Spy Out the Land (22 page)

But a problem remained: the photograph was of Jonas. Would it be good enough? The man had rather bland, forgettable features, but looking at the photograph now Dark only saw the differences
between them and his own. Jonas’s hair was a dun straw colour, and he was confident the peroxide would make for a reasonable pass there, but the eyes now seemed very far apart, the ears
sticking out . . . the whole idea suddenly seemed much less workable than it had done with his brain working overtime in Jonas and Marta’s flat.

In normal operational circumstances he would have replaced the photograph with one of himself – he’d spotted a few booths in the concourse. But affixing a new photo to a passport
properly required the expertise and tools of a specialist, and he didn’t have either, nor the time to find them. So there was no choice. He would simply have to hope the customs officials
didn’t examine the passport too closely, even though they would no doubt have been instructed to watch for all Caucasian males travelling alone and been given the two photographs of him for
reference.

He put the passport and wallet back in the jacket and sat there going over the situation in his mind until the dial-hand on the watch had reached the fifteen-minute mark. As soon as it had, he
placed his head under the tap and rinsed the peroxide out, then did the same with his face to get it out of his eyebrows. He’d taken a small bottle of Jonas’s cologne from their
bathroom cabinet, and now he dabbed some of it on his wrists and under his armpits to mask the smell of the peroxide before putting the shirt and jacket on again and opening the door. The main area
of the bathroom had a hair-dryer attached to the wall, and he blasted the hot air onto his scalp, fixing the style and parting so it matched Jonas’s in the photo. When he was satisfied he had
as close a likeness as he could get, he walked back out to the concourse and strode confidently to the SAS desk.

He queued for a further ten minutes until finally he reached the desk. The flight was only half full, and he paid the teller with Marta’s cash – she barely glanced at the photograph
in the passport.

Ticket in hand, he walked towards the terminal’s bar. He had a sudden craving for an ice-cold beer. He bought a pack of cigarettes but opted for a glass of orange juice instead. Alcohol
would be dangerous in his current state of mind.

The bar had a small terrace overlooking one of the runways, and he went onto it so the breeze would dissipate the scent of ammonia faster. He found a chair in a secluded corner and tried to calm
his nerves.

He was on his third cigarette when the announcement for his flight’s boarding came over the small Tannoy above the door of the bar. He crushed out the cigarette and walked to the passport
counter, making sure to keep his gait unhurried. He handed the booklet to the customs official, allowing his back to stoop and his chin to droop a little as he did. The more hapless he seemed, the
less likely he would come across as the world’s most wanted traitor. The official examined the photograph and then peered at him.

‘Look at me, please, sir.’

Dark did so, gazing ahead with a pasted-on smile as the man studied him and then looked down at the photograph of Jonas. Was this going to be it? Would he be discreetly taken to one side and
handed over to a member of the British embassy, then on to London and the rubber room in the basement of Century House? He had a sudden vision of the entrance of the building and wondered if the
old porter Cyril still worked there, with his Webley hidden beneath his copy of
Sporting Life
. . .

The official pushed the passport across the desk to him.

‘Have a pleasant journey, sir.’

Saturday 23 August 1975, Pall Mall, London

Harry Bradley was waiting in the lobby of Kinnaird House, running a comb through his great pompadour crest of hair. The CIA man bounded over as soon as he caught sight of them,
kissing Rachel’s hand solicitously and congratulating her on her performance in the COBRA meeting. ‘I reckon the prime minister liked you,’ he said with a knowing smile.

She was worried he might follow it up with a wink, but instead he whisked them upstairs to show off the goods. As they emerged into the vast hangarlike space Rachel couldn’t help being
taken aback. Review Section’s operational base in Warren Street had been a small, gloomy affair, with partitioned rooms and ancient radiators that creaked through the night. In contrast, this
was a huge complex of glass and brushed steel – she almost expected to turn a corner and bump up against a lunar module. Bradley noted her expression with undisguised glee. ‘Oh, this is
nothing,’ he said with a grin. ‘Wait until you see our toys.’

