Rain steam and speed, p.20
Rain, Steam and Speed, page 20
When the recruits assembled in the main room, on Monday morning, there was general hilarity, as some of them had had haircuts, dyed their hair, or shaved. Apart from one of the women who had changed long dark hair to a blonde bob-cut, Ian-Owen was the greatest transformation, especially once he put his glasses on again. They all had their photographs taken so their new passports could be prepared. After the photographs, there was another day of tests and a long chat with Dominic.
“How are you feeling?” asked Dominic, as Ian-Owen closed the door to his office and sat on the opposite side of his desk.
“I’m good, thank you. The psychologist has been helpful. Some of it has been a bit challenging emotionally. I feel like I’m making progress.”
“You are making good progress. Your Pashto is coming along nicely.”
“Thanks. I was going to ask you about that. If I’m off to Canada next week, when do I go to Afghanistan?”
“We think the drugs are entering Canada in books. That’s part of the reason for your job with a publishing company. That and your general set of skills and background. We wanted to find a job you would pick up quickly. Ontario Publishing Inc. is a company with a global network. When the time is right, you will be sent on a business trip to Pakistan. From there, you can go into Afghanistan and ‘holiday’ your way back across Europe, having purchased some drugs, at the source, somewhere in the poppy fields of Helmand. For now, we need you to gather intelligence on a competitor, Ottawa Books, and befriend Caroline Dupont.”
“I get it now.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. What if Caroline Dupont isn’t interested in me?”
“We’re not asking you to sleep with her on day one. Be creative. Use your imagination. There’s a file on her for you to read, this week. Manufacture ‘chance’ meetings. Build on your common interests. Charm her. I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’re not a bad looking guy and you’re in a lot better shape than you were a week ago. I hope you’ll keep up the gym work, in Ottawa.”
“OK. Thanks.”
“A piece of advice. Don’t let on that you speak Russian, while you are in Canada. We are certain there is a strong Russian connection there, and we need you to be able to get close enough to eavesdrop on conversations and report back.”
“Understood.”
Ian-Owen got up to leave for his next session in the language laboratory.
In the afternoon, he started to read the file on Caroline Dupont. She liked cats and jazz music, lived across the river from Ottawa, in Gatineau, Quebec, on Rue Jeanne-d’Arc, and her job was in international book sales. Her photo showed her to be blonde with blue eyes. Ian-Owen found her attractive. He loved cats, but unfortunately, he had little or no knowledge of jazz music and even less of French-Canadian jazz music. He took himself off to the resources room.
“Good afternoon. Would it be possible for you to research some French-Canadian jazz music for me and get hold of some cassettes?”
“Any particular period?”
“No idea. Fifties, sixties and seventies, maybe.”
“Come back tomorrow afternoon and we’ll have something for you.”
“Thank you.”
Ian-Owen had no idea what to expect, although he was impressed with the reach of the resources department.
On the final Friday afternoon, the recruits received their passports, their air tickets and their final instructions, including contact details. In Ian-Owen’s case, he would be met at the airport by a man called Grant Waterstone, who would make the observation, ‘Lake Ontario is so beautiful, at this time of year’, to which Owen was meant to respond, ‘Yes, I hope to visit it, soon’. His passport photo resembled how he looked when he started sixth form, although the glasses made him look about ten years older.
Ian-Owen had his final UK run on the treadmill and spent twenty minutes in the sauna. He felt physically in good condition, but mentally, he was feeling increasingly apprehensive about what lay ahead. He told himself it should be easier than settling in Amsterdam. For a start, his accommodation was all sorted, his job lined up and they spoke English. The problem was his niggling lack of confidence with women. For the final time, he waited outside Century House, and Brian pulled up in the car.
“Good evening, Brian,” Ian-Owen greeted him cheerily, getting in.
“Good evening. I will be picking you up from the hotel at seven-thirty on Monday morning and taking you to Heathrow.”
“Thank you.”
Just like every other journey, nothing more was said, until they reached the hotel.
“Goodnight,” said Ian-Owen.
“Goodnight.”
That weekend, Ian-Owen introduced himself to French-Canadian jazz music. Even if it did not grow on him much, he could, at least, appear knowledgeable and interested. No doubt he would end up having to attend a jazz festival or a jazz club, with Caroline Dupont. Buying tickets might even turn out to be a pretext to get together with her. Ian-Owen really wanted to drop by his former flat and call in at The Prince Albert, but he knew Battersea was off limits. He wondered if the council had moved a new tenant into his flat yet. When he was not listening to jazz music, and the resources department had thrown in a couple of internationally famous jazz musicians, Herb Ellis and Bob Brookmeyer, Ian-Owen listened to one of the Pashto language cassettes.
