It went exactly as planned.
Two days and two cinematic fiascos later Wilderness parked the Mog in Helsinki. Called the number Pastorius had given him. Gave the password “Greta Garbo.” Hung up. Killed an hour in a bar.
When he collected the truck, the keys and a fat envelope of Finnish currency were on the near-side front tyre.
He drove the truck back to the chancery’s underground car park, logged in with no one and went home.
He’d been in the flat about an hour and a half, rinsed off the days on the road in the shower and was just contemplating the prospect of Estonian Burgundy and wishing there were another choice when there was a knock at the door.
Janis Bell stood on the landing with a bottle of red wine in her hand. She glanced at the corkscrew in Wilderness’s hand and said, “Seems we have the same idea.”
“You were passing?”
“No, I live on the top floor. Most people in Paradise Apartments work for the embassy.”
“What kept you?”
“I didn’t want you to think I’m easy.”
“And I didn’t want you to think I was available.”
“It’s OK. I’ve read your file. I know you’re married. And to whom. The son-in-law also rises.”
“Not funny, not funny at all.”
He handed her the corkscrew.
“If you can’t be funny at least be useful.”
While she uncorked the bottle, he found glasses and tucked the envelope of cash into the cutlery drawer.
She held up the burgundy.
“Can you honestly drink this muck?”
“No. I drink it dishonestly. Why? What have you brought?”
“Moldavian claret. A Purcari 1952.”
“Good stuff?”
“Good enough for the Tsar in its day. Call it one of the perks of the deeply ambivalent relationship this country has with its big next-door neighbour.”
She slipped off her shoes. Curled her legs under herself on the sofa. Wilderness hoped she’d told him the truth, that this was not a seduction, as he could feel his resistance melting.
“The blokes on the gate say you got back at four.”
“Sounds about right.”
“You didn’t report to the boss?”
“As I would have had to pass your desk, you know damn well I didn’t.”
“She’s … concerned.”
“Would that be the same as pissed off?”
“Perhaps either term is an understatement. You’ve made two trips north and reported back on neither.”
“There’s nothing to spy on. Not a damn thing. Lapland seems to have early closing day every day. A perpetual Wednesday. There’s nothing to report. Just the buzz of tourism. It’ll peak in a day or two then tail off for the autumn and peak again around Christmas. All so predictable as not to be worth comment.”
“And when there is?”
“When there is, I’ll consider what to tell her.”
“She is Head of Station. She could just have you packed off back to Blighty.”
“You don’t know how happy that would make me. ‘Who do I have to fuck to get off this movie?’ ”
“Or she could just make your life hell.”
“I doubt that. But … why are you telling me this?”
“I suppose I think you deserve a warning.”
“Deserve?”
“You’ve earned it.”
“How?”
“By being the first person posted out since I got here who isn’t a total bore.”
Oh yes, he really hoped this was not a seduction. As she took the plastic slide from her hair and let it tumble to her shoulders he all but prayed it wasn’t.
“OK. What are you warning me about?”
“The coded letters you had Charlie send to London. She knows about them. I’d tell you Charlie can’t be trusted, but the truth is he’s doing what we trust him to do. His job.”
“He hasn’t cracked the code?”
“No. You’ve hurt his professional pride there. Whoever came up with it was one clever bastard.”
“My Number Two—Eddie Clark. I don’t have that kind of mind.”
“But if he does crack it?”
“He won’t. But Mrs. Burton can always tell him to stop transmitting for me.”
“Then you’d just find another way.”
“Yep.”
“Hmm … well, she hasn’t told him to stop. She’s hoping Charlie will crack it and then she’ll have you by the balls.”
At that moment Wilderness hoped sincerely that no woman was about to approach his balls.
“As you said not a moment ago, just doing my job.”
She shook her head, the black mop swaying from side to side … the grass skirt on a hula dancer … the fifth or sixth of the seven veils.
“No … no … noooo. You’re not a cultural attaché, you’re a spy, and if there’s nothing to spy on … what are you?”
One aspect of his new-found relationship with Niilo and the Aussies still nagged at him. When he’d asked, “What makes you lot think I’m bent?” they’d roared with laughter, but none had actually answered.
He knew exactly what Janis was going to say next. She scarcely needed to utter it.
But when she did he felt the touch of the feather as it knocked him down.
“You’re a Schieber, aren’t you?”
“How do you know that word?”
“First class honours in Modern Languages, Cambridge 1962. Just think, we went to the same university.”
“I suppose so, but it’s a strained comparison. I was never an undergraduate. I have no degree, no diploma. No affiliation to any college.”
“I read French and German at Newnham. I’ve taught myself Russian since and I’m dabbling in some of the languages between here and there … you know, the Mitteleuropa alphabet soups … Polish … Czech.”
“And yet here you are, typing letters for Mrs. Burton.”
“Strictly pro tem. I have diplomatic status. I’m a Third Secretary in Her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service, not a shorthand typist. Not my fault if ‘secretary’ is a bit too bloody literal at the moment.”
“Aha.”
“Aha, bollocks! I intend to run MI6. One day.”
“When you grow up.”
“Of course, when I grow up. And you, Joe Holderness, what will you do when you grow up?”
“Define my being grown up. When will I know I’ve got there?”
“That’s easy, Joe. When you stop nicking things.”