Free A Spy's Life by Henry Porter

glittering vistas of midtown Manhattan. His mind was clearing and with that came a burst of optimism, which had been waiting to break out since he left the hospital. He had survived, dammit, and that was all that mattered. He stopped at a Korean deli and bought himself a small container of freshly squeezed orange juice to clear his mouth of the thick, musty taste of the wine. He undid the top as he waited for the store assistant to change his twenty-dollar bill and swilled the juice in his mouth before swallowing it. Then something occurred in a deep part of his consciousness. An old nerve ending tingled which made him look round through the doorway and catch sight of a man on the other side of Second Avenue. He had stopped and was fiddling with one of the newspaper vending machines that are on every corner in midtown. Harland understood that he had been followed from the restaurant. He took his change and lingered to the side of the doorway, waiting for a cab with an illuminated sign to draw up to the lights. The man threw one or two glances his way, then withdrew a newspaper from the machine and ostentatiously started leafing through it.
    Bloody amateur, thought Harland as he walked smartly from the doorway and flagged down a cab. What the hell did Vigo think he was playing at, sending his idiot footpads to follow him?

5
    THE WOODEN HAT
    The young man waited to catch sight of Harland outside the Flynt Building in Brooklyn Heights for much of the day. But the wind was blowing straight off the East River and several times he had been driven inside by the cold, first to find refuge in a bar and then in the cinema on Henry Street. After the movie, he decided to find out whether Harland was expected back that day. He talked to the surly Russian porter at the Flynt and discovered he’d missed him. Harland had returned from hospital and gone out again. At 10 p.m. the young man returned to his post behind some recycling bins across the street from the building. He would give it an hour and if Harland didn’t show he’d go back to the hotel.
    Ten minutes later a cab drew up and a man in a long overcoat got out and walked slowly to the building’s entrance, patting his pockets for keys. As he reached the door, he paused and shot a glance quickly up and down the empty street. It was then that he caught sight of the man’s face. Although he was thirty yards away and the light was not good in that part of the street, he was certain that the tall, slightly stooping figure was Robert Harland. But now that the moment had arrived, he found his mind tripping over itself in an effort to choose the right words. Hell, he’d had enough time to think of what he was going to say, but he couldn’t find a coherent sentence in his being. And so he watched while Harland pulled the door open and passed into the lobby.
    He was just pondering how long he should wait before asking the porter to call up to Harland’s apartment when another cab coasted to a halt at the end of the street and two men got out. Instinctively he withdrew further into the shadows behind the bins. He saw one of the men jog a little way down the street, stop and hold up his hand to shield his eyes from the light of the street lamp. He seemed to be interested in the cab which had dropped Harland off, and was only now moving away. After a few seconds the man retreated and disappeared with his companion into Henry Street.
    Harland could never enter the Flynt Building without marvelling at his good fortune in landing the apartment when the previous tenant left for Rome. He made for the elevator, raising a hand cheerily to the young Russian who served as the weekend doorman. Boris grunted something but did not look up from the mini TV balanced in his lap.
    When he unlocked the door of his apartment he would sometimes go in without turning on the lights, take a drink from the fridge and look at the view for a few minutes. The room was large and airy, and all along one side was an