Percy Crow

“Good evening! Harry Paterson here. I believe you wanted me to call you?” My voice echoed around the deserted piano room at The Hall. “Hi there, Sir Harry, how you doing?” The insincerity was almost tangible from the tired voice at the American Embassy telephone number. “Have you got the original card that you were given in that pub on the moors with you?” “Yes, I have,” I replied. “Okay, let the night"s performance begin. He we go, your Lordship. I"m going to send you a numerical code. Reading from the left, second line down on that card, take the letters that the code directly relates to, and turn them back into numbers from a twenty-six letter alphabet. You following me so far, HP?” The gall of the man. HP indeed! “I think I am. If the first number that you send is a one, and the first letter on that second line is a B, then I want a number two. Is that what you"re saying?” I was thinking that it all amounted to a number two, if you catch my meaning, but I played along. “You really are on fire tonight, your Lordship, better keep it blazing before your favourite whisky extinguishes it. Wouldn"t like to lose touch with you on that Scottish island of Jura.” Was the sarcasm really necessary, I wondered? But I had no time to ponder on that as he hastily carried on with the instructions. “Okay, once you have the ten numbers you call it. Leave your cellular on traceable, as it is now. The man will call you back on your number. The timing of that call will also be in the numeric code. There will be a line break in what I send you. Then one number all on its own. Reading from the right this time, second line. The time of that call will correlate to the exact hour this evening the man will return your call. Is that all clear?” It was, but for the life of me I could see no reason for such a complicated arrangement. Whoever was speaking was well briefed about my personal preferences and it did cross my mind as to how that had come about, but nothing ventured nothing gained, I thought, as I went along with it. “For an American you make yourself abundantly clear for a change, old sport.” I couldn"t resist the derision. “Then I wish you farewell, Lord Harry Paterson. Sail well on a steady breeze, and have a great evening with that very beautiful young lady I saw you with earlier, but I don"t suppose that will be too difficult for you.” There was an almost imperceptible snigger to his emotionless voice. “Oops, I almost forgot, Harry. Add a zero before the ten numbers I"ll be sending you.” The line went dead, but not so my mobile, as his message arrived almost immediately. I followed the instructions precisely, this time dealing with a sterile recorded automated message with a much heavier American accent. On the Sunday I drove into town and as instructed by that recorded message used a public telephone and called the number I"d been given. “Pick a time and place, Lord Harry. After all, it"s your country and I"m just a visiting spook.” Other than it was an American male who spoke I gained nothing from his voice. * * * As I was staying overnight in Reading the following Friday, meeting the editor of The Acorn, my old regiment"s, The Life Guards, magazine at the publications offices there, I arranged to meet him at a local Starbucks I knew of on the Saturday. Those seven days of waiting were spent in far from ecstatic memories of both Paulo and Katherine. Apart from her, the whole of the investigation into who murdered my father and brother and was the traitor inside our intelligence services had left me low-spirited and surrounded by bad dreams. Even Serena failed to distract my mind for a good part of that time, but I was careful not to arouse suspicions that might interfere with our intimate relationship. On the Friday morning I drove to my appointment through wind and heavy rain that only worsened the mood that engulfed my thoughts; why now and why me? At best I was a part-time spy who had simply got lucky, and at worst an incompetent fool who had a master of espionage as a distant relative and was still pulling my strings! Although I was far from a heavy drinker, I had brought a bottle of Isle of Jura single malt with me, fearing that none would be available in the hotel and by two am on the Saturday two-thirds of it was gone. I was of a foul disposition when I entered the busy coffee shop at the appointed time, not helped by the hangover from which I suffered. The coffee would be appreciated but I doubted the company would be. * * * He was a short man, about five foot six inches tall, thin, with a grey, pasty coloured bony face. The only thing that struck me to be in his favour was that he was fairly punctual, arriving three minutes after the agreed time. I assessed his age to be somewhere between late thirties and late fifties. My uncertainty was solely because his appearance was so confusing. Whitish hair with a receding hairline that looked to have been permanent, rather than coming about through age. Heavy black-rimmed glasses behind which were small brown-coloured, pinched eyes, with weighty bangs of wrinkled skin hanging from beneath them. Disregarding the colour, he had a youthful face with no blemishes nor scars. I did, however, consider physical exhaustion to be the cause of his inanimate sickly appearance. On shaking his proffered hand I immediately considered him as being grossly underfed. A weak, unenthusiastic grip, that he quickly pulled