‘Sure,’ Porter said, and for the first time smiled back.
‘Well, now,’ Lazenby said. ‘What do you think?’
They had the room to themselves, and the Indian was carefully rolling himself another cigarette.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m being fixed.’
‘Fixed? In what way fixed?’
‘I don’t know the way, just the smell.’ He neatly licked the cigarette. ‘I expect you know I’m a big pain in the ass out here. This government we have, they’d like me far away and in deep shit. But could they set up something like this, with their brains and resources? I doubt it. The CIA, now — that’s a different story. So what is with them, I wonder?’
‘Well, I don’t think,’ Lazenby said, ‘that there is anything with them. I gave you a very fair summary, I believe, of events as I saw them for myself.’
‘You didn’t see any events yourself.’ Porter lit the cigarette. ‘You saw what they showed you. All this rigmarole with satellites, lead pencils, ballpoints. You analysed any of it personally?’
‘Obviously I didn’t.’
‘That’s right. They did. Don’t trust the bastards — governments, government agencies. They rig things, they fake things.’
‘You’re not suggesting somebody faked all this?’
‘Why not?’
‘I didn’t receive these bizarre papers from Rogachev?’
‘You received bizarre papers from somebody.’
‘Then if not Rogachev that somebody was certainly a most gifted clairvoyant. There were things there that couldn’t possibly have been known — things I barely remembered myself.’
‘Pissing up against the wall?’
‘That, yes. Who else could have known it?’
‘My room mate at Oxford? The guy I told next morning — the Yankee Rhodes scholar who went into their State Department. He couldn’t have remembered the crazy story and passed it on to the Department of Spooks?’
Lazenby stared at him.
‘You told somebody about it next morning?’
The Indian blew out smoke and shook his head. ‘No. There was no Yank. I merely illustrate a point, Goldilocks. Take nothing on trust. Many tricky dicks walk the trail. You want a drink?’ He had taken a half-pint flask from his jeans jacket.
Lazenby gazed at this most cautiously.
‘A very small one, perhaps. What is it?’
‘Rye.’ He poured for them both into tooth mugs. ‘This is a weird plan they make for me, Goldilocks,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to know.’
‘Okay.’ He took a long drink. Then he took the two papers from his pocket. ‘This the stuff they showed you?’
Lazenby examined the sheets. ‘Yes. The same.’
‘What do they think it means?’
‘Well — what it says. That he obviously believes he has something important and thinks you can get to him.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Do you think otherwise?’
The Indian poured himself another glass.
‘Maybe. These are tricky tricky dicks,’ he said.
Lazenby watched him drink the whisky.
‘Tell me,’ he said mildly, ‘why you suppose anyone should go to such great labours to insert you into trouble in a distant place?’
‘Scenarios?’ Porter nodded. ‘Sure. Maybe they want somebody in that place. But nobody can get to the place. So they look in the computer, and bingo, I can get to it. I’m just the girl. I have the looks, I have the patter. For what? God knows for what. To take something, bring something? You’d never know even while you were doing it.’
Lazenby gazed at the Indian. The sudden loquacity, after his reserve at dinner, did not disguise an essential stillness about the man. There was an austere, watchful quality about him.
‘Well,’ he said, terminating the discussion, ‘I’ve told you what I came to tell you. All I can add is that at one time I also didn’t think much of it. But not any more.’
‘You think a lot now, eh?’
‘Oh, yes. Certainly.’
‘Would you go yourself?’
‘I?’ Lazenby stared at him. ‘I wouldn’t. Good God, no!’
The Indian didn’t say any more. He didn’t even look at him. He just sat and smoked his cigarette. He did this until it was finished and then pocketed the bottle, and nodded, and went.
13
And two days later, job completed, Lazenby himself went — home. He watched most contentedly as portions of British Columbia receded at 600 miles an hour.
What the Indian had decided to do he had no idea. A very complicated fellow, tricky. Suspected everybody of tricks. Up to plenty himself, of course. He’d decide nothing in a hurry.
In Prince George it was raining and the girl came in drenched, with a dripping umbrella and a bag of groceries.
‘Oh God, are you still watching that?’ she said.
Porter’s eyes hadn’t left the screen.
‘Quiet. The man is making a joke.’
‘He was making the joke when I left.’
‘That was another joke.’
‘Who is that little bastard? Why are you watching him?’
‘He’s a jolly little bastard. I like him.’
The little man on the screen was very jolly. He wore high reindeer boots and was smacking them as he laughed. His male companions were also smacking theirs. The women’s boots couldn’t be seen, but they were all elaborately dressed and just as jolly, dark eyes sparkling under their centre partings. They were taking part in a talk show.
‘Is that Eskimo they’re talking or what?’ the girl said.
‘Eskimo is Inuit. The people are also called Inuit. This isn’t Inuit,’ he said. The leggy blonde was an ex-student of his and should have known better. At the present time she should have known much better for she was editing a book, his last, which was about the Inuit. ‘Go and take that bath,’ he said.
‘You said you were going to take it with me.’
‘All right.’ Porter reluctantly switched the tape off. There were about twenty snippets on it, bits of newscasts, talks, chat shows. Snatched by satellite evidently. No information had come with the tape. Just the tape. He’d watched it a few times and would watch it some more.
He reached for his wallet and took out the much-folded messages again, comparing them side by side.
What the hell! Had they really not seen it, the geniuses of the CIA? Or had they manufactured the thing themselves? He still couldn’t tell. There were phrases here meant only for him, to be understood solely by him. Could they possibly have known what had been discussed?
He wasn’t clear what to do. Drop the whole thing and go back to Montreal, east? Or find out more at the training camp the young spook had mentioned, south?
He followed the girl into the bathroom, brooding. Sleep on it, and then decide.
East, south, where?
Three
NORTH BY NORTH-WEST
14
On 28 August Porter arrived at Narita airport, picked up his bags, negotiated Immigration and Customs, and descended to the train. A car was waiting for him outside, as he knew. He had no intention of taking it. The airport express could get him where he wanted, which was Tokyo central station.
He made it by five o’clock, to find the rush hour in progress. This was the second rushawa of the day, the homeward-streaming one, and the familiar riot was in progress. He spent some minutes getting his bearings, and located the Lucky Strike. It looked no different from the other Business Efficiencies round the station but it stood on a corner and had two entrances. This was its attraction, and he remembered it. They wouldn’t remember him.