Dead Letter Drop

25

Life has a nasty habit of creeping up behind you and clipping you on the ear when you least expect it. As you lift your hand up to your ear the great iron fist of life strikes out full into the area some six inches below your belt. For a long time after, you feel weak as hell and sick as a dog. That’s how I felt standing over the wash-basin back in the Madison Park East Hotel.

The brown dye was revolting and streamed down my face as I attempted to restore my hair back to its usual colour. The moustache and beard came painfully away, ripping out three days growth of hair in the process, and I flushed them down the lavatory. I didn’t think it would take even the New York police too long to figure out there might be a connection between a collapsed building on 3rd Street, the dead body inside it, and a blonde-haired man with a beard and moustache.

The hotel hadn’t changed in the last few days since I had last stayed. Quasimodo’s grandson downstairs still seemed to be enjoying his movie show on the blank wall; the cockroaches still seemed to be enjoying themselves in the bathroom. The one person who was definitely not enjoying himself was me.

I was busy figuring out hard how having murdered the Home Secretary was going to help my future career. I didn’t think it was going to help it too much. Nor, probably, did he. What had happened was still only just beginning to sink home. The further it sank, the less I liked it. And this was the least of my worries. I tried to think clearly and it was difficult. It all pointed to Anthony Lines and yet it couldn’t have been him. His role in this was crystal clear to me: he had discovered exactly what I had; he’d intercepted the message to the Pink Envelope and had come out himself in order to get to the bottom of the matter.

But it had been Scatliffe’s voice on the telephone. I was absolutely certain of that. Lines’s voice was nothing like Scatliffe’s. Either Scatliffe had been with him or he had done a remarkable job of mimicking Scatliffe’s voice. It didn’t make sense that he would have mimicked Scatliffe’s voice. But it was possible that there was a reason; anything was possible. Too many things were possible and only one thing was absolutely certain: that I was up shit creek, in a barbed wire canoe with no paddle. By what I had done to Lines I had probably pulled the bung out as well.

I had been certain that Scatliffe was the Pink Envelope. When his voice had come on the telephone I knew that the agony and risks I had put myself through during the past days had paid off. And now I was holed up in this wretched room with my career destroyed, a murder hunt about to begin for me, and not the first idea what to do next. If I had been right about Scatliffe then I seemed to have walked into an extremely clever trap. If I was wrong, I could expect no mercy and he would gleefully have me put behind bars for the rest of my days. My only saving grace right now was that everyone except two men, Irving and Karavenoff, thought I was dead. It was in Irving’s interests that I remained so but Karavenoff worried me; he was on the fence and would come down on whatever side suited him best. If I was going to make a run for it then I should kill him first to protect my back.

But I knew that idea was crazy. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life as a criminal on the run. There had to be a solution to this whole damn mess. If I thought long enough and hard enough maybe it would come. I wasn’t convinced but I had to give it a go.

I sat long into the night, stubbing out cigarette end after cigarette end. It was a slow night and a lonely night and as grey dawn came up I dozed a little and woke a little. Finally I couldn’t stand it any more. I put my coat on and went out into the freezing cold air.

New York is a confusing place. It never really sleeps; while one half goes to bed, the other half gets up to work. At five o’clock in the morning you can buy a second-hand car, or a new suit, or the week’s groceries; not as easily perhaps as at five o’clock in the afternoon but easily enough.

I walked down the streets; less than one week to Christmas, and tinsel and fairy lights and glittering packages shone out at me from the windows. I felt tired and sad and a million other things, and I didn’t want to be here doing this at all. I thought back on what I had done yesterday and wondered if it really was me that had done that and, if it really was me, how I could now be walking casually along, looking in these windows, thinking about Christmas in childhood, without any remorse, any feeling of guilt about the man who had gone to his death in a crummy elevator in a crummy building, yesterday afternoon.

It was a long time since I had gone Christmas shopping, trailing round the London stores with my mother, sitting on Santa Claus’s knees in Harrods, Swan & Edgar, D H Evans. I thought about all the long, sometimes happy, sometimes wretched process, of growing up, becoming a man, and now I was a man, and had been a man for a long time, and I was alone, wandering down this cold Manhattan street, feeling like an old toy that had been chucked into a waste bin.

I spent the day shuffling the streets, drinking eternal cups of black coffee and smoking eternal cigarettes in the cafes that came my way and I came no closer to any solution. Finally in the early evening I hailed a cab, went to Kennedy Airport and bought a ticket on the 10 pm TWA flight to London. The flight was a little under seven hours and, depending on the strength of the tail wind, we were scheduled to arrive at Heathrow Airport at about 9.40 in the morning.