He led them across a gangway overlooking the central hall, which was filled with shirtsleeved technicians attending to dozens of clean, brightly coloured machines: switchboards, teleprinters,
computer terminals, satellite-linked telephones. Rachel recognised several Harvests, powerful cryptanalysis computers specially built for the NSA by IBM, but most of the models were new to her.
Bradley pointed out a few that were directly connected to Interpol’s headquarters, while another grouping banked a wall of radio equipment, below which men were seated in tubular steel
chairs, wearing heavy padded headphones and sombre expressions.

‘They’re monitoring radio frequencies across Scandinavia in case anything interesting turns up. Anyway, come down and meet the team.’

They descended a staircase and crossed the floor of the hangar. Bradley had assembled around fifty officers to hunt Dark, and Harmigan had seconded a further twenty from the Service, most of
whom she had recommended from the Review Section days.

‘This is a joint operation,’ Bradley said, addressing the throng as they gathered around, ‘but the Brits have a head start on us, so without further ado I’ll hand you
over to the esteemed Sandy Harmigan.’

Harmigan smiled. ‘Thank you, Harry. It feels rather like old times.’ He turned to face the team. Other than Rachel, they were all men. With the exception of Keith Tombes and a couple
of others, most were in their twenties, all of them pale-complexioned despite the long summer in London. The sobriquet ‘spook’ had never struck Rachel as being so apt, and she wondered,
not for the first time, why she hadn’t chosen a profession with more attractive men.

She tuned in to Sandy’s speech. He spoke with great care but very quietly, and the Americans in particular were leaning forward to catch his words. He started by stating that the operation
to find Dark had been assigned a codename, and then used it in his next sentence as though they were all already aware that it was PHOENIX.

Rachel looked across the room at Tombes, who was raising his eyebrows at her theatrically. She smiled, knowing what he meant. Sandy’s convolutions were no accident: he liked to keep people
on their toes, and specialised in this sort of minuscule mind-game. Tombes was probably also unimpressed by the codename, which she agreed was bloody silly, both glorifying its subject and sloppy
as a piece of tradecraft. If intercepted by the Soviets, and they knew Dark was now known to be alive, it could be a giveaway. But she had learned not to speak such thoughts, and to pick her
battles carefully. These routines and rigmaroles, like the stale biscuits and the weak coffee in the canteen, were felt to be necessary, part of the mystique of the Service. Codenames were meant to
be assigned randomly, which would have thrown up BANANA or GRENADINE or something similarly mundane – but secure. Presumably Sandy had decided on PHOENIX, which sounded more exciting and made
them all feel like they were at the pictures.

And there it was. It had taken her a few seconds, but she had found his purpose: the codename was to build morale, and this was a rallying of the troops, Americans and Brits, all in it together.
She glanced at the others: they were hanging on his every word. For the Yanks, seeing Sandy in the flesh was more significant: they were in the presence of the Chief of the British Service, and a
war hero to boot.

Sandy finished up his introduction and handed over to her. All the Service’s files on Dark had been packed into boxes and sent over by Station 12 in a secured van before they had left
Century House, and she took out the folders and distributed them to the men.

‘These are our Bibles from now on,’ she said. ‘When we looked at Dark’s career nearly six years ago, we were trying to figure out what he had betrayed to the Russians.
Now we want to know rather different things: where he is right now, and of course where he might be headed. There might be valuable clues in these files. I suggest we start by compiling a list of
all the identities Dark has ever used, and all his known contacts. Let’s see if we can get that done in the next couple of hours.’

As the men went scurrying off, eager to complete the tasks, she looked around at the huge hall and the weight of technology and expertise devoted to tracking down this one man. It was all very
impressive, but she knew she was in the wrong place. She should be in Stockholm.

Bradley was showing Harmigan around the office he had set up for him next to the hangar. ‘All the mod cons,’ he said, his salesman’s routine still in place.
‘Secure phone, bed in the closet if we need to go all night on this, and of course –’ he walked over to the corner of the room – ‘a bar. Fancy a snifter?’

Harmigan smiled, and made a note in his mind to have someone check whether Bradley had a drinking problem. ‘No, but thank you once again for the use of the facilities. It’s much
appreciated.’

