The Marylebone Drop Read online

  But here he was now, up both flights, and his front door awaiting him. Again, there was the problem with the keys, which turned up in the wrong pocket, second time of looking. A sorry business, this growing older every day. But moments later he was home; in his own warm flat where all his possessions waited, his comfortable chair, his small library, his slippers, his life. He closed the door, and would have taken his bags through to the kitchen had something not struck him: not a thought, not a sound, a smell; a stranger’s smell—there had been, possibly still was, someone in his flat who should not be there; someone who carried, as Solomon did, his own odour: sweat, soap, all the undefinables we muster along the way. Solomon’s heart was hammering now; his breathing rapid. Were they still here? The door had been locked, was unbroken; a skilled burglar could enter through a window, but not without being seen from the street, surely, at this time of day? He sniffed deliberately, but the smell had been erased by odours from his shopping bags: the fresh bread, the fruit, the minced lamb, the cheese—the cheese? Was that what had snagged his attention, the urgent clamouring of a goat’s cheese? He reached out for the nearest shopping bag and raised it head-high, sniffed again. Ha! Goat’s cheese! He had heard many tales of old men frightened by their shadows, but this—this!—he would not be living this down soon, even if it remained his closely guarded secret, which it would. It would.

  Solomon carried the bags to the kitchen then returned to the door, removed his coat and hung it on the stand. Hat too. He’d not be leaving again in a hurry; he could see through the window the snow drawing crazy patterns in the air. The streets would be thickly carpeted soon. He removed his shoes, and headed for the bedroom. Cheese was on his mind. That smell of cheese, already occupying the entire flat. In his bedroom he sat and, before putting his slippers on, cradled each foot for a while. Even through his socks he could feel the miles these extremities had carried him; travels carved into skin which didn’t even feel like skin any more; felt like a thick plastic covering, onto which various lumps and ridges had been moulded. The body’s journey, written on itself. He planted both feet on the floor and stood, and felt again that wash of dizziness he’d suffered at the foot of the stairs. Careful, Solomon. He reached out for support, and found the handle of the wardrobe door: that was better. Thumping heart, the smell of cheese. A shiver down his back. He should put something warm on, make some tea. There was a cardigan in the wardrobe, so he opened the door and a shape loomed out, sudden and dangerous. Something burst inside old Solomon, though the shape was only briefly there; it had gone, stepped past him, was through the door before Solomon had finished his journey. This had started many years before, very far away, and ended where the floor began. For a moment or two he lingered on the threshold of himself, but the possibility of rejoining his loved ones proved too beguiling to resist, so Solly stepped across whatever the boundary was, and closed the world behind him.

  It was much later that Alec Wicinski checked his laptop for search results: he’d become caught up in several matters, each more urgent than a name-chase for an acquaintance. He wanted to get home: travel was going to be a bitch, with tube lines down because of the snow (why? Why did snow affect the underground?) and while he never minded walking, he didn’t have shoes for the weather. He texted Sara, confirming their dinner date, filled out his time sheets, then called up the search engines he’d set in motion and scanned the hits: six Peter Kahlmanns, the length and breadth of Europe. Which didn’t mean there weren’t more, and—allowing for fake IDs—didn’t mean there weren’t fewer, but it did mean there were six that fell within the parameters of the chosen engines. And this wouldn’t have been more than a passing observation were it not for something that rang a bad bell: loud and bastard clear.

  One of the Peter Kahlmanns was flagged.

  Flagging could have meant any number of things. It could have meant Peter Kahlmann was a friendly, an asset, a joe even; could have meant he was on a watch-list; could have meant he had diplomatic status, and was to be immediately released if he turned up under a hooker’s bed during a raid. But what it most definitely meant was, Alec would need a cast-iron reason for having looked him up in the first place. Running a search on a flagged target was like stepping on a tripwire: hard to tell whether you’d done any damage until you lifted your foot again. Everything might be okay, and the world go on as normal. Or you might find your leg blown to kingdom come. Life was full of surprises.

  What was certain was that his favour for John Bachelor wasn’t a secret any more. When you ran up a flag, someone in the Park saluted.

  He cursed under his breath, then closed all the engines down, not even bothering to examine the particular Peter Kahlmann who’d taken the starring role in his extracurricular trawl. Some things it was better not to know. The bright side was that if Alec had stepped into anything especially messy, he’d not be finding out about it now; he’d have been hauled away and given the treatment the minute he’d fed the name into the system. So with any luck it was a procedural mis-step, no more; one he’d answer for to Richard Pynne, his unlovable shift-manager, come their end of the week catch-up, but not one that had capsized an op. He hoped to God not, anyway. Nothing to do now but cross fingers and hope.

  As for Bachelor, he could go whistle. There were favours you did for friends, and there were risks you took for family: Bachelor wasn’t the latter and barely qualified as the former. The best Bachelor could hope for was that Alec didn’t come looking for him. To point out the error of his ways.