The stewardess brought me the New York Times. The front page headline read, ‘British politician dead in New York Building collapse mystery.’ The article stated that no cause for the collapse was yet known but there was evidence of an explosion. The IRA was mentioned as possibly being involved but they had not claimed responsibility and there was as yet no clear evidence of any foul play. The article went on to state that the building had been scheduled for demolition under a redevelopment scheme.

It normally drizzles most of the week before Christmas and this Tuesday morning was no exception. If you ever feel gloomy and despondent, avoid flying into England on a wet day. Not that to have been greeted by blazing sunshine, a temperature of 95 degrees, and a host of naked dancing girls would have made much difference to my mood.

No one arrested me at the passport control and I walked out into the arrival lounge. I hired a car and drove off onto the M4 and the West Country. The plane had had engine trouble and the tail wind was weak; I switched on the radio to catch the one o’clock news. Not surprisingly the late Anthony Lines MP featured prominently. Considerable advances had been made since the New York Times had gone to press. Lines had definitely been killed by an explosion, which in turn had brought on the collapse of the building, the explosion apparently having taken place in the elevator. The IRA had denied responsibility and none of the other Irish terrorist organisations had as yet claimed any part in it. But whilst his death was given great prominence in the report, what was given even more prominence was the fact of Lines’s being in New York at all; that was a complete mystery to everyone.

He appeared to have told his wife late on Friday that he had to go to an emergency conference with the Prime Minister and wouldn’t be back until Monday. But the Prime Minister denied all knowledge of this conference and had been seen by numerous people out Christmas shopping all that Saturday. Had Lines gone to a secret meeting with a terrorist group? Why hadn’t the Americans any knowledge that he was coming? Under what name had he flown over since no passenger of his name had been carried by any of the airlines over that weekend? The speculation was well and truly rife. Already the death of Sir Maurice Unwin was being linked with Lines’s by the reporters. The Prime Minister had not yet issued any statement but was expected to later that day. In a strange way it all cheered me up.

Fifeshire’s country house was deep in the Cotswold hills, on the outskirts of two minute hamlets, and I found it with some considerable difficulty. There were two impressive stone gateposts topped by handsome gargoyles; the gates were open and looked as though they hadn’t been shut in years. Inside the gates the drive dropped sharply down to the right, and as I drove down, the house came into view some way below me. It was a massive Elizabethan manor, sunk deep in the hollow on one side, but looking down over hundreds of acres of rolling fields and hills in the distance on the other. It was a rich man’s house but sufficient parts of the facade, the driveway and the gardens looked in need of some care, not a great deal, but just enough to give it the feel of a private home rather than a National Trust set piece. It was the kind of house that told you, whatever else you might be feeling, that all was all right in the world.

I rang the doorbell and a rather matronly housekeeper opened the huge oak door.

‘I’ve come to see Sir Charles,’ I said.

She looked at me, surprised. ‘But he’s not here,’ she said, ‘he’s in town.’

‘I thought he wasn’t working up there at the moment.’

‘Not usually, he isn’t — at present; he’s still convalescing from his, er,’ she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. ‘But some telegram came over the weekend and he drove up very early on Monday morning; we don’t expect him back for a few days.’

‘Oh. I had an appointment with him,’ I lied, ‘three o’clock this afternoon.’

‘If you like, I’ll ring and tell him you’re here.’

‘I’d be most grateful if you would.’

‘May I have your name, please?’

‘Spade,’ I said.

She left me on the doorstep and went off inside. After a few minutes she returned:

‘Sir Charles is terribly sorry, sir; he says he completely forgot about your appointment. He asks if you will come in and make yourself at home; he will be back down just as soon as he can get away from his office.’

It didn’t sound to me like the message of an angry man but then Fifeshire never had given much away. I accepted the housekeeper’s offer of tea and biscuits, then fell into a deep sleep in the armchair in front of the roaring inglenook fireplace in the drawing room.

I awoke with a bolt of cold fear to the unmistakable clattering of a helicopter overhead. My immediate reaction was that the bastard had sent the army to get me. Then I looked at my watch: it was past seven. If he’d wanted me arrested, he’d have done it several hours ago. The huge door opened and in strode a beaming Fifeshire, limping a little, but looking fitter than ever, with attaché case in one hand and newspaper in the other; he dropped them both onto a chair.

‘Well, well, good evening, Mr Digger!’ he gave me a firm, warm handshake.

‘So you’re still speaking to me,’ I said.

There was a grin on his face from ear to ear. ‘I purloined a chopper to get down here as quickly as I could; damn traffic’s dreadful otherwise. Look like you’ve been to hell and back — you probably know the way by now.’ He gave me another big grin; he was looking pleased as punch, like some child that’s just got up to some mischief and is waiting for the results of its handiwork to take effect. He picked up the newspaper, the Evening Standard, and thrust it at me. ‘Have you been watching the news on television?’

