“I was wondering when you were going to call.” Gordon sounded gruff and moody, Robert could hear he was smoking a cigar, tearing the smoke from it like a predator does flesh from its victim. “This was a one day trip, you’ve filed over night expenses.”
“Yes sir.”
“And Continuity tell me they bounced a phone call for you.” Continuity was the most hectic section in the firm. It was their job to do behind the scenes work on making legends and covers real. They would assume the identity thrown up on the screen by the number rung, and take messages, confirm identities, even assume characters such as PA's secretaries etc.
“Yes sir.” Robert replied.
“From Rouxmont.” A heavy exhalation crackled the line.
“Yes sir.”
“You couldn’t answer because?”
“I was right next to him.”
“But you met him?”
“Yes sir, later, in the evening…”
“And?” Another tearing of air and smoke crackled Arnold's words.
“He’s a bit low I think. A bit bitter too, but still sharp, very active upstairs though…”
“Is he a risk, should I worry?” Arnold croaked.
“You mean is he sound? Yes, I would have said so.”
“But?”
Robert let the phone drop from his ear, then looked at his notes. “He’s been using his tradecraft Sir.”
Nothing from the other end of the line, silence so Robert continued. “He’s been taking advantage of his age, its really very good, he walks very slowly so its impossible to follow him, suddenly stops and pulls out a bag of crumbs and feeds pigeons, looking around him.”
“What makes you say that’s tradecraft?”
“He can move faster.”
“You saw him?”
“Today, he went to ground in the gents, I nearly followed but then I saw him come out of a service door, dressed smarter, he looked younger, he strode out back the way he had come, nearly caught me…”
“And where did he go?”
“I had to let him go… I wasn’t prepared…”
“He could be spinning you along Lyle, old stones get like that, they miss the fun of it, try and start something for the sake of it.”
It wasn’t like this hadn’t occurred to Robert. The old mans trade against his masters, but it was more lament than anger.
“I think he thinks we’re worried about him… Arnold? Why was his check up pushed four months early?”
“Just how it is, I want to know who he’s meeting.”
“He might not be meeting anyone, like you said, he just likes the attention. He’s lonely. It’s a sad life for someone like him, some dirty council flat and no friends, because he can’t talk about his life and he can’t trust them.”
“Do you think he’s playing you?”
“No, I don’t.” Robert spoke before thinking
“Why?”
“Too sincere, no gloating. If you were doing that you’d want the young scrote you were running rings around to know, want him to go back with his tail between his legs. And he's just not the type to be interested in the money, too old and too calm to go covorting around some greek island with bikini clad women.”
“Maybe he will.”
“I don’t think so, I need more people, I can’t keep following him, he knows my face, he may already have seen me.”
“Agreed, take Phillip and Angela. Don’t let him see you, keep him very, very calm.”
“Yes.” Robert ran his fingers over his notes, and then rested it over the full stop he had almost ground through the page. It was the bottom of a question mark, at the end of the sentence What don’t I know?
“Anything else?” Arnold was soundijng impatient, that was his game voice.
“That’s what I’ve been wondering sir.”
“I beg your pardon?” Oh christ too far!
“I can’t help but feel there is a side to this puzzle I can’t see.” Careful Robert, careful
“Well of course there is, report at the same time tomorrow.” And the line clicked dead.
“That wasn’t what I meant.” Robert said quietly to himself and disconnected at his end. The phone rang immediately.
“Hi, Ray, meet me at the squash courts at five.”
“Five.” Robert repeated. Hung up, the dialled to the fifth of ten secure hub they could bounce their phones through to get secure calls.
“Where are you?” Robert asked Phillip the moment the call was connected.
“Berwick-on-Tweed.” Phillip said.
“How come?”
“Gordon Arnold flashed us out of our holiday time, shoved legends in our hands and practically through us onto a train, what the hell’s going on Robert, where did you go on Saturday.”
“I’ll tell you when you arrive, what time?”
“Forty minutes.”
“I’ll pick you up, we’ll talk then.” Robert was about to hang up. “What are you bringing with you?”
“Three full field kits.” Phillip replied.
“Jesus! On the train?” Robert reeled, then wondered how loud he had spoken.
“Built into an overnight bag, a rucksack and a suitcase. Robert, this is the shit! We never got equipment like this in the Heights.” Phillip whispered with school boy joy.
“OK, calm down,” Why field kits? What the hell was Arnold up to? “I’ll see you in forty minutes.”
“Robert?” Phillip sounded different.
“Yes.”
“This is live Op isn’t it…”
“I don’t know.” Robert said, and hung up. He set his watch for twenty minutes, then laid back on the bed of his hotel room. The curtains glowed yellow from the streetlights outside throwing as sickly colour over his skin. He closed his eyes to think.
7
There are two ways to sit in a car, one of them is casual, normally in good weather; with the windows wound down, the radio on, arms hanging out of the half open door.
As another wall of rain hurled it self against the windscreen, rocking the chassis slightly, Robert dreamed of surveillance in such conditions. He determined to go against firm protocol, grow some kind of trendy and youthful design of facial fuzz, let his hair get messy, so he could carry out his surveillance from under, or maybe even up and tree with a can of bear and some tunes on.
