You may have heard of
tales concerning gentleman spies; of the subtle nuances and carefully
manufactured bluffs and double bluffs; and the thrilling stories of spycraft.
This is not one of those stories…
..and didn’t Boris
Pachinko know it. He’d been in the spy trade for far too long, which was why he
was eager to defect. Understandably, the British had no reason to trust him,
and he had to prove his worth to them. First he had to prove that he was worth
the outlay in money and man hours in facilitating his defection so he had to
provide information that proved to be valuable and useful.
Despite having no other redeeming
qualities the one thing that Pachinko did possess was a near photographic
memory, which he had put to good use over the years; yet there were two words
that would certainly send shockwaves across the length and breadth of his soon
to be adopted country and almost certainly secure his defection status.
Pachinko spent a long time
thinking out the details of this information drop and, as it was almost certain
that he was being scrutinised, so he arranged to do everything in plain sight.
No one would ever suspect such a move and this could so easily have worked
because it was, in fact, genius. But he was old and tired and prone to making
lots of mistakes because he was actually extremely stupid. So when his handler sat
down opposite him, and Pachinko wrote his two words on a scrap of what, he
thought was, rice paper he wasn’t paying attention at all. Nor was his handler,
who was trying his best to maintain an air of nonchalance and indifference which
wasn’t that difficult when talking to Pachinko over any length of time.
Had they been paying
attention then they would have certainly noticed 1) Pachinko writing on the
napkin instead of the badly place rice paper and 2) Pachinko folding up the
rice paper before handing it surreptitiously to the handler, leaving the two
words untouched on the napkin on the table. Both men then had a very petty
disagreement, almost coming to blows with each other, before parting –each going
in their different directions and in many ways a perfect exercise in spy-craft
except for the two code words on that damn napkin.
Less than five minutes
later, being a busy lunchtime in a popular eatery, the table was occupied; this
time by the most unassuming and rakish gentle-man. Surprisingly his name was
Roger when in reality it should have been something like Walter, Clark or Lesley.
For most of Roger Grants life he had been overlooked; a meek, mild and
bespectabled Kentish kind of man. Every step was measured, every move
thoughtful; he looked at home in his charity shop hand-me-down suit and
suffered a lot from allergies, dust and hay-fever; not to mention terminal
shyness.
Drinking from a latte he
started contemplating the world around him before the latest sneezing fit shook
him. Luckily there were a couple of stray napkins on the table which he blew
his nose on and the secret that Pachinko would so soon lose his life over was
all but obliterated by the mucosal onslaught.
Drinking his latte
sparingly Grant seemed unaware that he was now being scrutinized by two men in
well-fitting suits, both wearing sunglasses thereby looking hopelessly out of
place in such an establishment. MacDonalds was many things but classy was not
one of them. However Roger hadn’t seen either of them and when he had disposed
of his cup and tucked the napkins in his pocket he headed towards the door
where he was quickly flanked by the two suited men.
“You will come with us.” Said
one.
“I hardly think so.” Roger
protested weakly, but their grip was too strong.
“I have a gun pointed
directly at your heart.” Said the other, “At this range you will die instantly
if you try to resist.” Roger possessed enough intelligence to know that this was
no bluff for he felt the barrel press against his rib.
There was a car waiting at
the roadside, a black Nissan Micra, weather worn and tired but serviceable
enough for the drive. Grant was quickly bustled into the car and blindfolded.
“I haven’t the slightest notion what is going on here but you are making the gravest of mistakes if you don’t release me.” He protested again but was ignored.
“I haven’t the slightest notion what is going on here but you are making the gravest of mistakes if you don’t release me.” He protested again but was ignored.
It took less than twenty
minutes to reach their destination, and when the blindfold was finally taken
off Roger found himself standing in a dingy room, with a window overlooking a
forlorn field. The room was empty except for a threadbare sofa, a stained and
bloodied mattress and a chair. There were five men in the room; the two who
accosted him and two other henchmen suitably attired who eyed him as if he were
already dead and dealt with. The last man was an enigma: immaculately attired
in a suit that fitted him too well; this was a man who was accustomed to the
finer things in life. Consequently he looked ill at ease in such a place, and
stood rooted to the spot, as if he was afraid that if he touched anything he would
become contaminated. He looked at Roger with disgust and disdain.
