The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby (20 page)

We went past the parliament, along Toom-Kooli. Arne skirted round St Mary’s Cathedral, an ancient thirteenth-century edifice. I did not suggest we went inside. It seemed to me that Arne wished to avoid another ecclesiastical visit. We passed a huge town mansion. It had obviously been neglected and fallen into disrepair. Arne paused and stared at it. Then he said, ‘I have an investment in that building. You can see at the far end that work has begun on refurbishment. I am in a partnership that has bought the site. We are converting it into forty apartments.’

I noted that the building was probably eighteenth-century in origin. ‘You are relying on the future prosperity of Tallinn as a major trade centre. I hope you’re right and not let down.’

‘There is no doubt in my mind,’ he responded. ‘Tallinn is going to be the centre of Estonia’s economic success. There is going to be great need for smart apartments.’

So, I thought, Arne is branching out on his own, as well as running his major part of the show in Myrex. We walked along Lai Street to another thirteenth-century church, St Olaf’s. Most landmarks in old cities are churches: Tallinn was no exception. The power of the Church, no matter if Orthodox, Russian or Greek, Roman Catholic, or Anglican in the British Empire, equalled the power of the multinationals today. Suddenly Arne stopped. He turned and looked at me full in the face. He held my gaze and looked deep into my eyes. He said abruptly, ‘You must join us. I shall not say this again, but I must warn you. If you do not, then your life is in danger and you open yourself up to the most forceful persuasion. Raoul is determined to have you on our side, or…’ He had no need to finish his sentence. I knew what he would have said. The very fact that he had used the expression ‘on our side’ convinced me that they knew exactly what I did. Raoul, indeed no one in Myrex, was fooled by any innocent gloss given to my
Journal
employment. It was clear to me that they needed me to stop working as a journalist and cease to be an intelligence source, or they wanted me to continue but feed them with information useful to their activities. I remembered Willy’s director’s instruction: I had to continue refusing their offers and advances in order to discover how far they would go in insisting I worked with them. It was at that point that I knew, without any doubt, I was in real danger. Myrex would turn the screw.

I had no choice but to go on. That was my fate. It was my contract, not only with Willy’s people but also with my conscience. As we altered course and began to walk towards the Town Hall, I said to Arne, ‘You make what you say quite clear. But you know my answer. I’m not in the market: Myrex cannot buy me.’ Arne did not reply. He walked steadily on. He flicked his hair back from his forehead. It seemed to be a nervous gesture, although I was not convinced he was nervous. Maybe he did it out of habit, or even annoyance. For a minute or two there was silence between us. Then as we emerged from the Mundi passage into the main square, he said, ‘I have warned you. I can do no more. You must expect intense pressure.’

The atmosphere between us was strained. I found myself in the ridiculous situation of striving to lower the tension. Arne had retreated into himself. It was as though his thoughts were elsewhere.

‘We should have some tea,’ I suggested.

Arne looked at his watch. ‘Thank you, but I must go back now. I have been away from my post long enough. There are things I must do.’

I felt that our excursion had been curtailed. Our meeting had not gone well for Arne. He had failed in his mission. He faced me again and emphasised, ‘If you change your mind, let me know immediately.’ He added, I thought rather regretfully, ‘You should do so today. Time is running out.’

I thanked him for the Myrex offer and his concern on my behalf. We shook hands and as he left me he said, ‘Tomorrow, then, we shall go to Paldiski. A driver will pick you up at nine.’ Rather formally he said goodbye.

Arne walked away across the square. He went purposefully, upright and brisk. Whenever you saw him, you realised that he was a man who knew exactly what he should be doing. I turned away and entered the English Café. There were four or five people at the tables upstairs, but fortunately one of them was Mo. She was reading a book, but, as I went in, she looked up. She waved and I called out hello. I asked her if she wanted anything more, but she did not. I went to the counter, ordered Earl Grey tea and then sat with her. She told me that Rovde was meeting some Riga bankers: he had told her that the Americans were concerned about the laundering of dirty money coming out of Russia. The bankers who benefited from US dollar funds put up for inward investment were happy to assist the Americans stopping the increase of financial crime. Mo stressed that it was an important meeting, and she hoped Uri would find out useful information that would further his career. I wondered to myself, was she contemplating marriage and Uri’s long-term economic future? The book she was reading was
The Cash Nexus
. We spent half an hour chatting pleasantly; but I was on edge. What Arne had said to me had unnerved me. I did not know what was in store. I felt an urgency to talk to Mark: after all he was my safety net.

