Illegal Action

5

Wally Woods was too tired to sleep. He’d worked seven shifts in four days, which would have been beyond a joke in the old days. They’d been camped out in South Kensington for the last two weeks, trailing an Iranian who specialised in late-night partying. Dennis Rudge had come down with flu and there hadn’t been any option but to stand in for him.

Rudge had struggled back at last that morning, looking like death and blowing his nose, so Wally had gone home. He drove, dazed with fatigue, up to Crouch End, where he’d found a bad-tempered note from his wife, who had already gone to work. “Dear Stranger” it began, which didn’t sound too good. He caught three hours’ kip only to wake up, groggy, to find Molly, his dog, licking his face and whimpering for a walk.

There was nothing for it. He’d never get back to sleep. So he showered and shaved and dressed, then took Molly in the car and drove down here, to Hampstead Heath, where there was plenty of room, even for a Doberman with energy.

He liked to walk on the heath. It was a natural, uninhabited space, which had only one thing in common with North London around it—anything could happen there, and did. Its different areas—woodland, rough meadow, a string of ponds, Parliament Hill with its panoramic views of the City of London—afforded constant variety to his walks. Parking in The Grove, opposite a row of elegant Georgian mansions, he put on his anorak, and walked down a tree-lined lane, with Molly on her lead. The wind was picking up and the sun was obscured by cloud. Where is spring? he wondered, still feeling stiff after so many hours on duty, sitting in a parked car.

When they reached the bottom by the boating pond, where the heath began, he let Molly go. And it was as he watched the dog lope off—funny how unthreatening a Doberman’s trot was, considering the fear they inspired in people—that he saw the man. Trudging past the men’s pond, then turning and heading up the hill along a path much favoured by dog walkers and joggers, his back to Wally—which paradoxically was what gave him away.

It sounded strange, as Wally knew from trying to explain to his wife, but after twelve years of following people for a living, the way they looked from behind did for Wally just what fingerprints did for a forensic technician. The traits were just as individual, just as telltale. So when he saw that slow gait, like that of a man walking to get married to someone he didn’t love, Wally knew at once he’d watched that back before.

And who it belonged to: Vladimir Rykov, trade attaché at the Russian Embassy. Wally had followed him before—to a restaurant in Charlotte Street, to a meeting at the Institute of Directors in Pall Mall, once on a Saturday to an Arsenal match in their last season at the old High-bury ground.

But what was Rykov doing here in the middle of a working day? Steady on, he told himself, he’s probably going for a walk, just like you are, only without a dog. After all, the Russian Trade Delegation was only a few hundred yards away, perched on Highgate West Hill above the heath, a gruesome fenced-off compound of sixties modules.

But there was something deliberate about Rykov’s progress. He was going somewhere, with a purpose, Wally told himself after following him for less than a minute. As he climbed the path, Rykov veered right, and walked across the rough grass towards a group of trees, known locally as Boadicea’s Tomb. A stand of large oaks backed by towering pines, planted in a circle and ringed by iron railings. High up, the tomb was impossible to approach unseen. There was a bench on its north side where the Russian now sat down.

Wally turned away, calling to Molly. He fussed with her for a while, keeping his head down. Two minutes later, he stole a quick glance up the hill and saw that a man had joined Rykov on the bench.

In another part of the heath, nearer the men’s pond, it might have been a cruising encounter, but not here—and besides, the men sat far apart on the bench. Rykov seemed to be doing the talking, though from this distance it was hard to tell. But it was a meeting, not some chance encounter; of that Wally was sure. Why in such a remote place? Because Rykov didn’t want to be seen—presumably neither did the other man.

He’d loitered enough. There were other dog walkers around, but people didn’t forget a Doberman, so Wally followed Molly along the same path Rykov had climbed. He only stopped walking when he was sheltered by a dip from the view of the bench. He waited for what seemed an eternity, stamping his feet to keep his circulation flowing in the sharp wind, letting the dog sniff rabbit holes. He was rewarded for his patience when Rykov came into view descending the hill, followed thirty seconds later by the other man.

Wally didn’t hesitate. There was no point in following Rykov—he could find him any time. But who was this other man? He was six feet or so, short back and sides, and wore a windcheater that highlighted a powerful build. Unlike Rykov, he didn’t look foreign—not at this distance at any rate—but there was something distinctive about the man. Ex-army, thought Wally. And he quickly put Molly back on her lead, then moved down the field, trying to act like just any other dog owner who had finished the morning’s exercise.

Ahead, Rykov disappeared towards the path between the dog pond and the men’s pond in the direction of the Trade Delegation. The other man went right, skirting the pond, heading towards the low green grass of Parliament Hill. Wally picked up the pace, though careful to keep a good 200 yards between them. The tennis courts and buildings of a sixth-form college loomed ahead, but the man swerved left suddenly and Wally half-sprinted to catch up. He reached the road just in time to see the man emerge from a crowd of teenagers, sprint across the road and hop on to a double-decker bus. It chugged away in a swirl of black exhaust. Cursing, Wally looked around hopelessly for a cab.

Then London Transport came to the rescue, in the form of another bus, right on the heels of the earlier one. Wally ran to the stop, the bus pulled up, and he had both feet on and was reaching for change to pay his fare when the driver started shaking his head. “Not on my bus, mon,” he said, in indisputable Jamaican tones. The driver pointed an accusing finger at Molly.

“I can bring a dog on the bus,” Wally protested.

“Not that dog and not my bus. No way.”

“She won’t do any harm,” Wally said, grabbing the dog’s lead tight. He could see passengers staring at him and the dog.

“That’s what you say,” said the driver, keeping a careful eye on the Doberman. “But that’s no Seeing Eye dog for sure. Them’s dangerous. You get off now, mon, or I’m not starting.”

He pointed to the pavement fiercely and when Wally tried to argue, simply shook his head. Molly, who disliked arguments, uttered a noise somewhere between a yawn and a yelp, then licked her lips. A drop of saliva fell on the platform. Some of the passengers muttered and Wally, recognising a lost battle, got down, groaning with frustration. The bus moved off.

The leading bus had by now long disappeared in the direction of central London. There was still no taxi in sight. “Come on, Molly,” said Wally, “let’s go home.” But who the hell was the man?