“Would you believe this
used to be a house of ill repute?” He spoke quietly, his voice silken and well
bred; slightly effeminate but deadly nonetheless.
“I don’t know who you are
or why I’ve been brought here, but if you don’t release me you’ll be very
sorry.” Roger snapped impotently. The other man simply sighed and replied
patiently.
“Histrionics? Really? You
should know better than that, Mr Chaplin. We know who you are; you may as well
save yourself any further embarrassment; not to mention pain. Tell us what we
need to know and it will all be over quickly.”
“I don’t know what you’re
on about!”
“Oh really…. Come, come,
Mr Chaplin.”
“Who did you say? Mr
Chaplin? Well, that clinches it… My name is Roger Grant. You’ve got the wrong
man, old boy.”
“Old boy? At least credit
me with a modicum of intelligence, Mr Chaplin. I did, after all, see through
your elaborately planned ruse.” If he saw something flicker in Grant’s eyes it
was never mentioned. In some ways it was exactly what he was looking for, but
the context behind the flicker couldn’t have been further than his truth. “We
witnessed that Pachinko oaf make the pass to your man Smythe, and –admittedly-
we fell for that sleight of hand but you just weren’t quick enough to escape
with the napkin, were you, Mr Chaplin?”
“Napkin? What napkin?”
“The one in your pocket;
you may as well tell us what we need to know – you won’t be leaving us in any
event.”
“The napkin? My dear Sir,
I blew my nose on it!”
“Please hand it to one of
my associates.”
“But… I blew my nose on it…
this is crazy!” Yet he handed it over to the advancing associate and the
associate examined the soiled napkin and shook his head twice.
“Water soluble ink… very
clever, Mr Chaplin; but you have left us with no other recourse. You will tell
us what was on the napkin and you will tell us now.”
Grant took a couple of
steps back until he was against the far wall, and held his hands up in
disbelief.
“Please… I don’t know what’s
going on but I give you one last chance. Let me walk away from this now…
Please.”
“That’s more like it; but
I’m afraid it’s far too late. Since we can no longer get any information from
the napkin we will have to take it direct from you, painfully.”
Motioning to the four
henchmen, Grant watched as they advanced towards him and suddenly appeared to
crumple forward as if shot. The first two henchmen tried to stop him from
falling.
Suddenly Grant launched
himself at them, knocking them both flying with two perfectly landed punches.
So unexpected was this that he had successfully snapped the neck of the third
man and drawn his pistol before the fourth had even registered anything untoward
had happened. By then it was all over; four shots all in rapid succession, all
kill shots and barely a minute had elapsed.
Now all that remained was
the boss, the main man; still glued to the spot, his face now drained of
arrogance and colour.
“But I don’t understand…”
he stammered. “There was nothing in our dossier to suggest that you were combat
trained, certainly nothing like this..”
“Ah, but then I’m not Mr
Chaplin, as I tried repeatedly to tell you, Old Man.” He said, and stepped
closer and closer, like a tiger closing in on its prey.
“But why? What?”
“You and your pathetic spy
games have wrecked the best cover I’ve ever had. It’s taken me years… YEARS! to
create the world of Roger Grant; mild mannered geek that he was. Certainly the
last person in the world one would expect to be a trained assassin…. But I suppose
it was bound to happen eventually.”
“What are you going to do
with me? We can cut a deal, surely!”
“Well… I don’t think so. I
gave you every opportunity to extricate yourself and since my cover is
effectively blown I’m going to enjoy myself and leave you as a warning to
others that might seek to double cross me. I’m satisfied that not only are we completely
alone –as I hear no other signs of life in this sad little place- but I also
know we’re miles from anyone, so I can afford to indulge myself and work out a
little of the frustrations I’m going to face in setting up a new identity.
Luckily we have all night but, unfortunately for you, it’s going to be a long
and painful one, old man.”