Mo was in no hurry. She was relaxing, taking time off after a few hectic days. I made my excuses, said that I had to file my latest
Journal
report, and went directly to the Italian hotel where Mark was staying. There was no sign of him. His room was empty. The desk had not seen him since just before lunch when he had gone out carrying his briefcase looking as though he was going to a meeting. He had left no indication of where he was going. I decided to return to the Gloria.

There, I found myself in such a disturbed state, I stripped off my clothes and took, what I hoped would be, a therapeutic sauna. It was certainly good while it lasted, but after a few minutes out of it my anxieties came back. I needed company. It was no good being on my own. I went down to the cellar. Apart from the barman and a waitress, it was deserted. It was too early for clients to have arrived. I looked out into the street. The weather was miserable. It had become much colder than earlier in the day, and a fine sleet was falling. It was so inhospitable outside that I went back upstairs to my room. I paced to and fro for a while, and then thought of Buddhism’s Threefold Way, ethics, meditation, wisdom. I tried to meditate. I sat in, what for me, was the closest I could manage to the lotus position, and concentrated on myself. I considered the sort of person I was and what I was doing with my life. I knew that I was then supposed to think about someone I loved, and Roxanne came immediately to mind. There was something unsatisfactory about that. I did care for her, immensely, but I questioned myself, did I really love her? Mark, I thought, I did love, not in any sense carnally, but as a whole person. I knew him intimately, valued the ways he thought, and admired his views and intelligence. So, in my meditation I settled on Mark. Again, after some time, I moved on to consider someone I did not particularly care for. I had difficulty deciding between Arne and Raoul. In the end, I decided on Raoul. He was a man I did not admire. He was powerful, self-interested, gross physically, and led a life I thought louche in the extreme. He was a spoilt brat of mature years. I did not like him. I made him the pinpoint of my focus, and I tried to exercise pity and understanding. An hour must have passed while I concerned myself with that bout of intensive thinking, and it helped. My anxiety subsided. Mark and Raoul fully occupied my mind. At the end of my session, with a slight cramp in my right leg, my position in the world, in the universe, seemed unimportant. I found I was not worrying and merely accepted what was to be. As the Threefold Way taught, there is a path to wisdom and understanding.

So, feeling better, I spent the rest of the evening alone. I rang Mark a couple of times but failed to find him. I was surprised that he did not ring me. I allowed the sedative effects of a malt whisky to lull me to sleep. I dreamt of Roxanne, but was haunted by an ogre-like Raoul who threatened me in my sleeping fantasy with all sorts of physical violence. Once, I woke up sweating and threw the duvet off. It must have been close to morning because I did not grow cold and awoke from a deep sleep at seven in my warm, centrally heated, air-conditioned room.

Once again I used the sauna and showered. I felt refreshed and smartened myself up with a change of clothes. I put on a new shirt that I had bought in Jermyn Street just before I left London. I decided to wear a suit. It would please Arne who was always very formal. I had brought with me my Prince of Wales check suit that doubled for both formal and informal occasions. My reflection in the mirror made me look more distinguished than I was or deserved to look. Still, I thought if there were important Myrex people at Paldiski, Arne would appreciate me making efforts.

