Matthew Dunn - Spycatcher

The man inhaled smoke from his cigarette. “I’m only three grades below the chief, but this is as far as I go. I’m now in the stratum where politics and patronage matter more than experience and insight.” He took a sip of beer. “During my career I’ve worked in three controllerates, seven operational teams, and four overseas stations. Also, I’ve undertaken secondments to MI5, GCHQ, and the cabinet office. You may think all of that would have set me up nicely for a position on our Service’s board of directors. But”-he chuckled softly-“our Service generally remembers only the last thing one did, and in my case that was to dare to suggest that we should be devoting more energies to Bosnian and Herzegovinian issues. Not my wisest move, given that an MI6 senior-management reshuffle has now produced a pro-Serb European Controllerate.” Ewan shrugged. “It means that the only war going on out here now is between me, the Head of Belgrade Station, and the Head of Zagreb Station. I’m going to lose. My colleague in Belgrade will soon make Europe Controller, my colleague in Zagreb will get Central Europe Team Head, and I will be retired.”

Will adjusted his position in his chair. “Tell me about your man.”

Ewan nodded slowly. “He’s a bit of a mongrel in every sense. His ethnicity is difficult to define, although we know that he’s part Albanian and part Norwegian. He’s had schooling in Winchester College and as a result has impeccable English.” Ewan looked serious. “We recruited him during the wars and siege out here in the early 1990s and gave him the code name Lace and an alias identity. At that time he was working as what the locals called a fixer, getting armaments primarily to the Bosnian Muslim paramilitary units but ultimately delivering arms to whoever would pay him the most.”

“How on earth did he pass our scrutiny to be recruited as an agent?”

Ewan spoke slowly. “You have to remember that at that time all around us was chaotic conflict. We knew that Lace had no real allegiances and therefore no ideological motivation to help our Service. But he did have two facets we thought were interesting. First, while motivated solely by money, he did take great risks to access parts of the country and groups of people who in turn gave him excellent intelligence that would have been otherwise out of our reach. Also, he was and continues to be conceited, and we believed that his vanity alone would warm him to working with our Service. Both factors would not be sufficient for his recruitment in peacetime, but they were enough during those desperate times.”

“He produced, then?”

“Yes, he produced very good intelligence for us.” Ewan extinguished his cigarette and leaned forward a little. “So good that our Service saved his neck from appearing before the Hague as a suspected war criminal.” The man smiled. “In February 1994 he and thirty soldiers took five trucks containing guns and ammunition to a Bosnian Serb village. He was supposed to receive payment upon delivery from the head of the village, a man who was also the leader of a Serb paramilitary unit, but for whatever reason a dispute over costs broke out and the Serb refused to honor the deal. A standoff resulted between Lace’s soldiers and the Serb’s men. Lace knew that he was not going to get his money, and he also knew that the situation was in danger of going out of control, so he ordered his men to cover his back while he exited the place. He told them that when he was safely away they were to carefully retreat from the village. To the Serb he said that business was more important than bloodshed and that he would call him in a day or two to see if terms could be peacefully agreed upon.” Ewan sighed. “Unfortunately, when Lace was safely away from the village, his men took matters into their own hands. They gunned down the Serb’s men, kept their leader alive so that he could tell others what had happened, picked out six women and six children from their homes, and forced them onto their knees. They then cut their heads off with long knives.” Ewan turned up his palms in a gesture of futility. “When Lace found out what happened, he was appalled. But Lace is first and foremost a businessman, and he quickly realized that he could use the atrocity to his advantage. He allowed rumors to spread that he had ordered the massacre so that fear and respect would surround him.”

Will shook his head slowly. “And as a result he would receive prompt and uncontested payments for every arms deal thereafter.”

“Correct. Trouble was, word got to the UN as well. Our Service had to blow smoke all over the village affair and say he was elsewhere at the time. And as insurance, we changed his identity again, giving him the alias name Harry Solberg. That’s the name we still call him, although I suspect he’s got other identities we don’t know about.” Ewan leaned back and rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “They were different times then. Mind you, ever since Al Qaeda’s attack on the States we seem to be back in the business of turning a blind eye to some of our agents’ predispositions in order to further the greater good.” He sighed again. “But I know Lace well enough to know that underneath his charm and sometimes ruthless business persona, he still unfairly blames himself for what happened in that village. It still haunts him.”

“Why has he reapproached you after all these years?”

Ewan looked away and then back toward Will. “He’s getting old, and age begets vanity. It happens to many of us. We want at least one last chance to prove our capabilities to others. Lace thinks he has a swan song in him.”

Will was about to speak, but before he could do so, Ewan looked over his shoulder.

“And here he is now.”

Lace was small, maybe in his early sixties, and was dressed in cream slacks and a blue sport jacket, with wiry but well-lacquered hair. He looked like a wealthy man who cared about his appearance. Ewan introduced Will to Lace as Charles Reed and in turn introduced Lace to Will as Harry. A waiter came to their table.

“Get me a Red Label,” said Harry, shaking Will’s hand. To assimilate, Ewan and Will ordered the same drink and then sat. “So you’ve come to meet me, Charles. Have you been to Bosnia before?” Harry produced a gleaming white smile and brushed something from one of his shoes.

“This is the first time for Charles.” Ewan lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to his agent. He then took out a small notepad and pencil.

Harry put away his smile and appeared to be studying Will for several seconds. He bared his teeth again. “Let’s eat fish and get three more of these.” He tapped his whiskey glass.

“Do you live permanently in the city?” Will asked, and then he took a sip of his Red Label. He wondered if the drink would have an adverse effect on his body, given all the medication in his system.

Harry looked at Ewan, who nodded at him and signaled to their waiter. He looked back at Will. “I’ve got a house on the outskirts of town, but I’m on the road a lot. My business interests require me to spend more time in hotels than at home.”

Ewan laughed. “I think we all know how that feels.”

Will did not laugh or even smile. “Do you like it here?”

Harry blew smoke across the table and seemed to consider the question. “It suits me as a base. And I like the fact that it’s a quiet city these days.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “Not too quiet, I hope. Otherwise I’ve just made a wasted trip.”

Ewan looked quickly between the two men. “Not a wasted trip at all, eh, Harry?” He placed both his hands flat on the table. “We think there are some things about this city that might interest you a lot.”

The three of them were silent for a moment, and then Harry flashed his white teeth again. “You’re not a man for small talk, are you, Charles?”