“Oh, they’re lovely,” Suzanne said. “Are they like the ones you lost?”
“Almost identical,” I said, checking to see if the design had changed much over the years. “Only mine were stolen, not lost.”
“I bet they were expensive. Does it say who they’re from?”
By now I had a pretty good idea, but I fished out a little card that had slipped down between the tissue and the side of the box, just to be sure.
I hope these help you get back on your feet. Best wishes, M.
PS - check your phone.
“Who’s M?” Suzanne said.
That was a good question, I thought. How should I answer? Assuming I was right, I could tell her it was the woman she’d just seen in the wheelchair. Hint that she was an MI5 agent. Or just say it was someone trying to do a difficult job, which I’d inadvertently made worse.
It took another five minutes of grunted ‘yes’s and ‘no’s before Suzanne finally left and I could get to the drawer and retrieve my phone. A single text icon was bouncing around the screen. The message was from my control. It said he wanted to talk. Immediately.
The signal in my room was weak so it actually took three attempts to reach him.
“Trevellyan?” he said with only a trace of last night’s annoyance in his voice when we were finally connected. “How’s the head?”
“Not too bad,” I said. “Not quite one hundred percent, yet, but it’s getting there. Thank you.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your head isn’t improving. It’s getting worse. You’ll have to stay in the hospital. And the medics can’t put their finger on the problem, so you could be there for a while.”
Had he somehow heard about my boots? Normally the prospect of open-ended incarceration would fill me with gloom, but this sounded like excellent news.
“Worse?” I said. “OK. I can do that. Only, what’s the real story?”
“Remember the girl from Box, from last night?” he said.
Box is inter-service slang for MI5, based on their wartime address – PO Box 500, London.
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“Well, after your inadvertent introduction, our two head-sheds have been talking,” he said. “And the long and short is - they want to borrow you.”
“What if I don’t want to be borrowed?”
“Let me rephrase. They’re borrowing you.”
“I see. It’s like that. OK. But why? And how long for?”
“For as long as they want you. They think one of their people might have been to Cambridge, so they want some eyes they can trust from the outside.”
Going to Cambridge is MI5 slang for turning traitor after Anthony Blunt, Kim Philby and co. were recruited by the NKVD – the forerunner of the KGB – when they were students there in the 1930s.
“And they’re putting me in the middle of it?” I said.
“It makes sense,” he said. “You’re on the scene. You’ve got a reason to stay there. They’re a body down, thanks to you. And infiltration’s your specialty.”
“It is my specialty. Which is why this makes no sense at all. You can only infiltrate a group if everyone in it takes you at face value. This girl knows exactly who I am. She’s no fool. There’s no way she’ll confide in me, and she’ll not incriminate herself with me watching. Even assuming her hands are dirty, which they might not be. No. What they need here is Internal Investigations.”
“They want you.”
“This won’t work. It’s a mistake. I’m the wrong man for the job.”
“Why are you talking as if you have a choice?”
I didn’t reply.
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” he said. “It’ll no doubt be awkward. You’ll have to improvise. But since you set foot in that hospital, you’ve done more harm than good. This is your chance to atone. And given what you did to their man, frankly, you’re getting off lightly.”
“OK,” I said, after a moment. “I’ll bow to the inevitable. So what happens from here? What’s the rest of the story?”
“I’ve got no idea. It’s not my department. You’re to liaise with their girl. She’ll fill you in.”
“OK. I’ll talk to her.”
“Good. Only, David - one last thing. You’re probably right about this girl. She probably won’t open up to you, but we don’t know anything about her. I’m trying to dig up some background, and in the meantime, watch your back. Their brass is ready to ask for help, remember. What does that tell you?”
“Someone’s closet is about to burst open.”
“Exactly. So just make sure the skeletons don’t land on you. Whoever they belong to.”
I hung up, and bundled the boots back into their box, ready to leave the room. They still looked nice. But after that phone conversation, I wouldn’t be able to look at the agent in the same way. Not now that I had to work with her. Watch her, to see if she was a traitor. Maybe end her career. Or even her life.
It made me think that why she’d sent the boots was a more relevant question than who had sent them. Could it be something to clear the air, after last night’s fight? An indication of the kind of influence she could bring to bear, ahead of us working together? Or a little demonstration that I was playing on her turf, and she was planning to call the shots?
The only way to find out would be to talk to her. I didn’t have her number so I made my way down to her corridor and walked to the far end. The door to her room was closed, and there was no reply when I knocked. I thought about waiting in the room opposite, which was still vacant, but decided against it. The sickly disinfectant smell that hung in the hospital air was making me queasy, so if I had to hang around anywhere, I wanted it to be outside.
I’d planned to return to the bench I’d used yesterday, but when I reached the garden I quickly changed my mind. Three people were sprawling all over the one next to it. They were all male, in their early twenties. Their jeans were ripped and stained, and their T-shirts were covered with vulgar slogans and logos of bands I’d never heard of. Their pale, pointy heads were shaved. They were making enough noise for a dozen people. And even though it was still morning, they were already acting like they were drunk. Crumpled beer cans lay in a broad circle around them. I counted thirteen. Then the tallest of the group added a fourteenth as I settled on the bench furthest away from them.
“What’re you looking at?” he said, when he realised I was watching him.
I stayed silent, but held his gaze until he eventually looked away.
The sun was shining weakly through the light, fluffy clouds. It wasn’t warm, but it would still have been a pleasant morning if I’d had the garden to myself. Or to share with people I’d chosen to be with. Although, if I was honest about it, there weren’t very many of those left.
“Oy!” a male voice said, breaking my chain of thought.
A man had entered the garden from the opposite side and was gesturing half-heartedly at the three lads. He was wearing a uniform, of sorts. A security guard’s. From a private company rather than the hospital itself, I’d say, judging by the logo on his chest.
“Yes, you,” the guard said. “All of you. I’ve told you before. This garden isn’t for you. It’s for patients. Visitors. Hospital staff. And that’s all. You’re trespassing. So. Stop what you’re doing and get lost.”