Bradley waved it away. ‘Sure.’ He lowered himself into a chair and swivelled around on it impatiently. ‘What’s the deal with your guy? Has he “finished” Dark
yet?’

Harmigan had been waiting for the question. ‘He’s checking in with me at six. I take it you don’t mind if I arrange for Century House to transfer him directly here?’

‘Go right ahead. The scramblers are all G-16s, best around. I’m keeping my fingers crossed your man will deliver, Sandy. As you argued so convincingly just now, Dark is a walking
grenade.’ He abruptly got up from the chair and strode towards the door. ‘So he’d better not fucking go off.’

‘How about him?’ said Weale.

He looked over at Morelius. The Swede’s expression was placid, but Weale knew he was becoming irritated. This was the fifteenth photograph he’d queried, and all of them had proven to
be innocent passengers. Nevertheless, Morelius now gestured at one of his technicians, who brought the passport into closer view on the screen.

‘Henrik Jansson,’ Weale read out. ‘A teacher.’

‘It doesn’t really look like him,’ said Morelius. ‘He has the wrong hair colour and no beard.’

‘We’ve been through this, Iwan. He could easily have shaved by now, and he’s had time to dye his hair. If he wore the right clothing I think he looks enough like him that he
could have used it to get through – can we just run a check on the number, please?’

Morelius stifled a sigh. ‘All right.’

‘No need,’ said one of the technical analysts at his side. ‘I know that face, and he isn’t a teacher. His name’s not Jansson, either. He runs a small organisation
here in Stockholm called the Swedish Committee for Refugees.’

He strode to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room and rummaged around in it until he had found a dossier, then walked back to the others holding it up.

‘Got it. Jonas Frids. Twenty-nine years old. Was in Paris in ’68, then worked with the Anarchist Black Cross in London, providing food parcels and other support to prisoners in
Spain. After that, he became involved with various liberation movements before turning up here. He now heads the refugee committee with his girlfriend, Marta Österberg. It’s privately
run, but we’ve long suspected it provides cover and aid for radical leftists, including terrorists. We’ve never had enough on them to kick them out.’

‘Until now,’ said Morelius. ‘By God, this must be him! I take it back, Frederick.’

But Weale’s mind had already moved on.

‘Where’s he heading?’

The analyst tapped at a computer keyboard for a minute until the flight details for Henrik Jansson, passport number 88465602, appeared in flickering typeface on the screen:

Ten minutes later, the telephone rang in the office in Kinnaird House, and Sandy Harmigan listened as Weale debriefed on what he’d discovered at Säpo.

‘When does that flight land,’ asked Harmigan, ‘and how soon can you be on the next one?’

‘Dark’s arrives at a quarter to ten. There’s another leaving at half past eight, but—’

‘We’ve no time for buts, Captain. If the wrong people get hold of this man, we’re all in the shit – you, me, Campbell-Fraser, and several others. Catch the half-eight
flight. As soon as you land, head for our embassy and ask for a Sebastian Thorpe. I’ll try to figure out what’s going on while you’re in the air. Call as soon as you’re in
the Station.’

Harmigan replaced the receiver, opened the door to the office and strode out to the hangar, indicating that everyone should gather round.

‘We have a lead: he’s on his way to Brussels. An SAS flight.’

Rachel, seated with some of the Americans, stood at once. ‘Shall I signal the Belgians to tell them to bring him in as soon as he lands?’

Harmigan considered this for a moment. ‘No. That side of things is under control. What we need to know now is
why
he’s heading there. Where’s he going in the city, or
is it a transit point for somewhere else? What’s he after? A month’s salary for the first person to tell me.’

He headed back to his office. Rachel quickly followed him in. To her surprise, she saw he was putting his jacket on.

‘Sandy, what’s going on?’ she said. ‘What do you mean it’s under control? Where are you off to?’

‘It’s being dealt with. And I’m going home.’

‘Now we know where he’s headed? I’d have thought you’d want to be here until the kill.’

Harmigan looked up at her and smiled. ‘Dark’s flight doesn’t land for a few hours yet. This is as good a time as any to grab a hot meal. I’m only round the corner –
call me the moment you hear anything, or if you figure out what the hell he’s doing heading to Belgium.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Belgium! Of all places.’