  He sighed, powered down and left. Outside, the snow was coming thick and hard: London didn’t usually get like this, but when it did, it didn’t mess about. It took him two hours to get home, and he missed his date with Sara by a mile. Worse things could happen. Still, that sense of history that Alec carried with him was flickering like a faulty lamp; reminding him that if you expected everything to go tits up, you’d rarely go far wrong.

  He’d been woken late evening by a pounding on the door, and a sickening awareness that the Dogs had tracked him down. The pass the dragon at the gate had allowed him had expired hours ago. The place might be in lockdown by now, every corner turned inside out in the hunt for an irregular; a part-time milkman outstaying his welcome.

  But you know what, John? That was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. As he clambered out of bed, pulled his trousers on, opened the door, Bachelor felt, if not entirely refreshed, at least no worse than when he’d lain down, which was a significant improvement on recent events.

  The Dog in question was called Welles, and was new to Bachelor. Time was, he’d kept up with the ground staff at the Park, for the sensible reason that you never knew when you might need a favour, but that was a big ask when you were part-time, and unwelcome on the premises.

  “Man, you’re in trouble.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve been there before.”

  Except this time, it didn’t seem such hostile territory. Welles, after delivering the requisite bollocking, gave him a pitying look and said, “What happened, your wife kick you out?”

  As it happened, yes. A while back, but as it could reasonably be seen as the starting pistol on his current circumstances, Bachelor did his best to look sheepish and nod.

  “It’s a skeleton crew tonight. London’s at a standstill because of the snow, and most were let go early. If anyone needs the bed, I’ll be back to kick you out. But for now, get your head down. I’ll clear it at the desk.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “Just don’t do it again.”

  So he climbed out of his trousers once more, and back into bed, and slept another eight hours, after which he really did feel like a new man; a man who wasn’t afraid of what the day might hold. Riding his luck, he showered again, then went to the library and drank two cups of free coffee before leaving the building. The guardian of the gate, a new one, barely batted an eye as he turned in his pass. And then he was out in the world again, and
it was a winter wonderland.

  It always felt like that, first sight. Pour a couple of tons of snow onto the city streets, and that was all you could see: clean white brightness, all of London’s sins forgiven, but it didn’t take long for reality to seep through. There wasn’t much traffic, but what there was had ploughed the snow, pushing oily puddles of slush into the gutters, and the pavements were punctuated with yellow patches and small piles of filth where London’s dogs had relieved themselves. By nightfall, once everything had iced over, romance would have given way to treachery, and every step you took, you’d be worried you’d end up flat on your back. But it was nice to have your philosophy borne out by the facts, thought John Bachelor, as he stood on a snowbound pavement and wondered what to do with his day.

  His car was in a long-term near King’s Cross, his suitcase in its boot, and this was as much of an address as he currently boasted. But an epic sleep and two showers had set him up well, even if his circumstances had witnessed no improvement overnight. He checked his phone for messages—to see if Alec, Lech, had got back to him—but he was all out of charge. Even that didn’t depress him unduly. The snow had provided a time out; nothing would happen for the next little while, which provided him with an alibi of sorts. He could make his way to Solomon’s, cadge some breakfast, tell him everything was in hand; that meanwhile, the snow made it impossible for him to get home to Potters Bar, and would it be possible to kip on his sofa? It was a soft way in. He wouldn’t have to confess the car crash his life had become. Tomorrow, things would either look different again, or they wouldn’t. Either way, he’d have had twenty-four hours to think things over, and at Solly’s he was sure of a constant supply of coffee, maybe a good red wine towards the close of play.

  So he walked. There were others on the streets, of course, some finding pleasure in the new white world; others plodding grimly through it as if looking forward to the next. On Edgware Road a car had crumpled into a lamp post, attracting an audience, and further along a snowball fight had broken out, apparently good-humoured, but it was early yet. When he reached Solomon’s Bachelor rang the bell, but got no answer. He’d grown cold; his overcoat, too thin yesterday, definitely wasn’t up to the mark today. He could hang around waiting for Solly to return, or see if he could get a neighbour to buzz him in. This dilemma didn’t occupy him long, and on the third time of trying he was inside the building; soon after that, was on bended knee outside Solomon’s door, retrieving the spare key. So far so good. He let himself in, called out but got no answer, so went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Solomon wouldn’t mind. Solomon had European manners. There was a stoppered bottle of red on the counter, and Solly wouldn’t mind this either, Bachelor decided, pouring a quick glass. It wrapped itself around him like a shroud. He missed this: having a kitchen, having things in it, helping himself to them when he desired. The kettle boiled and switched itself off. Before seeing to it Bachelor removed his coat and went to hang it up, which was when he noticed Solly’s bedroom door hanging open. His heart sank. Doors, in Solomon’s world, were kept closed. He took a step towards it, then changed his mind; returned to the kitchen, where he poured another, larger glass of wine. He drank it, soaking in the peace and quiet; the muffled quality of the snowed-on city. And then he went to discover the body of his friend.

