A Spy's Life (34 page)

Kapek’s was a much fuller account. The handling of
Lamplighter
appeared to be a major part of his career and he devoted much space to the analysis of Harland’s character, which hinted at sexual promiscuity, a fondness for drink, his debts and a predisposition to melancholy. Zikmund read a passage which described a meeting in an art gallery when Harland was the worse for wear.

‘I never met that little toe-rag in an art gallery,’ said Harland, nettled by the slur.

‘Toe-rag. I like that word too.’

Kapek had been careful not to overdo the character assassination. The conclusion his masters were meant to draw was that while
Lamplighter
suffered the symptoms of general cultural degeneracy, his information was still valuable. A couple of times he went out of his way to say that Harland had told him how he loathed Milos Hense.

‘This guy wanted to keep you to himself and remain in London,’ commented Zikmund.

Harland was aware that something was tugging at his mind. Suddenly it came to him. Kapek had shown him a copy of the picture of them in bed, but he had never actually produced the tape. He had mentioned it, of course, with a sly little smile, which was meant to keep Harland on side, even though he was being threatened. But he had never actually played it or even shown him a cassette. Harland had taken it for a bluff and ignored it. However, the important thing was that no tape was mentioned in any of the three files. That meant that Vigo had another source – but a source who was wrong.

They went through the papers for a second time. Then Zikmund produced a hip flask, popped a tiny cup from its top and filled it to the brim with liquid. Harland shook his head at the proffered cup.

‘What’s your theory about K?’ he asked.

‘Mister K, Mister K. You are aware there is another K in this story. It’s Kochalyin. The name on your girlfriend’s last identity card.’

‘It was her married name. I know she’s no longer married. Does it mean anything to you?’

‘You see there was a man named Kochalyin – Oleg Kochalyin. He was KGB-active in Prague during the seventies. Not much is known about him, except that he was in the Soviet embassy here during the first years of the Normalisation. If this is the same man, it would explain the ambiguity that is suggested by
Lapis
working for the KGB while Hense and Kapek served the StB. Kochalyin was acting as a link between the two agencies.’

‘But you say he was here in the seventies. Eva does not appear to have married until well into the eighties.’

‘There are many things which would explain that. She might have been slow in changing her name. But the point is that when we came to set up the present service there was a lot of house-cleaning to do. We had to make sure that the people we employed had no connection with the StB and that they weren’t tainted by corruption. It was in this time that we came across a former KGB agent. He was known as Peter and he was responsible for the Peter Organisation, which was notionally a new enterprise set up to trade with the West. It seemed to be based in Budapest, but we came to realise that it was based wherever this man Peter was. It possessed no office, no records, no accounts, no staff. Peter was the oil king. That means that he defrauded the state of millions in revenue.

‘In Hungary the fraud relied on the difference between the import duty on heating oil and diesel oil, which are virtually the same chemically. The Hungarians placed a dye in the heating oil so that it could not be resold as diesel. What the Peter Organisation did was to import tons of heating oil and remove the red dye with sulphuric acid. Another chemical cleansed the acid from the oil. A similar scam was used here in the Czech Republic. We soon understood that Peter was behind this and that the entire fraud was being run by ex-KGB people and their contacts in the intelligence services of Czechoslovakia, Poland, Hungary and Romania.’

‘And Yugoslavia?’ Harland cut in.

‘Of course. Where there was an alliance between the KGB and the local intelligence service, Peter set up business. They were smart people and a lot quicker to realise the benefits of capitalism than the ordinary man. Within a year after the revolution they had a grip on the four main sources of illegal revenue – the sale of arms, illegal immigration into Western Europe, the drug routes and prostitution. The scams to avoid tax in different territories were the beginning of all this. The important thing was that these KGB people were used to dealing in strategic terms, thinking of the Warsaw Pact countries as one entity. Borders meant nothing to them. It took them little time to discover how to use the global banking system to hide and clean their money.’

‘And you think Peter and Oleg Kochalyin are the same person.’

