Blast from the Past

31

“A field, general?” the spook had said.

“That’s right, Gottfried, that is the last address I have for her. A field in southern England called Greenham Common. We used to have a base there.”

Gottfried was a captain in military intelligence. He had a keen brain and he spotted instantly that as addresses went this one was on the vague side. He did not say so, of course, it was not his place. Gottfried had the gentle, self-deprecating air of a good butler and like a good butler he missed very little. He enquired if perhaps this field had a house on it or even a hut.

“No,” Jack replied. “When I knew Polly she lived in a bender, although I doubt that it’s still there. I guess with carbon testing you might pick up traces of the fireplace, but I doubt that would help.”

“A bender, General?” Gottfried asked.

“Yes, a bender, Gottfried. It’s a shelter made of mud, sticks, leaves and reeds.”

“I understand, sir,” and something about the slight quiver of Gottfried’s eyebrow made Jack fear that what Gottfried understood was that Jack was out of his mind.

“Perhaps, General,” Gottfried enquired gently, “if you just gave me the surname of the young lady in question we could discover her address from the British tax authorities. I feel certain that they would co-operate if we made the request via the Embassy.”

“Coupla things,” said Jack firmly. “First, do you want to make colonel?”

“Yes, General sir, I do,” Gottfried replied.

“OK, then. You don’t do this thing I’m asking via the Embassy, understand? You do this yourself. You don’t delegate, you don’t get somebody else to do the legwork, this is just you, OK?”

“As you wish, sir,” Gottfried said.

If General Kent knew one thing about the Grosvenor Square Embassy it was that the CIA were all over it. It was their principal European station, their centre of operations. Nothing happened in that building that they did not know about and Jack did not want them knowing about Polly.

“Next thing,” said Jack. “Her surname wouldn’t help you, I’m afraid. It… it wasn’t real.”

“Am I to understand, sir, that the young lady in question operated under a pseudonym?” Gottfried enquired.

“Yes, she did,” said Jack, reddening slightly. “Her surname at the time I knew her was ‘Sacred Cycle of the Womb and Moon’.”

Jack had asked Polly her real name but she had refused on principle to tell him.

“I am who I decide to be, not who society dictates,” she used to say, and Jack had thought it simply too stupid to argue; it had not seemed important at the time.

Gottfried betrayed not an ounce of the amusement he felt.

“I see, sir,” said Gottfried. “So that would be Polly Sacred Cycle of the Womb and Moon?”

“Yes, it would.”

The spy solemnly produced a notebook and jotted down the name, respectfully repeating it under his breath as he did so.

Jack shuddered at the memory of Polly’s stupid name. Checking into hotels with a woman who insisted upon signing herself Polly Sacred Cycle of the Womb and Moon had to be one of his more excruciating memories. Eventually Jack persuaded her that it just drew attention to them and that they should pretend to be married anyway, but for a while it had been a major embarrassment for him.

At the time, Polly had been convinced that Jack was only embarrassed because he was so totally uptight and straight. She believed that if only he could centre himself and shake out his shakrahs he would see that it was a lovely name. She found it practical as well as beautiful. For a person who was arrested on a regular basis a good pseudonym was essential and having such a long one absolutely infuriated the police. They used to try to get away with just writing “Polly Sacred,” but she would insist on her full name being noted. It drove them mad, particularly on winter mornings when their fingers were cold.

“OK, that’s all I got,” said Jack. “I’m afraid it ain’t a lot.”

“I’m sure it will prove sufficient, General,” Gottfried assured him.

“Good.”

“So, then, just to recap, sir. A girl called Polly, Greenham peace lady. Seventeen years old in 1981. Find her and kill her.”

“That’s right… No! For Christ’s sake! Jesus, I never said anything about killing her…”

“I’m sorry, sir, I just assumed-”

“Yeah, well don’t. Just find her, OK? Get her address, hand it over to me and then forget we ever had this conversation.”