit!
Robert slipped his hand into his packet, his phone was the wrong way up to turn it off, all he could do was try to subtly release the battery, slowly, painfully slowly. His chest jumping. Dreading the sound he could almost hear of his awful ring tone and a blown cover. But it didn’t come and the battery slid loose. The call would still ring, and be answered by the firm.
Robert remounted the pavement. If this was Johnson, then he would have to walk out of sight and never look back to keep his cover. He wasn’t supposed to be in cover, he was supposed to be ‘having a little chat’ and ‘making sure he’s still of sound mind’. Robert knew what that meant, oh yes. He crossed the next turning, cursing the lack of traffic and kept walking. He couldn’t look back. But he would have to.
Time was running out, the road turned ahead Robert would loose line of sight. He stopped at the side of the road and through a lightening glance back. No cars still, shit, he crossed, taking the racing line round the corner and disappearing quickly from view. In the moment he had been looking back, Johnson, as he surely was, stood watching him, leaning on a phone box.
3
Robert circled back to his car and took his PDA from the glove compartment, found the phone box in question. Running over the events in his mind he had come to the conclusion that the old man was more decrepit than he had at first assumed. Jumpy and paranoid. He had been using it to his advantage, but if he was a recluse, if he wanted nothing to do with the firm, if he wanted to ignore everything and live out his life in peace, the surely he would have stayed in his home and continued to do so.
But this wasn’t what he had done. He had headed straight out, with-in minutes, to, Robert assumed a public call box.
Also while walking back to his car Robert had reviewed his following technique, his appearance his actions. He felt more and more confident that he had given nothing away, that Johnson was simply getting past it. His behaviour didn’t fit. He rang in and requested the last number rung from the call box and the time. It came through in twenty seconds. Call at 11:32 lasted five minutes to a mobile number with no registered user, a pay as you go. Interesting.
There had been no message on Roberts own phone, but a call had been received. Again another ownerless mobile. Robert drove round again past the front of the building and now down the road towards the Newsagents and phone box. The old man was walking back across the car park.
Stop him? Corner him? He could do, but he didn’t he drove past slowly instead. Go on, turn round, see me. IN his rear view mirror the old man was frozen, watching Robert drive once more behind the transit van. So he wasn’t that old and past it. Robert drove towards the centre of town where he found a pub for lunch, he ordered steak and salad, and sat inside quietly cursing the smokers, a whole year and he still desperately wanted one.
He reviewed some sections of Johnson’s file, then looked at the old mans photo, his eyes. What was he worried about, he was worried, he was a nervous and worried old man.
After lunch Robert had all the freely available files on Johnson to his PDA and sat in his car reading them. Professor Alder Johnson, born Henry George Rouxmont lead a wild life indeed, until he retired, on full military pension, fifteen years ago and was finally granted British Citizenship in return for his life time of service to the west. His French name was misleading he was a Zaire national by birth, but with a French father, he was in educated in France, and then England, attending university in Oxford in the early fifties, he was a student of the bomb, studying physics, specialising in atomic theory and headhunted out of his doctorate for Britain’s nuclear program. It was in sixty five, when the cold war was well underway that when attending a conference in Vienna, Rouxmont was approached by a fellow scientist, who himself was under instructions from across the curtain. Rouxmont was appalled, shocked, but more worried, he had been under investigation twice, both times with no result and the tip off was put down to racism and resentment from other colleagues, but the mark was left on Rouxmont, who became cautious to extreme, which only seemed to exasperate his co-workers. He was moved to a new team, in a hope to give him a chance to work in a more relaxed environment. It was then that Rouxmont was approached. Presumably by parties who had heard he was a snitch. Rouxmont went straight to his intelligence contact, separate and external in those days to allow tip offs to be utterly anonymous and without the knowledge of team members. The men from SIS who Rouxmont spoke to, were interested, they of course always attended these shin digs, the nearer the curtain they were held, the more intelligence presence there was. They listened to him politely, asking just a few questions. When hew had finished his story they sat quietly, sharing a look. Then they left him for a while. When they returned, they asked to arrange to meet his contact, and to accept the offer.
Rouxmont did so, and for the next five years supplied disinformation to the soviet union and informed SIS of everything he heard, was said to him, and that he was asked. Questions are always more revealing than the answer. In the seventies he worked as an analyst on nuclear material while holding down a professorship at MIT, working for both the CIA and SIS. He then slowly retired his secret life and join academia until 1988, when the KGB, finding his name in their files and sensing the ever nearing end of the cold war, once more got in touch.