‘He was one of our main suspects. But we never got any proof. Maybe they have now. I will ask.’

Harland showed him the picture of Lipnik by the pool.

‘This is the man I’m interested in. Do you think this could also be Peter – Kochalyin?’

‘He means nothing to me. I’ll take a copy of the picture to show an old friend of mine. He may know him.’

There was one last file which had not been withdrawn by Vigo’s researchers because – of course – there was no reason for them to look into
Lapis’s
background. It was the slender dossier devoted to Hanna Rath. It gave a few personal details, but mainly dwelt on her exemplary service to the Communist party at district level, in particular her appearance at thinly attended meetings to hear the wishes and initiatives of the Praesidium. A note dated 1985 recorded that she had moved from Prague to a village in the area known as Jizerské Hory. Zikmund jotted down the address.

‘She’s old now, but she may be there still,’ he said.

Her daughter was mentioned several times but there was no cross-reference which would lead to the
Lapis
file in the Intelligence Section. However, a recommendation, underlined in red ball-point, directed the interested reader to a section where newspaper cuttings were stored. Zikmund was for leaving it, but Harland insisted they dig out the relevant file.

The envelope contained just one clipping – a yellow newspaper picture and caption in Russian from 25 August 1968. It showed a woman posing with Russian soldiers who were squatting in front of a tank. In one hand she held out a wicker basket, from which protruded a loaf of bread and a bottle; in the other was a plate of sausage and sliced meat. The headline over the picture read
LOYAL CZECH WORKERS WELCOME SOVIET SAVIOURS.
The extended caption described how Hanna Rath had given food and drink to the young Russian tank crew whose job it was to defend the Czechs from a Western-inspired coup. Harland read out the quotation from the tank captain at the end of the piece.

‘We are honoured by the reaction of the ordinary Czech worker to our presence here. This was just one of many acts of gratitude that we have experienced,’ said O.M. Kochalyin, tank captain.’

‘Mr K!’ exclaimed Zikmund.

‘Yes,’ said Harland, ‘and maybe Mr Lipnik also.’

He unfolded the print of Lipnik again and placed it by the head of the young man who crouched in the middle of the tank crew with his helmet tucked under one arm.

Zikmund swore in Czech.

Harland said nothing: he didn’t need to. The eyes were the same. The angle of the nostrils was right. The way O.M. Kochalyin held his chin had not changed in thirty years.

They put the files back into order in silence then tapped on the cabin door to wake the librarian. Harland held out one file slightly open for him so that he would notice the fifty-dollar bill lying inside.

‘That was good of you,’ said Zikmund as they left the building.

‘Cheap at the price,’ replied Harland.

20

THE BLINK OF AN EYE

It was the fly that made Tomas finally understand his situation. Somehow it had got into his room the day before and worked its way over every exposed surface of his body. He felt it on his face, on his ear, on his hands and arm. For a full day the trickling, cold sensation of the fly’s legs drove him mad. And it was very smart, this fly. When a nurse was near, the fly would disappear for a while. He imagined it hid in the machinery until the coast was clear. Then it returned to complete its minute survey of his body. He wondered if it was going to lay eggs on him, eggs which would hatch into maggots in the warm atmosphere and begin to feed on him. He told himself that this would be impossible, but he became obsessed by the possibility that the nurses would miss the crucial part of his skin when they were washing him and allow the eggs to survive.

Eventually the fly disappeared of its own accord. But being at its mercy had in some way made him understand that he had lost all movement and that this was for ever. The doctor of course had been extremely vague, but in the three brief consultations – his word – that they’d had, Tomas had listened hard for any mentions of time. There were none.

He realised also that as well as movement he had been robbed of day and night. There was no natural light in his room, no darkness. Always the same gentle, pinky-orange glow greeted him when he awoke. There were no meals either; no clocks that he could see; or any pattern in the staff changes to give him a clue about the time of day. Whenever he opened his eyes a nurse was beside his bed or busying herself in the room, monitoring the various machines and pumps, emptying things, washing him and changing his position. He’d quickly become used to each nurse and familiar with their mannerisms and degrees of thoroughness.

