Читать книгу The Man Between: The gripping new spy thriller you need to read in 2018 - Charles Cumming - Страница 15

Mantis explained that there was a woman.

A ‘remarkable young woman, cunning and unpredictable’. She didn’t have a name – at least one that was still ‘operationally useful or relevant’ – and hadn’t been seen for ‘the best part of two years’. She was on the books at the Service but they hadn’t heard ‘hide nor hair of her for far too long’. Mantis explained that he was worried. He knew that she was in trouble and that she needed help. The Service was ‘90 per cent certain’ that the woman was living in north-west Africa under an assumed name and ‘100 per cent certain’ that she wanted to come back to the UK. She had been sighted in Marrakech in the winter and again in the Atlas Mountains only three weeks earlier. ‘Other officers and support agents’ had been looking for her in a variety of locations – Mexico, Cuba, Argentina – but all the evidence pointed to Morocco. All Carradine had to do was keep an eye out for her. The woman knew the country well and it had been easy for her to ‘disappear’ in a place with such a large number of western tourists.

‘That’s it?’ Carradine asked. The job sounded farcical.

‘That’s it,’ Mantis replied.

‘You want me just to wander around Marrakech on the off-chance I run into her?’

‘No, no.’ An apologetic smile. ‘She’s a big reader. Fan of books and literature. There’s a strong possibility that she might show her face at your festival. We just want you to keep your eyes peeled.’

Carradine struggled to think of something constructive to say.

‘If she’s in trouble, why doesn’t she come in? What’s to stop her making contact with you? Why doesn’t she go to her nearest embassy?’

‘I’m afraid it’s a good deal more complicated than that.’

Carradine sensed that he was being lied to. The Service was asking him to look for a woman who was doing everything she could to avoid being found.

‘Is she Spanish?’ he asked.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Mexico. Argentina. Cuba. They’re all Spanish-speaking countries. Tangier is a one-hour flight from Madrid, a short hop on the boat from Tarifa.’

Mantis smiled. ‘I can see that you’re going to be good at this.’

Carradine ignored the compliment.

‘What does she look like?’ he asked.

‘I have a number of photographs that I can show you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to commit them to memory. I can give you a small passport-sized photograph to keep in your wallet as an aide-memoire, but you won’t be able to keep anything digital on your phone or laptop. We can’t risk these images falling into the wrong hands. If your phone was lost or stolen, for example, or you were asked to account for how you knew the woman …’

The task was sounding increasingly strange.

‘Who would be asking those kinds of questions?’

Mantis indicated with an airy wave of the hand that Carradine should not be concerned.

‘If you carry on behaving exactly as you have always behaved whenever you’ve been on a research trip to a foreign city, it’s very unlikely that you would ever be arrested, far less asked anything by anybody about the nature of your work for us. We take every precaution to ensure that our agents – by that I mean you, Kit – have no discernible relationship with British intelligence. Nevertheless, it goes without saying that you must never, under any circumstances, reveal anything under questioning about the arrangement we have made here today.’

‘Of course. Without saying.’

‘You and I will continue to communicate with one another en clair on WhatsApp using the number I provided to you. I will be your only point of contact with the Service. You will never come to Vauxhall, you will rarely meet any of my colleagues. As far as Morocco is concerned, you won’t tell anybody about our arrangement or – heaven forbid – start showing off about it on the phone or by email. Did you put my name into a search engine at all?’

Carradine assumed that Mantis already knew the answer to his own question, but replied truthfully.

‘No. I assumed it would be flagged up.’

‘You were right.’ He looked relieved. ‘By the same token, you mustn’t Google the names of anybody you come into contact with as a result of your work for us, nor carry with you anything that might be at all incriminating. We don’t do exploding pens and invisible ink. Does that sound like something you might be able to manage?’

Carradine felt that he had no choice other than to say: ‘Sure, no problem.’ He was perfectly capable of keeping a secret. He understood the mechanics of deceit. He was keen to do a patriotic job for his country, not least because his own professional life was so low on excitement. The only thing that concerned him was the possibility of being arrested and thrown into a Moroccan jail. But to say that to Mantis, to indicate that he was worried about saving his own skin, might have seemed spineless.

‘Mind if I use the loo?’ he asked.