Breakfast was particularly good. I took some mushrooms, tomatoes, and a venison sausage. Orange juice and strong coffee accompanied my menu choice and I enjoyed it all without hurry. At our agreed time, I was ready for the car. The driver appeared at the desk and asked for me. I was sitting in an easy chair scanning an Estonian newspaper trying to pick up the gist of what it said. When I heard the driver ask for me, I got up and introduced myself. He was a medium-sized, well-built young man of about twenty-seven or -eight, athletic and obviously fit. His fair hair was
en brosse
. I noticed that his jacket bulged slightly and hung loose under his left armpit, the usual sign that he was carrying a gun there. That made me distinctly uneasy. He spoke competent English and was Scandinavian, probably Swedish. He advised me to take warm outdoor clothes with me. It was minus eight Celsius outside and it was possibly going to be colder later in the day. He said we were instructed to drive round to the Myrex house. There we would meet Arne and then proceed to Paldiski and the Myrex operation there. He spoke to me, and treated me, as though I were a Myrex employee. He must have assumed I was on board, as it were. We went out into the bitterly cold but clear air. The coldness literally took my breath away. He opened the rear door of a large black Mercedes and ushered me in. In other circumstances I might have felt like a film star being chauffeured to some premiere. On that occasion I felt rather queasy and generally unsettled. We quickly drove to the house. I hoped that I might see something of Paul but that was not intended. While the driver, who had not mentioned his name to me, went to the house doors, I remained in the car. As he closed his driver’s door, I heard all the car doors lock, and I could see there was no means by which I could release myself from the inside. I had been purposely locked in. That made me even more uneasy than I had been up to that moment.

After a minute or two, Arne appeared with the driver. I realised then that I should not have worried too much. Arne was a man who kept to time: he was efficient. He would not keep anyone waiting. His precision and punctuality were points of which he was proud. When he had made himself comfortable next to me in the back, I mentioned that I found it odd to be locked into the car. He apologised.

‘I am so sorry. It is Lars’s automatic response. This car has that device that we sometimes need to use, and this is the car that he invariably drives. I do hope you did not feel trapped.’

I wanted to say that I was beginning to feel extremely trapped and that I was almost standing at bay, but I refrained.

‘No, but it was an odd feeling, just as though I were in a police car.’

It was the first time I had heard Arne attempt a laugh. Then he smiled and commented, ‘I can assure you, we are not like the police.’ He said no more, but his remark certainly did not give me any sort of assurance.

There was a glass partition between the rear passengers and the front seats of the car, and to my experienced eyes, it looked as though the car was bulletproof. Everything about the car was heavier than it usually is. The last time I had been in a car with a similar feel was when I was taken through the Blue Line in Cyprus in the High Commissioner’s bulletproof Jaguar. He had needed, one Sunday morning, to attend an Anglican matins service at a church in Kyrenia that was in the Turkish Cypriot part of the island, and he had taken me with him.

‘So,’ I said to Arne, ‘your driver’s name is Lars. He didn’t introduce himself.’

‘Yes. Again, I am sorry. We instruct him to be of few words; but it must seem awfully rude to you English who are keen on sociability and good manners. You must take us as you find us, I fear.’

‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘am I right in thinking this car is bulletproof?’

‘Yes, you are right. You do not have to worry. We use this car when we go to Russia. Between here and Moscow or St Petersburg, it is a lawless country; and I mentioned the police just now. In Russia at the moment we have to defend ourselves against the police. They will try every means of extortion there is. Let me tell you, Pelham, if you were driving as a private citizen from here to St Petersburg, you would do well to pay the first police patrol you came across to escort you to the city suburbs. Otherwise every policeman you meet on the way would blackmail you. Myrex prefers to pay for its own security and this car is a form of insurance.’

‘It’s bizarre,’ I commented. ‘It’s just like going back to the 1920s in the US – mob rule, mafia, gangsters. Stalinist discipline has broken down.’

‘The old discipline has not just broken down; it has gone altogether. Stalin’s control was iron-fisted. Step out of line or swindle the state and you were sent off to the Gulag, or, in the terms of twenties Chicago, you were dead meat.’

