Сэм Истлэнд - The Elegant Lie

Back then, it had looked to Carter like the best chance of getting his cover blown was by Eckberg himself, who possessed a nervous, naive energy which attracted unwanted attention. But Carter said nothing about it at the time, hoping that when they met again, Eckberg would have learned the kind of tradecraft that would allow him to blend in to his surroundings.

Looking at Eckberg now, it seemed to Carter that Eckberg had learned nothing at all.

Eckberg approached the tall, frostbitten waiter and spoke to him.

The waiter pointed at Carter and Eckberg made his way across the room. ‘It’s good to see you, Nathan,’ he said, taking a seat at the table.

It irritated Carter that Eckberg called him by his first name, not because he should have used a different one but because it spoke of a familiarity between them that did not actually exist.

‘I ordered whatever you’re having,’ Eckberg announced, unravelling his napkin with a flick of the wrist and tucking it into his collar.

Carter glanced around the room to see if anyone was watching. That gesture might have fitted in if they’d been sitting in a diner in New Jersey, but it didn’t look right here. There was no doubt in Carter’s mind that the other diners had noticed, but they were too tactful to show it. They remained hunched over their food, locked in quiet conversations, studiously oblivious.

Eckberg set his elbows on the white tablecloth and knitted his fingers together. ‘So how’s it feel to be a free man?’

‘I think it’s going to take a while before I know.’

‘That looks like a new suit to me.’

‘New everything,’ replied Carter, ‘except the man who’s wearing it.’

The waiter arrived with the soup and put it down before Eckberg. As soon as the waiter had left, Eckberg pushed the bowl to one side. ‘You almost gave the barber a heart attack. He wasn’t expecting to hear from you for at least a couple of weeks, maybe even months. Frankly, neither were we.’

‘If you’re not going to have that,’ said Carter.

‘Be my guest.’

Carter reached across and pulled Eckberg’s bowl over to his side.

‘So why are we hearing from you now?’ asked Eckberg. ‘Did you already find who you were looking for?’

‘I didn’t have to,’ said Carter. ‘He came to find me. He sent a car with a chauffeur.’

The expression froze on Eckberg’s face. It was a moment before he could speak. ‘That is unexpected,’ he said at last.

‘Unexpected? That’s the word you’re going to use? How the hell did he even know that I was getting out today? How did he even know where I was?’

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Eckberg.

‘It’s a little late for that. This guy is obviously better connected than you thought. You need to let me know where things stand.’

Eckberg scratched at his eyebrow. ‘Listen, about that. About me letting you know. Our friend has decided to pull me from the operation. He sent me this time because I’m the one you were expecting to see and he didn’t want to spook you. But I’m not the one you will be meeting from now on.’

‘Why is he pulling you?’ asked Carter.

Eckberg shrugged, but he looked more like a man in pain than one who was ambivalent. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons.’

Although Carter said nothing about it, he was relieved that Wilby had made the decision to remove Eckberg from field operations. It wasn’t just Eckberg’s mannerisms that made Carter nervous to be meeting him in such a confined space, when he knew others might be watching. It was also the way he looked, so obviously American in his low-heeled shoes, cuffed trousers and wide-brimmed fedora hat.

There was an art to blending in. You didn’t have to look like you belonged. You just had to avoid standing out.

The most reliable way to achieve this was to find yourself a cafe in the neighbourhood where you would be working, sit at a table by the window and spend an hour watching people go by, particularly those who were about the same age as you, taking careful note of the way they dressed, the kind of things they carried and the way they wore their hair. After a while, you would get a sense of what passed for normal. Then you made your way to a second-hand clothing store or some kind of a charity shop where used clothing was sold. You picked out a set of clothes that came closest to the things you had seen◦– not what you liked or what you thought fitted best, but what people were actually wearing. You had to buy everything◦– socks, undershirts, belt, shoes◦– and to make sure that all of it was used. New clothing would be noticed, no matter how local it was. And how did people carry their belongings in the street? Did they use briefcases, or canvas satchels or paper shopping bags? The final important detail was to get a haircut from a local barber, after making clear that you didn’t really care what kind of cut you received. This would guarantee a disappointingly average hairstyle, which was exactly what you needed. There were many other tricks, adding layer upon layer of camouflage until a person could achieve a perfect anonymity.

Even if Eckberg had followed these strange rituals, which he clearly hadn’t, something about his expression◦– an unmistakable and yet almost impossible to define sense of optimism which radiated out of his well-fed, rounded face◦– was markedly different from the ashen complexions of those Europeans of his age who had been poisoned by the bad food, smoke and horror of the war.

Ironically, it was this same lack of guile, which caused Eckberg to stand out so glaringly in these surroundings, that reassured Carter of his trustworthiness. But being trustworthy and being effective were two different things, and one did not outweigh the other, especially since Dasch had already proved himself to be more capable than anyone had expected. ‘Who’s going to replace you?’ he asked.

‘Nobody,’ answered Eckberg. ‘Our friend will come to the meetings himself.’

The news caught Carter by surprise. ‘No cut-out?’ he asked. ‘I thought that was a basic protocol.’

‘It was. I mean, it is,’ he said, unable to conceal his frustration. ‘It should be, anyway, if you ask me.’

‘Then why isn’t it?’ Carter leaned forward across the table. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘You’ll have to ask our friend about that and, given what you’ve just told me, he’s going to want to meet you right away.’

‘I’m upstairs, room 201, but only until tomorrow morning, so tell him to hurry. I need some answers from you people or I’m getting the hell out of here.’

‘Understood.’ Eckberg rose from his chair and looked around. ‘You know, this is the most expensive place in town. I can’t afford to eat here. So how are you paying for it?’

‘I’m not,’ Carter told him. ‘It’s a gift from my new employer.’

Eckberg rapped his knuckles softly on the table. ‘Good luck to you, Carter,’ he said.

As Eckberg walked out of the room, people sitting at their tables raised their heads to watch him go, their eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and the coldness reserved for all strangers.

That evening Carter was lying spread-eagled on his bed in room 201 of the Hotel Europa.

The mattress was so soft, and he was so unused to being comfortable when he lay down, that he wondered if he would end up sleeping on the floor that night.

He closed his eyes and listened to the rumble of cars out in the street, the soft clang of the elevator’s bell as it moved from floor to floor and the clatter of the metal cage door as the elevator attendant opened it to let people in or out. And then there was the creaking of the carpeted floorboards as guests passed by his room.