‘No, haven’t heard anything since one o’clock; I’m afraid I fell asleep.’

He nodded at me to look at the Standard. The thick black type across the top of the front page blazed out the legend: Was Lines a Russian spy? I looked quizzically at Fifeshire.

‘Go on,’ he said, ‘read it.’

‘On Friday evening in Washington Sir Maurice Unwin, Britain’s attaché to the United States, apparently committed suicide. It is not widely known that Sir Maurice was the Head of MI6 in the US.

‘On Sunday afternoon in New York the Home Secretary, Anthony Lines, was murdered by a bomb.

‘It has today been learned that Commander Clive Scatliffe, deputy head of MI5, has been missing since Friday night. Intelligence sources report that he boarded an Aeroflot flight in New York, bound for Moscow, late on Sunday. Commander Scatliffe was acting head of MI5 since the hospitalisation of Sir Charles Cunningham-Hope, who was seriously wounded by gunfire when President Battanga was assassinated in his car in August of this year.’

I read through the rest of the article. It dragged up a number of left-wing remarks made by Lines during the course of his career, analysed his Cambridge education and the left-wing society with which he mixed at the time, and attempted to link the situation with the Philby/Blunt affair of 1980 but without actually producing any concrete evidence. I looked up at Fifeshire.

‘There’s more to come,’ he said.

‘Tell me.’

‘Whisky?’

I nodded assent and we sat down with hefty tumblers of Scotch: Glenfiddich, what else?

‘I received a telephone call from a gentleman with whom you are familiar,’ he said, ‘one Harold Wetherby. He’s involved in this whole thing up to his neck and wants to bargain a lot of knowledge he claims to have in return for a pardon. He’s terrified he’s about to be bumped off at any moment. I’ve had a word with the Prime Minister; no one’s happy about granting any pardons since all the flak of that business of the Blunt affair, and I’ve told him so. Anyhow, he’s flying over to London tonight to tell all and to throw himself at our mercy.

‘This is really the most extraordinary affair. The one man I just do not understand is Unwin: I can’t believe he’s mixed up in this but the way the muck’s going to hit the fan during the next few days we’re all going to have to brace ourselves for a lot more shocks yet.’

‘Unwin’s innocent,’ I said. ‘He was murdered. I’m certain of that; and I’m responsible. I knew there was at least one mole in Washington but I didn’t know who for sure. I suspected both Wetherby and Hicks. I telephoned Unwin and gave him a message that wouldn’t have made much sense to him. I told him I was going to reveal the identity of the Pink Envelope to the press unless I was paid 100,000 dollars in cash at a secret rendezvous. I figured that Unwin would be bound to discuss this message with Hicks and Wetherby, along with the other members of his senior staff. To make sure, I leaked the news of my message to Moscow. I knew that the mole in Washington was in regular communication with the Pink Envelope and I was sure that in the light of everything that had been going on, the Pink Envelope wouldn’t leave it to anyone else to deal with the matter this time, but would come over himself. The Envelope obviously instructed someone at Washington to bump off Unwin before he could have a chance to talk too much and to ensure he didn’t show up in New York himself. I was certain that the Envelope was Scatliffe and I don’t understand what Lines was doing in New York.’

‘Lines and Scatliffe went over together. They took different flights but met up when they got there. Both were scared witless and wouldn’t let the other out of sight any more. Wetherby told me. You’ll also be interested to learn that Hicks has disappeared. Scatliffe, Wetherby and Lines went to a call box together to call the blackmailer — presumably you — and then Lines insisted ongoing off to the meeting with the blackmailer alone. When Lines didn’t return, Scatliffe got scared and bolted.’ He paused. ‘Why did you kill Lines?’

‘I thought he was Scatliffe. I set the trap for Scatliffe and Lines walked into it. I could have stopped him but I’d gone so far I felt I had to go on.’

‘I don’t follow,’ said Fifeshire.

‘Somebody’s tried to kill me most days for the past couple of weeks — I told you that when we met in the Clinic. I was certain that Scatliffe was at the back of it but I had no evidence. I was certain too that Wetherby was involved, and others, possibly many others, but I didn’t know who. After I left you I found out more evidence; you were the only person I could trust to tell it to but if I’d gone back to you, your next step would have been to have reported the matter to your superior: and that would have been Lines, and you and I would be 6 feet under right now — unless Lines was innocent.’

‘Both Scatliffe and Lines have the sterling equivalent of 50,000 dollars each missing from their bank accounts. Both withdrawals were made on Friday. Lines wasn’t innocent. Go on.’

‘Right, the only thing I could do was to try and flush out the Pink Envelope, get him to turn up with some evidence to implicate him. Having done that, I would have to kill him if I was to have any chance of ever getting back alive to tell the tale. And in my heart of hearts I felt that by killing him I might just start off a chain reaction.’