  No drops this time. No clever footwork. He needed to talk to Hannah, in person; no coded messages, no dead-letter shenanigans. All the fun and games of running an op on foreign soil: Martin had enjoyed teaching Hannah the old ways, but everything had become less funny once the old man dropped dead in front of him. He hadn’t meant to scare the bastard; had meant to be long gone before he arrived home, but you couldn’t plan for the cosmic fuck-up, and nobody expected to find himself hiding in a wardrobe. He’d left the flat as invisibly as he could, taping the spare key under the mat; had vanished into a whitening world which erased his footsteps behind him. And had kept both ears on the news ever since, and both eyes on the internet. But nothing yet about a body in a flat off Edgware Road. Which meant either that the body hadn’t been found, or that it had been found and was being dangled from a tree in a clearing, while hunters waited in the undergrowth.

  So he met Hannah at Liverpool Street Station the following morning, in the bookshop, browsing the thriller section. No surreptitious chat, just a surprised “Gosh, fancy you being here,” then a wander into the crowd, thinner than usual because of the snow. The floor was slick with dirty footprints, and the tannoy’s announcements were mostly of cancelled trains.

  “It’s best you don’t know why I’m asking,” Martin said, “but have any wires been tripped?”

  “Something odd happened.”

  “Tell me.”

  She told him: Dick the Prick had mentioned his name, on the phone, the previous evening. “Is there any reason why someone would be running a search on your handler?”

  “You’re my handler, Richard. Is this line secure, by the way?”

  “It’s fine. And yeah, sure, I’m your . . . handler, but I meant the other one, you know? The one you’re only pretending to . . .”

  “Pretending to report to.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No reason I can think of,” she’d told him. “Why?”

  She’d asked the question, though the answer was obvious: because someone had done precisely that. Run a search.

  Peter Kahlmann was harmless, as far as the Park was concerned; a mediocrity the BND were using to run Hannah, their unimportant mole in an unexciting branch of the British Civil Service. And Peter Kahlmann would carry a little weight if leaned on; Peter Kahlmann wouldn’t break at the first hint of pressure. But Peter Kahlmann wasn’t indestructible, and if the Park chose to test his strength, he’d splinter and crack eventually, and there—peeping out from the broken shell—would be Martin Kreutzmer, and Martin Kreutzmer was a much more interesting character than Peter Kahlmann. For a start, Martin Kreutzmer wouldn’t be running an unimportant mole like Hannah Weiss, which meant that the Park’s double agent might require a little more attention herself.

  Richard Pynne had said, “So he hasn’t said or done anything funny lately? He doesn’t suspect that you’re not what you claim to be?”

  Every triple has moments like this: when they have to consider, for a moment, who and what they claim to be. It largely depends on who they’re talking to at the time.

  But Hannah had just said, “Nothing’s changed. It’s not like he’s a big deal or anything. I think he regards running me as a chore he’s been lumbered with.”

  And now, in Liverpool Street, Martin said to her: “Good. That’s good.”

  It wasn’t good, but you never tell a joe the ground just got swampy.

  He asked her to talk while he thought, and she launched into a work anecdote while they paced the station, stepping round or breaking through the queues forming at coffee stands. She was good at this, he registered, even as his mind chewed over other fodder. Whether she’d had this story up her sleeve, whether it had actually happened, whether she was improvising: didn’t matter, she delivered it like a natural. And it washed through her while they marched, providing cover for his pondering.

  Martin hadn’t wanted the old man to die, but these things happened. And if Solomon Dortmund hadn’t died then, he’d have died at the first opportunity; the next time a shock was delivered to his door—a backfiring motorbike, a peal of thunder, a telephone, a doorbell. So what mattered now was whether anything could put Martin on the scene. Because he’d thought himself bulletproof, here in bumbling old Blighty, but if the Park got wind that a BND operative had been present when a Service asset died, there’d be retribution. How harsh this might be he wouldn’t want to guess, nor would he want to be there when guessing became unnecessary.

  And Hannah needed to be secured too. His own position might be in jeopardy, but Hannah’s safety was paramount—the joe always came first.

 
He said, “How far would Pynne stick his neck out for you?”

  “Richard? Pretty far, I think.”

  “And if that wasn’t far enough?”

  Hannah thought about it, surveying the morose crowds of winter travellers. “I could get him to stick it out further.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But do what you have to.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Find out who ran the search on Peter Kahlmann.”

  She hugged him, made a loud goodbye; turned to wave when she was ten yards off, and he stood there watching her go: an uncle, a family friend, an innocent colleague, with a rolled-up newspaper under his arm.

  The ground was swampy, but once he had the name of whoever had been checking his cover story out, he’d know what to do. If it had rung Pynne’s bells, it must have come from within Regent’s Park, but Pynne himself obviously didn’t know why it had happened. Which might mean it had come from up the ladder, above Pynne’s head, which probably meant game over: that Martin and Hannah would have to up sticks. But if it was someone lower down—someone who’d wandered off reservation on their lonesome—well. There might be other ways of solving the problem. Martin was old school, and rarely indulged in dirty work, but there were others within reach, a phone call away, who had different skills, different talents. They could turn a man’s life upside down without laying a finger on him. If that happened to you, you’d quickly forget whatever extracurricular games you’d been playing. You’d be too busy trying to plug the leaks you’d sprung, and hoping the damage wasn’t permanent.