The wrong

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.

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.”

Action without purpose

It's the waiting that'll get to you. Patience is one thing; everyone has patience... but this? This goes even beyond will power. To be... well, to be like me; it takes obsession. The devil may be in the detail, but the mission is in the minutiae.

How long have I stared out this window now; in this most unlikely of coffee-bars (which used to be a bank, but now it's trendy and popular). High ceilings and fashionably uncomfortable seats make it a hard stakeout, but that's where the discipline lies.

Seven hours, is that all it's been? It feels longer, but then I have been here over several days and it could easily be said that they blur into one another; and to the untrained eye that could well be the case. I notice everything, however, and everything is noted down.

As impossible as it may seem, this portion of Brighton, this unobtrusive roundabout has its own micro-climate; meteorological, sociological, even political, it's fascinating.

Everyone has their own routines, written in code; colluding, colliding, cunning.. but it's not them that I'm after.

They're welcome to their private hells just the same as I’m in mine. Let them weave their tapestry, though it's almost tragic watching it unravel behind them; the sand of their lives trickling from their unclenched fingers. They don't seem to be aware of the minutiae, but each grain is important.

It's brought me this far, taken me to this very coffee-shop where I'll finally find him and I will not rest until he's right in front of me.

I've been so careful – I have no routines; I come into the coffee-shop at different times of the day and never sit in the same seat twice in the same week (however, it has to be a window seat, that is paramount, otherwise how would I be able to observe?) I alter my appearance every day, speak differently with different inflexions. It's surprising just how little attention people really pay to each other.

I know though, I know... All their routines play out in front of me. Take now... school has broken for the day and they all come shuffling out, the broken products of the system. You can always tell those that have woken up too soon to the reality; they are the loners, the ones who walk with the burden bearing down on them.

The others group together, against the night of adulthood as it approaches them, huddled together laughing, as much to fool themselves as each other that they have a chance. I pity them.... but maybe ignorance is bliss.

Looking around me now I notice that this is so. The coffee-shop is packed, heaving and sighing collectively with the espresso machines; breathing out with the jets of steam, sweating in the heat with that burnt coffee odour hanging in the air like a shroud. If it wasn't critical to my mission I would....

But it is critical. I must stay here until I find him, bring him to justice for all that he has wrought. So I must stay here, endure this for the greater good; no, not for me, for I no longer matter. I swore that I would give my life for her and though I can no longer do that I can still make amends. That much, at least, I can do.

Another fire engine dopples past me in Morse code, a signal against the unbroken background noise of pedestrian despair. Once I thought that even the number of emergency vehicles was a code in itself; that one could decipher meaning from the frequency of taxi's heading in a particular direction off the roundabout like a macabre logic puzzle. These are but a novices whimsy, nothing more, and I am no mere novice. My life is spent in the cold and I have become immune to it.

It's possible to lose all sense of purpose, only the number of coffee cups mark the passage of time. I never sleep anyway; I'm always watching, always aware. He will slip up one day. Will power is being able to outlast your enemy.

Too many people allow the tension to break them. They associate themselves with the other side of the window. There is no reciprocation, no acknowledgement. You are only alive to the waitress who takes your order, and to her you are but another nameless punter, a faceless wallet; the visage on the denuded coins mean more to them.

I am made of sterner stuff, my motivation being the only thing in my life. She would not have wanted it any other way. Justice: the word must have meaning, for what is meaning without action? What is action without purpose?

These are not empty gestures – she would have wanted this. Together we were whole – he must be made to understand that.

Time. My only real distraction, the shop closing. I am the last customer again, I must be careful, be more vigilant. Despite my preparation, my careful planning, this could be my undoing – this might be the reason why he hasn't shown his face again, so I must leave a disappointed man.

A lesser man must surely have broken by now. I must push back the paranoia that is creeping in – he is not aware of me, how could he be? He is not watching me, scrutinizing me as I am him. He will not know about me until it is far too late.

But I can do no more about it now; I must leave, until tomorrow. Tomorrow... maybe then he will make a mistake and then he will be mine...

“Christ, I thought he'd never leave!”

“You'll get used to him... he's harmless enough.”

“He's a regular then?”

“Yeah – you'll soon learn who the harmless one are... I feel kinda sorry for him, actually – it's tragic really.”

“Go on... I always like a bit of gossip.”

“He used to be a writer, believe it or not... Quite famous, actually.”

“Go on – you're kidding!”

“Damian Gilltrapp – heard of him?”

“Yeah – my husband loves his novels! Spy books, aren't they?”

“That's right. Well, he had a wife, very happily married.. then a year ago he was waiting for her in this very coffee-shop, sitting exactly where he sat today -where he always sits now- overlooking the zebra crossing.”

“No.. that wasn't his wife was it? I heard about what happened -she never stood a chance!”

“Well, the taxi driver had a heart attack as she was crossing... but, no... she never stood a chance. The taxi tossed her like a rag doll.. I don't even think she was aware what happened -she was waving at her husband as she crossed.”

“You mean.. he saw it all happen?”

“It was over before he even finished waving... the look on his face was one of sheer disbelief, as if it happened to someone else. The trouble was, there was no one else to blame – the cabbie was dead and it was just sods law that she was crossing there when she was; but it was more than he could handle, I guess.”

“So he's come back here every day since?”

“Every day.. same time, same place. I think he's looking for something, though I've no idea what.”

“What will he do if he finds it?”

“I don't think any of us really know the answer to that question....”