‘That you have certainly done. But you took one hell of a risk.’

‘You don’t have to tell me, sir,’ I smiled — for the first time in a long time.

‘The next few days are going to be interesting, very interesting,’ said Fifeshire.

‘There are two mysteries I want to resolve: the first concerns Orchnev; and the second, the girl I was going out with who just suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘Could her name be Mary-Ellen Joffe?’ Fifeshire grinned.

‘How the hell do you know?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Tell me what you want to know about Orchnev; he started this whole damn thing off, or so it seems.’

‘He did, certainly. What I haven’t told you accurately, sir, is how he died.’

‘I understand you shot him — thought he was an intruder — that’s what you told the New York police at any rate.’

‘Right. But I didn’t shoot him. He shot himself.’

Fifeshire looked puzzled and I told him the story of exactly what did happen. At the end of it he nodded his head. ‘It makes sense,’ he said.

‘I’m glad it does to someone,’ I replied, ‘because it’s been baffling the hell out of me. He came to see me because someone must have told him to come and see me — but that’s as far as I can get. Going back historically, Orchnev originally wrote to you. Scatliffe, Hicks and Wetherby between them intercepted these letters and they never reached you. They didn’t want you to know Orchnev wanted to defect because they didn’t want him spilling any beans and blowing open the whole communications system between the KGB and the US. So they tried to kill you to get you out of the way; they didn’t succeed in killing you but they disabled you sufficiently so that you were no longer a threat. But why did they send Orchnev along to me and why did he kill himself in front of me?’

‘Orchnev was in New York eighteen months ago. He went over on a holiday; being a senior Party member he was trusted enough to be allowed to holiday alone. He had access to information vital to an operation MI6 were planning so they thought they’d have a go at him while he was in the States. They set a girl up as bait and he went for her. They dated a few times, she seduced him, but instead of her getting anything out of him, he went and fell madly in love with her. The only thing that stopped him defecting in order to live with her right there and then was his wife and three children in Russia. So very reluctantly he returned to Russia.

‘Six months later his wife and children were wiped out in a car crash. It appears to have been a genuine accident — we don’t think he fixed it. A couple of months passed, then this girl started to receive passionate love letters from him. She was instructed to respond equally passionately. She did. Her letters prompted Orchnev to make his decision to defect. He had nothing to live for in Russia any more; he had this gorgeous girl who was head-over-heels in love with him in New York. So he wrote to the head of the Soviet division of the CIA and sent the letter via a courier friend at the British Embassy, who passed it to MI6.

‘Having got their hands on the letter, MI6, who wanted Orchnev themselves, faked a reply to Orchnev from the CIA telling him that the CIA were not interested in his deal because they were scared of damaging some delicate negotiations they were having with Moscow, but said they had discussed the matter with the British who would be prepared to accept him, subject to being satisfied that he could and would provide worthwhile information. He agreed to this on the proviso that he could firstly come to New York and that there was some hope that at a later date the US might permit him residency. So MI6 wrote him a fairly standard letter offering him a new life in exchange for worthwhile information and agreeing to his visiting New York prior to coming to England. It was at this point that the Home Secretary was informed, since when Orchnev arrived in England he would be placed in the hands of MI5. Lines should of course have then immediately instructed me to handle the matter. Lines and Scatliffe should have told the Russians what was happening so that the Russians could prevent Orchnev from leaving, but this would have given the game away that there was a leak our end. It would be much easier for them if I was out of the way and they saw this as a good time to get rid of me. They would let Orchnev reach New York then bump him off before he had a chance to talk to anyone.

‘Then they had an even better idea: rather than have the problems of a dead Russian at all, they would try and get him to return to Russia of his own free will. They thought that if between the last love letter she wrote and the time he arrived in New York the girl had acquired a new lover and was no longer interested in him, he might decide there was no point in defecting after all and return to Russia.

‘So his defection was arranged as an innocent holiday to the States to get away from the bad memories of his wife and family for a while — all perfectly plausible. He was to be met in New York when he arrived by a Russian expatriate who was an old friend, who worked, incidentally, as a double agent for Wetherby. The Russian was to take him round to the girl’s flat. Orchnev was to go in and surprise her late at night but to his horror he would find her in bed with her new lover. He would leave in disgust and his friend waiting outside would persuade him that the most sensible thing he could do would be to go straight back to the airport and take the first plane he could back to Russia.

‘They agreed on this plan and set it in motion. Unfortunately it backfired horribly on them. Orchnev had a gun and instead of leaving the girl’s flat, he was so shocked by what he saw that, on top of all the tragedy of his wife and children and the strain of all the planning he had done, his mind became unbalanced and he shot himself. The girl was the one you called Sumpy and you were the lover. Have another Scotch.’

I couldn’t see any point in refusing.