Derek Lambert: I, Said the Spy

The driver of the police taxi, capable of speeds approaching 100 mph, started the engine as Danzer climbed into an equally battered cab, with an equally hirsute driver at the wheel.

The sleet continued to pour down as the two cabs, fifty yards between them, joined the expressway. Cabs and cars rode to Manhattan on wings of slush; they reminded Anderson of power-boats racing on a river, except that here on Long Island the race never ended.

The driver of Danzer’s cab was in a hurry, weaving in between the other vehicles whose drivers were too disgusted with the weather to brandish their fists or sound their horns. But, whatever Grand Prix ploys he pulled, Anderson’s driver kept behind him, theatrically nonchalant with one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the wave-band on the portable radio stuck together with Scotch tape.

‘He’s too cool,’ Miller said. ‘He’ll lose him.’

‘It’ll be the first time,’ Anderson said.

Anderson knew that as soon as Miller took up the chase his nerves would stop jangling and he would be as cool as the driver.

Framed in the rear window of the cab Anderson could just make out the outline of Danzer’s head. He wondered what was going on in it. He hoped that it was filled with elation at his success in rubbing shoulders with the clique that unofficially moulded the lives of millions of men and women, most of whom had never heard of Bilderberg. He hoped that Danzer was anticipating promotion that had nothing to do with his outward trappings of success; elevation, that was, within the ranks of Soviet Intelligence. He also hoped that he was concentrating on the location where the drop was to be made.

But perhaps, Anderson brooded as the two vehicles crossed Triborough Bridge, he was merely deciding where to have lunch; anticipating, perhaps, a liaison with a beautiful girl. One aspect of Danzer’s character had been incontrovertibly established: he liked women; what’s more they liked him.

Danzer’s cab merged with the traffic pounding along the Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive. To his right Anderson caught glimpses of the dull-eyed buildings of Harlem, marvelling as he always did at the circumstances that had lifted him from a leaning tenement there to a small but luxurious apartment on the East Side.

Danzer’s cab took an exit to the right and burrowed into mid-town Manhattan. Here the sleet fell erratically, blown by the winds exploring the canyons between the high-rise blocks, and the streets were wet and clean while the slush piled up in the gutters.

‘What if he makes a meet?’ Miller asked, jaws quickening. ‘Who do I follow?’

‘Follow the briefcase,’ Anderson said.

‘You’re the boss.’

On East 42nd Street Danzer’s cab slowed down. Anderson could see Danzer’s head craned to one side as though he were looking for something – or someone.

‘Okay, any minute now,’ Anderson said. Unnecessarily, because Miller was hunched against the door, fingers on the handle. Miller’s nervousness was infectious; Anderson found that his fists were bunched so tightly that his knuckles gleamed white. ‘Don’t jump, just pay the driver and get out. Take your time.’

‘Okay, okay.’

Danzer’s cab stopped at an intersection while pedestrians, heads bowed into the unseasonal and treacherous cold, flooded across the avenue.

Then it took off again, hugging the kerb. They passed the New York Daily News building with the huge globe of the world in the window. Danzer’s driver was looking behind him, gesticulating with one hand. Anderson imagined what he was saying – ‘Why don’t you get out and walk? Time’s money, buddy….’ Odd how your mind chanced on any trivia when you were tensed up. He noticed a gaunt man wearing only check shirt and jeans despite the cold, a poodle trailing a lead and sniffing ankles….

Danzer’s taxi stopped.

‘You know where to find me?’ Anderson asked, and Miller said: ‘Sure I know, you told me a dozen times already.’

Danzer was standing on the sidewalk looking around him as his cab departed at speed. He took a notebook from the pocket of his coat, consulted it and peered down the street in the direction of the East River and the United Nations. His suitcase was between his legs but he still held onto the shabby briefcase.

Miller climbed out of the cab onto the sidewalk, timing it well because at that moment Danzer turned and began to walk swiftly in the opposite direction like a man who has suddenly made a decision.

Miller spat out his gum and began to follow.

Anderson rapped on the partition again and the taxi began to edge along the kerb. It was easy enough to keep Danzer in sight: it was Miller the chameleon who kept disappearing.

Once or twice Danzer glanced behind him, saw nothing suspicious and hurried on. Then he disappeared.

Anderson blinked and searched for Miller. There he was, entering a hotel in between First and Second Avenues. Anderson knew it vaguely: it had an English-style pub at the back.

The driver stopped.

Thirty seconds later Danzer emerged without his briefcase. He turned sharply and began to walk towards the taxi. Anderson slid down low in the seat, face averted from the sidewalk.

Danzer hurried past, almost running, like a man escaping from a crime.

The driver turned and looked at Anderson questioningly. Anderson shook his head. There was no point: the briefcase had just emerged from the hotel – in the hands of a balding man wearing a cheap grey topcoat, wide-bottomed trousers and crepe-soled brown shoes.

Anderson kept his eyes on the briefcase as it swung down the street. Miller emerged from the hotel, glanced briefly in Anderson’s direction, nodded almost imperceptibly and began to follow the newcomer.

A Russian? Anderson placed the tips of his fingers together in a prayer-like gesture. Then he lost sight of Miller and his quarry. The next time he saw them they were crossing the bridge spanning 42nd Street.

This time the driver slid open the partition. ‘What do you want me to do, Mr Anderson?’ His voice was soft and cultured, a contradiction of his appearance.

‘Take me home,’ Anderson said.

All he could do now was wait.

The apartment was furnished with impeccable taste.

But was his taste just a little too studied? Anderson wondered in those transient moments of self-doubt that assailed him from time to time.

Olive green, wall-to-wall carpet covered the floor of the living room; the white-leather Chesterfield and easy chairs were low-slung – a little too low for Anderson’s long legs; the television peered from fitted bookshelves; abstracts – some bought in Greenwich Village and some painted by a long-ago girl-friend – hung on the walls; in one corner, approached by a zebra-skin lying on the olive-green carpet, stood a small jungle of poinsettias, rubber plants and ferns. The bedroom was all white, the bathroom blue-tiled with a sunken bath, the kitchen shone with stainless steel fittings.

The rent was more than he could reasonably afford and, during those fleeting moments of uncertainty, Anderson wondered whether it was all worth it because, in the eyes of some of his guests, he could discern the patronising appraisal of those who had inherited rather than learned impeccable taste.

To hell with them, Anderson thought, as he took off his raincoat and tossed his hat onto a glass-topped table. But now, as he waited for the telephone to ring, the self-doubt was persistent. It even extended to his clothes – brown Gucci shoes, immaculate fawn suit with vest, across which was looped a gold chain linking a gold watch with a gold cigar-cutter tucked in the pockets. A black dude! The sort of gear affected by a prize-fighter who had punched his way out of Harlem.