We had descended into a dreary, desolate part of the new town. Lars drove us steadily along a bleak treeless boulevard, past concrete office blocks and some light-industry factories. Few people were about. Everyone was at work. At the edge of the city we passed huge blocks of flats and some private houses, cramped, cold-looking boxes, in which natives of Tallinn led uneventful lives intent on survival. Before long we had reached the long, straight, narrow roads that ran through pinewoods. The dark trees added to the gloom of a heavily overcast sky. Every so often there was a flurry of snow in the air. The wiper swept the flakes from the windscreen. Outside the warm and comfortable car, the weather was brushed aside.

Halfway through the journey, about thirty-five minutes after we had started out, Arne turned to me, put a hand on my arm, and said, ‘I want to ask once more, probably for the final time, will you join with us at Myrex. You have now had time to think carefully about our offer. I have told you that Raoul is determined to have you with us. Again, like our Chicago gangsters, he will not be thwarted.’

It struck me that Arne’s reference to Chicago gangsters was the closest he could reach towards a joke. That was it: an attempt at a joke but it had menace in it. Perhaps all his humour was connected with threats and violence. I was seriously wondering what sort of a mess I had placed myself in. For a moment I closed my eyes and saw my small house behind Olympia. What was I doing? Why was I not there leading a calm and ordered life as a London journalist who was occasionally sent on pleasant trips abroad? Why had I mixed myself up in the security of the realm when it was a matter of choice? I opened my eyes again and gazed at the murky greenness of the forest. I felt particularly isolated: why had Mark not been in touch? Where was he? I came back to my present surroundings. Arne’s hand was still on my arm.

‘Your insistence flatters me. Thanks. I don’t understand why Raoul is so keen to have me. I can only be an ordinary foot soldier.’

Arne shifted his hand, this time to grip my arm. ‘You underestimate yourself. What you can do for us is extremely valuable. You will see. If you do not see it now, you will.’ He released his grip: I relaxed. His sudden fierce grip had made me tense. I prayed inwardly to be freed from the pressure of this persuasion.

‘I can’t understand why Raoul doesn’t speak to me himself. After all, we have met even if only briefly. Why doesn’t he talk to me face to face?’

‘He is in Paldiski. You will meet him. He expects you to say yes. If you persist in refusing our offer, you will have to explain to him.’

It was awful. The whole situation was a disaster. I felt like a schoolboy about to go before the headmaster. I was going to have to explain myself and yet there were certain matters I could not talk about because of various crises of conscience. I increasingly wanted to be away from this situation; and I desperately wanted to urinate. The combination of my breakfast coffee and my nervousness made a stop absolutely necessary. It was embarrassing but I could not face the agony of my physical condition any more. I said to Arne, ‘Look, very sorry about this, but could you ask Lars to stop. I must have a pee.’

‘Of course. We’ll be there in twenty minutes, but of course.’

He touched an intercom button and explained to Lars that we should stop. Lars halted the car at a break in the trees where a track led into the woods. The door lock clicked and I walked to the cover of the first trees. Arne studiously kept his gaze ahead. Lars watched my every move until he was confident that I was actually performing my act of relief. He watched me carefully again as I pulled up my zip and stepped back towards the car. I recognised at once that he was a man with expert security and bodyguard training. Lars was a professional, what is known as a
gorilla
in the profession, not just an ordinary chauffeur.

Little conversation passed during the twenty minutes it took us to reach Paldiski. As we drove into that distressed ghost town, we passed a few morose Russians, remnants of the old order, marooned in that diminishing, failed and isolated community left behind by the Soviet empire in retreat.

I suddenly recognised the huge Myrex hangar with its neighbouring single-storey white building. We drove on. Just past a decaying grey building that had once been white and now looked as though it had contracted leprosy, we turned off the main road. We passed similar blocks that once must have housed offices and we came to a low two-storey spiderweb complex that Arne said had been a thriving computer technology research lab. It comprised seminar rooms, administrative offices and technical labs. It looked as though one small part was now operational. The exterior had been given a lick of paint and the characteristic detritus that seemed to cover most of the built-up area of Paldiski had been cleared away within a radius of about fifty yards. Discarded bottles, tin cans, plastic containers and bags, old bits of wood, had been gathered up and dumped outside the fifty-yard perimeter.