His favourite was Nurse Roberts. She had a gentle manner and was unafraid of his condition. The others all in some slight way communicated their horror. One talked in a loud, distancing voice – like a teacher instructing a classroom of kids. Another fussed, endlessly redoing the chores that were part of her duty. A third, a large girl with a pink complexion, would occasionally stop and look at him – not as a nurse, but as a gawping bystander. This one had no imagination: she couldn’t grasp that beyond all the tubes and the sighing machinery and the wildly gesticulating limbs, he was sitting quietly inside, as capable of being hurt as the next man. He disliked this woman. She had no more empathy than a suet dumpling. He called her the Dumpling.

Nurse Roberts disliked her too. He could tell that by the note in her voice when she talked to the Dumpling. It was formal and firm. Every time the Dumpling tried to prolong the conversation or make some remark about his condition or the abilities of the other staff, Nurse Roberts cut her off.

What was it about Nurse Roberts? Well, she smelled nice and she took care over her appearance. She was quick to read the expression in his eyes and would in this way consult him about the position he preferred or a change of television channel. They had a secret too.

Sometimes she would tell him about her evening out or something she’d read in the papers. What she had to say about these things was always clear and to the point. She would look at him as she spoke and she understood that he would rather listen to her than the damned
TV
.

At times there were more people in his room than he would have liked. He wanted to tell some of them to get out. After all, it was his room. But at least he could guess the time of day by the visit of the two doctors – the man who had introduced himself as Philip and the sexy woman in her thirties whom the doctor addressed as Claire. They came twice a day, in Philip’s case sometimes more. Claire was cold and rather dogmatic, Philip a bit of an old buffer who didn’t listen much to his colleagues.

These observations of the people in his new life absorbed him for only a little of the endless day-nights in the room. The pain in his head regularly built in a screaming crescendo then subsided but never completely disappeared. Sometimes he saw lights when his eyes were closed. They reminded him of the patterns he discovered he could make as a small boy when he rubbed his eyes very hard. They were brighter now and pulsed with the pain in his head. He was fascinated by them and imagined that they were somehow the manifestation of frustrated neurons firing in his brain.

He had made a list of his problems so he could decide which was the worst thing he had to put up with each day. Today it was his breathing and the pain in his right lung. It felt thick and congested and sometimes there was a stabbing pain in his ribs. If the machines were switched off, he was sure he would hear a rattle in his lung. Yesterday it was the heat of the bedclothes and the soreness on his back and buttocks. If only he could have moved to where there was a little fresh air. If only someone had thought to position a fan to cool his body.

Yesterday was the day of incredible thirst and dryness. He couldn’t think of it now because it had caused him so much torment. Torment. That was the word he had been trying to find. Not a word he had given much thought to before. But it was exactly the right word. He was being tormented by his condition and the surprises it sprang on him. He would be lying there, trying to calm himself and suddenly he’d be crying, or a steady buzzing and tinkling would start up in his ear, or he’d be going into the upside-down-crab position with his heart pounding in his head and muscles burning. The point was that he couldn’t let the pain out – he couldn’t wince or cry out or clench his fists. He was locked in with the pain.

His condition kept him on his toes all right. And although his thoughts were on the whole quiet and controlled, there were periods of screaming red panic when his mind made no sense at all. It gave him very little time for the kind of thinking that he needed to do.

Yet he had arrived at a conclusion. He wanted to die. It was not a difficult decision in the circumstances and he was sure that he would be able to make himself understood with the blink of an eye. Already he had gained some control so that when Nurse Roberts asked him a question, he replied with a single blink for a yes, or double-blink for no. That was their secret. The Dumpling had tried this technique and breathed fumes of cooking fat and halitosis at him and he had not replied because he didn’t want to encourage her. Besides, it gave him a feeling that he could at least control whom he communicated with. It was one of the very few things that was left to him, and even though it sometimes caused him to suffer when he didn’t reply, he nurtured this tiny degree of independence.