Wilderness had not stocked the narrow galley that passed for a kitchen. Eating out emphatically meant “out” of his flat. Anything was better.
Advice to agents serving abroad always included the patronising “do not establish a pattern to your movements”—which Wilderness habitually ignored.
His “pattern” was to take breakfast most days in a café just a hundred yards from his flat—the Egg & Sausage diner, Muna Ja Makkara, or as the sign read simply, M&M. If the KGB wanted to assassinate him, they’d know where to find him, and perhaps they’d all have a cup of coffee before the guns came out.
The guns did not come out—a “gun” came in, in the person of Tom Rockford.
Wilderness had met Rockford half a dozen times. He’d been the CIA’s man in Vienna and in Lisbon. He’d been in Madrid that time the Spanish had locked up Wilderness and then banned him from ever visiting Spain again.
He slipped into the booth opposite Wilderness.
“Joe.”
“Rocky.”
Wilderness didn’t know Rockford was attached to the Helsinki embassy, but then he hadn’t asked. The CIA were everywhere. Sooner or later they’d make themselves known.
“Welcome to Finland.”
“You took your time. I’ve been here nearly a month.”
“Didn’t want to show my hand too soon.”
“Don’t make me laugh while I’m eating, Rocky. Could be messy.”
“I hear you’ve been up to Lapland.”
“Yep. It’s no secret.”
In Finland, Wilderness had concluded, nothing was a secret.
“I just wondered if there’s anything you’d care to share.”
“There’s nothing to share.”
“Aw. C’mon.”
“No, honestly, I mean I’ve learnt nothing. There’s fuck all happening up there.”
Rockford decided it was time to order a coffee, and while he flagged down a waitress neither of them said any more.
Once the girl had scribbled on her notepad and moved away, Rockford lowered his voice.
“We’re … kinda thin on the ground these days.”
“I had noticed.”
“I mean … that asshole George Fosse … blundered all over the place in ’62 … took liberties the Finns wouldn’t put up with … got himself kicked out and a few dozen good guys along with him.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be back. And I can’t believe there’s anything about Lapland you don’t already know. I heard you mapped every bog and ditch.”
Another awkward silence as the waitress plonked a milky coffee in front of Rockford.
“All it amounts to,” Wilderness continued, “is that the Finns put an end to spy tourism.”
“That’s cute. You just make that up?”
“Find me a better term for what you lot were up to.”
“It leaves a gap.”
“No it doesn’t. You’re missing nothing but bird migration. And I don’t think the arctic terns and the snow geese work for Brezhnev.”
“Fosse was an idiot. Didn’t think to pay off the Supo.”
“Perhaps some people can’t be bought,” said Wilderness, suppressing any thought of Niilo Pastorius.
“You know we had a reciprocal on intel with the Finns,” Rockford said.
“No. But I’m not surprised either.”
“They cancelled on us last year.”
“Really? The words shit, creek and paddle come to mind. Has it occurred to Langley that perhaps the Finns don’t trust you?”
“Joe … for fuck’s sake … we’re their ally …”
“If I were Finland—the Spam and mustard filling in a Soviet-American sandwich—I wouldn’t trust anybody. Nothing personal, Rocky, but if I were unearthing anything vital up in Lapland I wouldn’t tell you. The Finns think the Russians are the threat, but it’s you lot, isn’t it? Tell me you haven’t got a scenario to nuke the shit out of this country if you have to deny it to the Russians. Tell me every bridge, every port and railway junction doesn’t have a target number assigned to it. Tell me you’re not still adding targets. Tell me you won’t leave Lapland as scorched as the Nazis did. Tell me all that and I’ll call you a liar. You dig your bunkers at home and you prepare to nuke the rest of us. Rocky, I’ve even heard you lot have a term for your nuclear policy—’So What? Optimism.’ Marginally better than ‘Mutually Assured Destruction.’ I suppose ‘Couldn’t Give a Flying Fuck’ was already taken?”
Rockford was one of those big men whose emotions were oft as not made manifest in their cheeks. He was the kind of man to turn red in the face about three-tenths of a second before he lost it.
“Jesus H. Christ, Joe—whose side are you on? Whose fuckin’ side! And if the Finns are so damn goody-two-shoes why are they buying MiGs?!”
“Say it louder, Rocky. I’m not sure everyone in the restaurant heard you.”
Rockford got up, all bustle and rage.
“Special relationship, my ass. Fuck you, Joe.”
It had been worth provoking him. If “fuck you” was the limit of his verbal armoury then Wilderness felt reassured. If Rocky had known about Pastorius, he’d have used it.