away from as if in pain, only served to strengthen that opinion. He looked the type of man that any form of excitement would exhaust. An indoor man, not a John Wayne type on the battlements fighting hand-to-hand combat. He was immaculately dressed, grey suited and grey booted, polished and stylish, whereas I was my usual scruffy self. As he took his seat he smoothed the flaps of his suit jacket carefully behind, then meticulously adjusted his trousers by pulling the sharp creases towards himself, before laying his hands, with his spread fingers pointing straight towards me, flatly on the table. A ritual he must have done a thousand times. That firmed up my guess about him not being a frontiersman, but a man with a sedentary job used to a long day sitting with everything in the right place. There was none of the preamble of perfunctory niceties before Katherine"s name was brought firmly to the table, just as the two frothy coffees arrived that I"d ordered. “Katherine may be a distant relative of yours, but we"re not sharing her with you or anyone. She is ours, and ours alone to do with as we please, when we please. Got that, Lord Harry?” He was stirring his coffee left-handed, dissolving the six spoonfuls of cubed sugar that he had added; slowly and purposely. The analogy in my mind was not perfect, but he reminded me of a fly fisherman stretching his fishing line until fully satisfied it was ready to cast. “I don"t want her. Had enough trouble last time with her and her father. You"re very welcome to her.” I watched as the milk swirled around in synchrony with his deliberation. Those mouse-like eyes of his were fixed firmly on me. “That surprises me, Harry, she spoke very fondly of you. Where I come from you don"t screw a lady then dump her in someone else"s lap without an offer of help. I thought you might have put up more of a fight to save her honour. Has the gallantry of the English been flushed down the toilet pan along with that vast Empire you once ruled?” “Are you going to tell me that now, as you rule the world instead of us, you"re all things chivalrous and sweet smelling? Because if so, you are preaching to a cynical heathen. Incidentally, while we"re discussing different cultures, where I come from one man does not comment on another man"s behaviour with a lady, without being directly involved, or in possession of all the facts. When you are, then you can! I certainly don"t need a lesson in morals from anyone like you, whoever you are. It was not I who asked for this meeting, it was you lot. Why so? Was it simply for some historical reminiscences? I"m a tireless energetic man, but I slept through any reference to Paul Revere other than Longfellow"s poem. None too keen on patriotic propaganda, nor activists in general. Have you in mind discussing something more current, or shall I order a candied fruit biscuit to help swallow the bullshit?” He offered no answer before continuing, with a supercilious smile across his face. “She was inhibited at first, slow to divulge much of value or significance. I felt her fear. Then the dam burst and we couldn"t stop her. She was good for the Soviet Russians. Your name first came up a few months back. The meeting where you cracked that line about her beauty making everyone else in the room look so ugly that the management asked you to escort her from it. I laughed at that one. Loved it! She had a certain look about her when she told. Could see the two you there, walking away arm in arm off to some libidinous pleasure under twinkling Canadian stars. I do so hope you did. Have pleasure, the two of you, I mean. Beautiful woman, our Katherine, hate to think of her as cannon fodder for selfish ends. Are all the English silver-tongued Lotharios or just those with a Lordship appended before their common names? No need to answer, Harry, I wouldn"t like you to think that I despised all the English and not just the incompetent fools who staff your not so secret desks.” A slow taste of satisfying coffee preceded his next assault. “I"m your ex-lover"s confessor, priest and the one that ultimately absolves any of her many sins. Been in my exclusive manicured hands only, since day one. She"s been my only concern for over a year; until now. Three weeks ago she opens up again, for no reason that I could explain. I"d offered nothing new, in fact I hadn"t been close to her highness for days. But I get a call; Kathy the Russian doll wants words. "Wants to spill her heart out now!" Number one babysitter shouts down the scrabbled phone line at three in the morning to me lying peacefully in bed.” He sat back and tasted the concoction that he had made once again. Confirming his first approval, he authoritatively summoned a waitress, ordering another, his eyes never wavering or deviating from my own whilst he smoothed out his jacket lapels. Then he continued. “Need the caffeine, I flew in late last night. I"m tired as hell. Caught a few z"s in the car coming here from the embassy, but I"m bushed and in need of life-saving sleep. Bloody long boring drive it was too. Does it ever stop raining here?” The black rimmed glasses were removed, rubbing both eyes vigorously as if to emphasis the point. I gestured to the waitress that I too would take another coffee. “I couldn"t find a thing in what she said, Harry. That"s why I"m throwing you the ball. But, I"m the quarterback in this game and you"re the running back. Understand the simile?”