‘Be my guest.’

Carradine crossed the hall and went into the bathroom. There were no towels on the rail or mats on the floor, no toothbrush or razor in the plastic mug on the basin. A stained shower curtain hung loose over the bath on white plastic hooks, many of which were bent out of shape. He locked the door and ran the tap, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It occurred to him that he was still recovering from the shock of the Redmond kidnapping and had not been thinking clearly about what Mantis was asking him to do. The job certainly promised intrigue and drama. It was a chance to perform a useful service for his country. Carradine would learn from the experience and obtain priceless first-hand research for his books. There was every possibility that he might be asked to work for the Service for a considerable period of time. In short, the situation was profoundly seductive to him.

‘Everything OK?’ Mantis asked as he came back into the living room.

‘Everything’s great.’

‘Come and have a look at these.’

He was holding an iPad. Carradine sat next to him on the sofa and looked at the screen. Mantis began flicking through a series of photographs, presumably of the woman Carradine would be asked to look for in Marrakech.

It was strange. In the same way that he had recognised Lisa Redmond as she was dragged from the car, without at first being able to put a name to her face, Carradine was sure that he had seen pictures of the woman before. She wasn’t a journalist or celebrity. She wasn’t a likely target for Resurrection. But she was some kind of public figure. Perhaps an actress he had seen on stage in London or somebody associated with a news story or political scandal. He could not work it out. It might equally have been the case that Carradine had met her at a party or that the woman had some connection to the film or publishing worlds. She was certainly not a stranger to him.

‘You look as though you recognise her.’

Carradine decided against telling Mantis that he had seen the woman’s face before. His explanation would have sounded confused.

‘No. I’m just trying to take a photograph with my eyes. Commit her face to memory.’

‘It’s a beautiful face.’

Carradine was taken aback by the wistfulness of the remark. ‘It is,’ he said as they shuttled back through the album. The woman had long, dark hair, light brown eyes and slightly crooked teeth. He assumed that most of the photographs had been culled from social media; they had a casual, snapped quality and appeared to cover a period of several years. In two of the pictures the woman was seated at a table in a restaurant, surrounded by people of her own age; in another, she was wearing a powder-blue bikini on a sunny beach, her arm encircling the waist of a handsome, bearded man holding a surfboard. Carradine assumed that he was a boyfriend, past or present.

‘He looks Spanish,’ he said, pointing at the man. ‘Was this taken in Spain?’

‘Portugal. Atlantic coast.’ Mantis reached across Carradine and quickly flicked the photo stream to the next image. ‘You were right. She has a Spanish mother. Speaks the language fluently.’

‘And her father? Where was he from?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

There was a fixed, unapologetic look on Mantis’s face.

‘And you can’t tell me her name either?’

‘I’m afraid not. It’s better that you know nothing about her, Kit. If you were to start asking the wrong questions, if you were tempted to Google her, for example, it’s not easy to say what might happen to you.’

‘That sounds like a threat.’

‘It wasn’t meant to.’

Mantis directed Carradine’s attention back to the screen. He had a good memory for faces and was confident that he would be able to recognise the woman if he came across her in Morocco.

‘How tall is she?’ he asked.

‘Couple of inches shorter than you.’

‘Hairstyle?’

‘She might have changed it. Might have dyed it. Might have shaved it all off. Anything is possible.’

‘Accent?’

‘Think Ingrid Bergman speaking English.’

Carradine smiled. He could hear the voice in his head.

‘Any other, uh …’ He reached for the euphemism. ‘Distinguishing characteristics?’

Mantis stood up, taking the iPad with him.

‘Of course! I almost forgot.’ He extended his left arm so that it was almost touching Carradine’s forehead. ‘The woman has a tattoo,’ he said, tapping the wrist. ‘Three tiny black swallows just about here.’

Carradine stared at the frayed cuffs of Mantis’s shirt. Veins bulged on his forearm beneath a scattering of black hairs.

‘If it’s a tattoo,’ he said, ‘and she’s trying not to get recognised, don’t you think she might have had it removed?’

Mantis moved his hand onto Carradine’s shoulder. Carradine hoped that he wouldn’t leave it there for long.

‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’ he said. ‘We’ve obviously picked the right man, Kit. You’re a natural.’