Banks had dug out his old portable CD player, in the absence of his iPod, and he listened to Laura Marling’s Alas, I Cannot Swim on the train down to London that Monday evening. He needed his car back, and despite what had been said on the phone, he thought that if he could just see Sophia for a few minutes, he could convince her to stay with him. Beyond that, he hadn’t thought. Annie was heading the search for Derek Wyman, though they were hardly combing the moors just yet, mostly running through the list of old friends and relatives dotted about the place. So far, nobody had seen any trace of him.
It was after five o’clock when the train he had caught in Darlington earlier pulled out of York. On his right, the Yorkshire Wheel, a mini version of the London Eye, was turning forlornly, deserted in the rain that had been falling steadily since the heavens first opened on Sunday morning. Already there was talk of flooding in Wales and Gloucestershire.
A group of four teenagers had the table just down the aisle from Banks, and they were already well into the ale. They sounded as if they had been on the train since Newcastle. Banks fancied a drink himself, but he decided to lay off. After all, there was always the chance that he might have to drive straight back to Eastvale.
The landscape and the stations drifted by as he gazed out of the window: Doncaster, Grantham, Newark. Peterborough, where he had grown up. He thought about his parents, away on a Mediterranean cruise. Since they had inherited his brother’s money, they hadn’t changed a great deal about their lives, Banks thought, but they had taken to cruising with a vengeance, much against his expectations.
He also thought of Michelle Hart, a detective inspector in the local force, and an ex-girlfriend of his. She had moved to Hampshire, he’d heard, Portsmouth, and as the train passed the flats down by the river where she used to live, it brought back memories. He could also never pass by Peterborough without thinking of his old boyhood friends Steve Hill, Paul Major and Dave Grenfell. Graham Marshall, too, of course, who had disappeared and then turned up buried in a field years later, and Kay Summerville, the first girl he had ever slept with. He had bumped into her just a few years ago, when he was back home for his parents’ wedding anniversary, and she was clearing out the house after her mother’s death. They had repeated the experience. Later, they had promised to get in touch, but both knew they never would. Their moment had passed, and they were luckier than most in that it had passed twice, and passed well. Moments are often all you get. You can watch them walking away. The rest is crap. Let go with both hands. No regrets.
But Sophia was a different matter. He didn’t want to let go of her.
His pay-as-you-go vibrated discreetly in his pocket. He didn’t like mobile conversations on trains, his own or other people’s, but he wasn’t in a quiet coach, so it wasn’t against the rules. He took his earphones out and answered it.
“Banksy?”
“Ah, Mr. Burgess.”
“Right. I’ll keep this brief. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Laurence Silbert operated strictly in Cold War territory, primarily Berlin, Prague and Moscow. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“His only visit to Afghanistan was in 1985, when the Russians were there. It was a joint operation with the CIA. I think we can say almost certainly that it was probably to do with supplying backing to the anti-Russian Taliban forces. This particular bit of knowledge isn’t classified, by the way—though the details are—but I’d prefer if you’d keep it under your hat.”
“Of course.”
“Basically, Laurence Silbert was a Cold War warrior. He never had anything to do with the situation in the Middle East, except insofar as it impinged on the Cold War. He spoke Russian, German and Czech, and those countries were the primary areas of his operations.”
“What about after his retirement?”
“I said I wasn’t going to tell you about that, but I’d say it was pretty obvious, wouldn’t you? If I can put two and two together, I’m sure you can, too. We all know the old KGB and Stasi agents have turned up in one form of organized crime or another, or have become ‘businessmen,’ as many of them like to call themselves. They’re operating quite openly in the West now. Silbert was part of that world for a long time, in the old days. He knew all the players, their strengths, weaknesses, trade routes, hiding places—the lot.”
“So they’re using his old knowledge?”
“Yes. I’d say so. Just a guess, mind you.”
Banks made sure to keep his voice low. “Why all the secrecy about it? The Regent’s Park meetings. The house. Fenner’s phone number. The Townsends. I mean, we’re all fighting the Russian Mafia. Why didn’t he just go to Thames House or wherever and have a chat with them when they wanted to pick his brains?”
Banks heard Burgess chuckle down the line. “That’s not the way they do things, Banksy. They like games and codes and passwords and things like that. Basically, they’re like little kids at heart. When he was ready for a meeting, Silbert would ring a phone number they gave him, an untraceable number, as I’m sure you discovered, and all he’d get would be a line-disconnected message, but they’d know he was ready. They’d also know if anyone else phoned the number, too, which I assume is one of the things that tipped them off to your meddlesome presence in the first place.”
“Maybe,” said Banks. “Julian Fenner, Import-Export. I certainly wasn’t trying to hide anything.”
“It may have been better if you had. Anyway,” Burgess went on, “they clearly didn’t want anyone to know that they were using him because the other side, of course, also knew exactly what and who Silbert knew, and they would be able to change any plans or routines or personnel accordingly.”
“Is that all?”
“I can’t think of anything else. Can you? And don’t forget what I said about the phone. Dump it. You owe me, Banksy. I must get back to bugging Muslim MPs now. Bye-bye.”
The phone went dead. Banks switched it off and put it in his pocket. He’d dispose of it later, in the Thames, perhaps, with all the other secrets that had been dumped there over the years.
18
It was a muggy evening on the London streets. The rain had stopped by the time Banks was walking down King’s Road at about half past eight, but a kind of heavy mist hung in the air, enveloping everything in its warm humid haze. The street still maintained its usual aura of busyness, of constant motion and activity. It was one of the things Banks loved so much about London, and one of the things he loved to escape from by going back to Gratly.
The street lamps made blurred halos in the mist, and even the sounds of the main street were muffled. Banks had sensed an odd mood as he made his way on the tube and by foot. London was still in shock from Friday’s bombing, but at the same time people were determined to get on with life as usual, to show that they weren’t going to be intimidated. There were probably even more people out and about than you would normally find on a humid Monday night. They needed to stand up and be counted. Banks felt a part of that, too. But most of all he wanted to find Sophia.
He turned into her street, which was considerably quieter, and felt his chest tighten as he rang her doorbell. No answer. He had a key, but there was no way he was going to use it. Besides, he had no reason to go in if she was out. He had deliberately not phoned her to say he was coming, too, in case she reacted badly and tried to avoid him.
She was probably working. Often her job demanded that she attend evening events—readings, openings, premieres—so he decided to pass the time in their local wine bar, just around the corner. Like other cafés and bars he had passed on his way, it was crowded. Not many establishments had tables out on the pavement along King’s Road— there simply wasn’t that much room—so the inside tables were all taken, and knots of people stood around where they could find a bit of space, leaned on pillars, held their glasses and talked.