Free A Spy's Life by Henry Porter Page B

over his head.
    ‘A woollen hat?’
    ‘Yes, a wooden hat,’ said Boris triumphantly.
    ‘Did he say what he wanted?’
    ‘He say he see you when you come back.’
    ‘Fine, call me if he appears. But don’t let him come up to the apartment. Have you got that?’
    The moment Harland closed the apartment door behind him, the buzzer went. Boris was on the other end, now evidently anxious to help.
    ‘Kid with wooden hat is in street. I see him now. He come in building … No … He stand outside door. Now go away.’ The commentary trailed off.
    ‘I’ll come down.’
    He got downstairs to find Boris lurking at the side of the front door. Without bothering to hide himself, Harland peered through the glass and saw the figure across the street.
    ‘Are you sure it’s the same man?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Boris definitely. ‘I tell him fucking get lost?’
    ‘No, let’s see what he wants.’ Harland opened the door and saw the man more clearly. He had moved into the light of the street lamp and was looking in his direction, stamping his feet in the cold. Harland moved out into the wind and called out.
    ‘What do you want?’
    The figure made a hopeless gesture with his hands and seemed to smile, although it was difficult to tell in the dark. Then he started across the empty street.
    ‘Do you need something?’ Harland shouted again.
    ‘Is that Mr Harland?’ called the man. ‘Yes, I would like to talk to you for a few moments.’
    Boris had moved to stand behind him, apparently expecting trouble.
    ‘He looks okay,’ said Harland. ‘Why don’t you go back inside, Boris? You can call the police if there’s a problem.’ But Boris wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
    The man came up to them wearing a rather odd, eager smile. Harland gauged he was in his mid to late twenties. He had a thin, fairly handsome face and a sparse growth of stubble on his chin. He wore a padded ski jacket, black denims and tan-coloured boots. A dark blue woollen hat was shoved tight over his head and around his neck was wrapped a bulky olive green and black scarf.
    ‘Mr Harland?’ he said, still smiling.
    ‘Yes. What do you want?’
    ‘To talk to you. I have some things to say – important things.’
    Harland registered an educated foreign accent and a pair of light brown eyes, which were perhaps a little troubled – or at least hesitant.
    ‘What things?’
    ‘It’s quite difficult to explain.’ He was now standing about three feet from Harland. The wind whipped the steam of his breath from his lips.
    ‘What’s this about?’ said Harland impatiently. ‘I’m not standing out here all bloody night.’
    The man opened his jacket and rather deliberately slid his hand inside, which caused Boris to shift his position at the door. The young man held up his other hand and said to him in fluent Russian, ‘There’s nothing to be worried about. I am a friend.’ Harland noted that the accent was again faultless.
    He pulled out a wallet and withdrew a card which he shielded from the few flakes of sleet that were being borne down the street by the wind. ‘I wanted to show you this.’
    Harland took it and held it up to the light. It was an Italian identity card, frayed at the edges and discoloured. A picture of a young woman was rippled with the impression of an official stamp. He looked closely. There was no mistaking her. The name on the card confirmed his fears. EVA HOURESH was printed in capital letters and below the photo and in a different type face were the words ‘Design Student’. The card was dated 1975.
    Harland felt his stomach churn. But he did not react – he could not react, because he was certain that Vigo must have put the boy up to it. He wondered wildly whether the encounter was being observed. Was he being filmed? He glanced to the darkened windows of the apartment opposite and then to a blue van which stood under the line of gingko trees on the other side of the street.
    ‘You don’t recognise her?’ said the young