4
The rain that began to pelt to windscreen jolted Robert out of his haze. Rouxmont fixed from the open folder with a fearful gaze, Robert was undoubtedly onto something. But an old man’s crazed delusion of he chase reborn or was he really playing at something. Robert ached to set a trace on the other phone, the one Rouxmont had called, but he needed something more first. Could he go back? Would the old man recognise him? He flipped down the passenger mirror and looked at him self, then covered his hair. He examined the face that looked at him. All the time replaying the moment he had passed Rouxmont on the street, had he looked round. Robert didn’t think so, so he never really took in the details, but he would have glimpsed the profile. He decided not to risk confrontation the old man or trying to interrogate him. It was against his brief anyway, but that had not really entered his decision making process.
Instead he picked up his phone and rang Rouxmont mobile.
It ran for seven long disparaging tones before it was answered, then it was five seconds before a mingled accent of Normandy and English/American quietly spoke.
Robert introduced himself and said he had received a missed call from the number. The professor was quiet.
“Professor Johnson?” he ventured, “That is you isn’t it?”
The professor confessed it was.
“Thank you very much for getting in touch, I missed you this morning, I’ve come all the way from London, it would have been shame to miss you, My name is Robert Lyle, look I won’t lie to you…” Heaven forbid it “I’m fresh out of the boot, I’ve been given the rounds of X associates, you know the sort of thing, I have to check you’ve not gone potty and started telling the man at Asda Britain’s greatest nuclear secrets, that sort of thing.” Was he pulling it off. “See you’re well, could I pop round later on this aft, about teatime, I only need fifteen minutes, then I could get back down to London tonight?”
Silence. Robert was biting his lip, he released only to absently grip it tightly again when the old man spoke, “well, yes I suppose, I won’t be able to offer ye tea.”
“Oh no,” Robert paused like someone writing a note juggling a phone and in the middle of something else… “Fantastic, that’s very good of you sir (why not, make him remember the old days) I’ll see you later on.” He hung up, then sighed, then opened the window and took a couple more deep breaths. He opened the file once more, then closed it. He started the car, and then switched it off. He started it again and drove to the high street. He bought some hair pomade, applied it then walked to some shops. He killed an hour in a bookshop getting his Coupland and his Self shelves up to date. The he went to a small bar, and ordered food and picked up again on Rouxment’s file.
When Rouxment, now officially Johnson, that’s interesting, surely they would have changed his name again after someone had a go, but anyway, they came this time to his home. They came in numbers. Rouxment had grown spiteful and distrusting of the Moscow operatives he dealt with last time. His dislike for them continued and was instantly refreshed by this new, arrogant and forceful approach. Soviets never came for a little chat and a cup off tea, even in the eighties it was heavies and vodka He agreed to help them as much as he could, but reminded them he was out of the loop now, he was an academic, he no longer worked on any weapons program. The men knew this. They were not specifically uninterested in intelligence, as such; rather they wanted to arrange a series of meeting with Johnson. They refused to say more but the thugs behind their leader moved forwards to imply a lack of negotiability. Johnson must have been a difficult man to threaten Robert noted; he had no family, no children. He had only a few friends, he was a private retired man.
Johnson was ready and willing to run with it. But it was the eighties now, and everyone knew the end of the cold war was coming. The word came back no. The officer who handled him through all of this, Robert noted, was Gordon Arnold. Johnson was relocated. Two of those who approached him were later picked up on trump charges, but they were released. Johnson shortly retired from academia. They whole thing seemed to have been brushed under the carpet, unresolved. Robert made some notes.
Johnson no name change, how did react in 88, when they said no. What did they want?
5
Rouxmont’s door was set back in dark corridor with a moist atmosphere that seemed to seep through the walls. His tie back on and hair lacquered firmly down, Robert chewed some gum, fruity bubble gum, and knocked on the door.
His plan, such as it was, depended on Johnson, or Rouxmont taking and instant dislike to Robert. Robert checked again that his tie was loose and then undid his top button on his shirt, and un-tucked a flap of material.
The eyes that peeped round the door tired, pink round the edges sunk into face that was almost shrunken. Robert introduces himself, showing his identification and sweeping into the flat just before the invitation was offered. There he faulted, hesitated, before moving on, slower. The flat was dimly lit, it was dusk outside and the two bulbs, 40, maybe 30 Watt that hung one in the shabby sitting room and on in the kitchen did little to add to the light. Robert hung in the only place he could stand and not be in the way while Johnson shuffled round behind him.