He had not really had the time to sit in the sun for the best part of two year, well, not strictly true. He had got quite a tan as he coasted round Europe. His hair had got long, he had grown extremely casual and laid back, as well as tremendously cautious. All characteristics that had slowly been stripped away by twelve months training.
He was, currently, sitting in a car the other way. He and Phillip had enormous anoraks, the windows were misted and despite their waterproofs the moisture had somehow found its way in. Anyone looking in would certainly see two people sitting uncomfortably in a car, for very little reason whatsoever.
But no one ever looks inside parked cars, not occupied ones, they certainly never take any interest in those present there in. That is unless they are looking for people in parked cars.
Angela, who had sat with Phillip over night, insisting that Robert go to bed, was now herself in bed. Next to him, Phillip was trying to compare lists of number plates taken on the hour from the nearby parked cars, against residents registered vehicle, the DVLA records, and each list taken on the hour, for the last day.
“You’d think we’d have a computer that could do this for us.” he muttered under his breath, shuffling the pages, cursing again as drips fell from his hair onto he paper. He settled back into his nibble marking of papers with his pencil when another piece slipped from hias lap. “Oh Fuck it.” He spoke quietly with despair, his head dropping down over the papers.
Damp and still tired Robert shuffled uncomfortably, he didn’t know what to say to these occasional shows of petulance Phillip displayed, they were pointless, they wasted time.
“Jesus!” Phillip muttered, and for a moment Robert thought he spoken out loud. Phillip was still bent double but staring at the screen. His eyes scanning the details.
“What?”
“This registration, the red Rover…”
“Is it listed?” Robert asked, watching Phillips face, remembering a though that had struck him moments before he slipped under last might.
“What?” Phillip looked up.” Listed, no its not listed, it’s a black BMW.”
“Stolen plates?” Robert leaned back.
“Badly stolen plates, not even the same model.” Phillip mused, flicking back through the pages. “May not even be anything, just locals.”
“Keep on it, I’d better go and tag it, it’s all we’ve got so far” Robert leaned over, memorized the number then pulled his coat tighter and opened the car door as another wall of Determined Scottish weather hurled itself again into his face. Behind the red brick rows of shops and greasy cafes with their grubby curtains and the same customers since the beginning of time the block of flats rose. Rouxmont’s window was round the side, but the could see the door, through an alleyway. The grey slab building seemed to hang from the dark rain laden clouds rather than climb from the ground. Robert put his hands in his pockets and strode onto the footpath, glancing into one of the cafs just to see if anyone even looked up but the tired drawn faces stared into their reflections in cups weak watery tea.
Round the corner the red Rover was parked one wheel on the curb, nice touch. Robert stumbled, nearly loosing his footing, and put his arm out to the Rover to steady himself, looking down he then crouched to his shoe lace, clipped a beacon to the inside of the Hub, then kept walking. His hood up he was all but unrecognisable, he dared a look up to the flats, Rouxmont’s windows were open, his curtains drawn. An old man lost and dead in the mind wouldn’t air his house. Then he passed the Newsagents and noticed the man sheltering from the rain into the covering. Robert went in, bought a paper then came out and joined the man in his loitering, glancing up the sky as if it might advertise just how long it intended to keep this up for.
Having passed a few lines of idle chitchat, then ducked back into the down poor. He was part way back to the car when he got twinge, like a familiar shape behind his eyes all the time. Without looking at Phil he walked passed their car, hands in his pocket. Phil, seeing this, pulled his phone quickly to his ear and started an imaginary conversation. Watching for a tail.
The man from the Newsagents, likely, but Robert would have thought he’d let him go after forcing conversation in the doorway. He walked up an avenue leading towards a housing estate; terrace houses soon gave way to semis with gardens and apple trees next to each other. Turning a corner he slipped a back glance and sure enough, fifty, maybe more yards behind, a shape was walking, head down, looking nowhere, opposite side of the street, textbook. The roads were getting small and fast turning to cul-de-sacs. Robert took another right, and again and then hopped over the waist high gates and tucked himself into the bushes. Feet in, head down, eyes behind through the gaps in the falling leaves. The figure crossed over the this side of the street, still slow, still looking down. Robert tucked himself further back until the damp of the rain soaked bushed began to seep into his trousers.
What the hell was he doing? The figure following was coming round the first corner, still looking down. Robert tucked himself back further, more water running down his neck, his socks squelching in his shoes.
Looking again over his shoulder the figure was moving down the pavement, his footsteps audible now. He pulled his chest. Closer. The junction he had slipped round led off to three dead ends. Robert glanced quickly round the garden he was hiding in. No car in the drive, cat flap, ball in the shrub, a tennis ball, but scratty, probably belonging to a dog. Family home, but no one in. He craned his head round over his shoulder again to see his quarry, but he must have got to the junction. The footsteps were still even. But which direction?
Then they stopped, close. Robert heard the sound of the shoes scrapping on the tarmac with indecision just a few feet away.
Was he seen? He didn’t move. His body wanted to turn, to look, to run for the gate to the back garden under the false hope he could do it unnoticed.
Silence. Silence and an underlying suspicion that he had nothing to be afraid of. But he wouldn’t test that theory. He would not be caught.
The foot dragged again, then took a couple of steps nearer. Then another drag. A mutter and walking away.
Robert breathed again, realising suddenly he had not done so for several minutes.
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