Coffee? Tea? Robert accepted before he realised the offering when it came would be instant, and most likely grim.
There was no offer to take his coat so Robert draped it across his lap as he sat, taking the folder from under his arm and opening it.
He took in the flat, a few ornaments, dusty and out of date sat on the mantle over the gas fire that didn’t look like it would really pass a service.
On the small table that was off to the side so as not to block the heat the fire was today’s Independent.
Rouxmont studied him shrewdly through wrinkled tired eyes, for minutes before Robert realised his shock was showing. “Oh don’t you hide it.. This is what you get, for loyal service. But...” he turned away “there are others worse off than me…” he shuffled through to the kitchen. Robert made to arrange himself in a business like fashion on the foisty arm chair he had chose, he balanced his papers on his knees and spread a meaningless smile across his face. And then, again, found himself taking the dark dank room on face value, the peeling paper in the corners, the cluttered precious furniture which had been chosen long ago for a bigger room and better times. The filthy stained lampshade and the loose electricity sockets. The sockets…
Loose dust on the skirting boards and the off angle socket in the wall screamed a hastily constructed hiding hole, but Rouxmont was coming back in, his shaky hand holding out a cup of grey liquid.
“So what questions would like me to answer for you?” He smiled, but it was only skin deep.
Robert started with questions about acquaintances, dietary well being, taken from Rouxmont’s last check up. He wanted to add to the feeling bureaucracy, repetition. If Rouxmont had dislike and treachery in his blood, the best way to get him was to fuel him. It worked, by the end of the sheet Rouxmont was predicting his answers before Robert had finished the question, sometime irritably cutting round the question and just spitting out information, angry retorts to thinly veiled suspicions of senility.
This progressed for fifteen minutes, before Robert moved in.
He stopped, and looked down at the paper he was taking his questions from. He paused, then flicked back a few pages, made a reference, and then back to his cue-sheet. “And you have not been approached by any parties wishing to purchase your considerable expertise since your last de-briefing?”
“No.”
“Good, well that’s everything, all done and tickety-boo.” A flash smile and he began making dismissive ticks against imaginary boxes and putting notes back into the fake file.
His actions had stung, and Robert could feel the emotional weight he had just thrown on the old guy. Rouxmont was looking at his feet, the traitors gaze. Robert carried on but new the atmosphere of rejection.
“You’ve no idea… You’ve done a few classroom courses but you know nothing? You think when someone tries to get you to talk they sit down offer you and cup of tea and ask if you would like to betray your masters? They own you. They will be nice, then cruel, they have no interest in you, just this, what’s in your head. When you make a pact with them you make a pact with the devil. There is no trust, no honour.”
“But 6 told you to, you were sanctioned.”
“Oh yes, and after a while they dropped the charges.”
“Appearances… the glory is always private.”
“Do you know how they approached me?”
“Which time?”
“The first, The time.”
Robert put his files down. There was girl, I was teaching in the University, she was in my second year nuclear physics course, high flyer, she proved that by blitzing her first year, and taking extra courses. Veronica, before she even took her first year exams she was being head hunted by GE, BEA, the government… she was my star, very keen, very sharp, very sharp.”
“They threatened her?”
“The Used her” Rouxmont snapped. The used her, it was Veronica who approached me, a girl, a nineteen year old girl threatening me for Nuclear secrets.”
“She was in on it?
“She was a tool, she was an ends to a means, I don’t know what they had on her, I don’t think I want to, though no doubt if you did more prep work you could find it that ridicuklous file of yours.”
Robert had, veronica had had an abortion when she was fifteen, secretly, and her catholic and fearlessly proud parents had no idea. She was Romany looking girl with dark passionate eyes, her picture slightly protruding from the folder on Roberts lap.
That was what they had one her.
“She was scared, it wasn’t her fault, what ever they had on her, they scared her to death, she said someone would call me, they would give me instructions, or she would report me for rape. The university has a strict policy, my innocence would have been an irrelevance. She was made to do it, by those who hand out contracts with the devil, and went to my masters and sent her to her death.”
“But you caught the contact, the network was closed.”
“Yes the network was closed.” Rouxmont’s eyes were distant and out of the window. “But that was the price of my life, I chose myself over Veronica, really, it wasn’t about national security, they don’t let it be about the job… they came back… and this time we didn’t even try, I was hidden, they didn’t even change my name… someone out there wants my mind…”
“It was six year ago, that network was rolled up too”
“I never cared about the network, I wanted to know who…”
Recent comments