Halfway through the Saturday afternoon, it occurred to Ian-Owen that he should buy a book for the flight. Also, it made sense to buy a larger suitcase. Then he realised he had no home to go to, so there would be nowhere to leave the small suitcase. He tried to pack his suits, shirts, tracksuit, running shoes and leather shoes, in the small suitcase, along with his existing wardrobe. There was not enough room, even with the holdall. A solution popped into his head. He would buy a large suitcase and ask Brian to dispose of the empty small suitcase. On the edge of Knightsbridge, Ian-Owen could not resist the temptation of buying his suitcase in Harrods. It was not cheap, but he had spent very little of his two hundred pounds in expenses. He also bought two leather luggage labels, some toiletries and a new sponge bag. As for his book selection, he was torn between John le Carre’s Smiley’s People and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig. He came down on the side of Pirsig, reflecting that a spy thriller was perhaps not so helpful, given the very real prospect he was currently facing, wavered and bought both.
By Sunday evening, Ian-Owen was packed and ready. He hardly slept a wink, through nerves, but told himself there was plenty of time to sleep on the plane. At seven-thirty in the morning, Brian pulled up and got out of the car, to put Ian-Owen’s luggage in the boot.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. I have a favour to ask. This small case is empty and needs to be disposed of.”
“Not a problem.”
“Thank you.”
The journey to Heathrow was as quiet as all the previous journeys, with Brian. He pulled up in the dropping-off zone outside departures and got out to unload Ian-Owen’s luggage. Having stood the suitcase on the pavement, he held out his hand, to shake Ian-Owen’s.
“It’s been a pleasure, Ian. Good luck.”
“Thank you. Goodbye, Brian,” he responded, taking Brian’s hand and shaking it, firmly.
Brian got back in the car and drove off, while Ian-Owen stood watching, his life in a moment of suspended animation. Presently, Ian Elton-Craig checked in at the Air Canada desk and passed through security to the departure lounge, where he bought a cup of coffee and waited for the gate-number to be displayed for the ten o’clock flight to Ottawa.
Between buying a coffee and boarding the flight, Ian went to the toilet twice. When he came out of the toilet for the second time, the gate-number had appeared. Sensibly, he had purchased a suitcase with integral wheels, so he was able to wheel it the considerable distance to the gate, where more time was spent sitting around, waiting. Outside, it had started to rain heavily. Eventually, boarding was announced, and he joined the queue of passengers filing past the air stewardess who was checking boarding cards.
Ian’s was a window seat, and as he settled himself in, he watched the raindrops splashing in the expanding puddles on the concrete below. Up to now, Ian’s only previous flights were on the school trip to the Soviet Union, which were much shorter. Seatbelt on and novel resting on his lap, until he was permitted to lower the table, he sat glancing sideways at the middle-aged woman who had squeezed into the adjacent seat and claimed the armrest between them. Not usually competitive, but seeking amusement, Ian thought he might claim the space when she next moved her elbow, which she did, a few minutes later, to manipulate the air conditioning. Ian soon wished he had not as her unusually sharp elbow reclaimed the armrest, assertively, when she lowered her arm.
“Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting your arm to be there,” she apologised, insincerely.
Ian understood her implication and relinquished any opportunity of resting his left arm, for the duration of the journey. The plane taxied to the runway, the engines roared, and the plane gathered speed. Any hope Ian had of watching the patchwork of rural England scroll by was soon thwarted by the cloud cover. The seatbelt sign remained illuminated for what felt like an eternity, and the plane started to experience turbulence. Outside his window, Ian caught sight of flashes of lightening, in the murky darkness. They must have been flying into a severe weather front. An hour passed before the atmosphere calmed down and light broke in through the window. They were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, but all that Ian could see was an ocean of cloud.
Ian had almost forgotten the novel, resting in his lap. He started to read and was soon enthralled by the narrative. The arrival of lunch forced him to put the book down. He was completely put off eating by the noises which the middle-aged woman, less than a foot away from him, was making as she chewed her food. As subtly as he could, he got his Walkman out from the knapsack between his feet, inserted a Led Zeppelin cassette, put on the earphones, turned up the volume and resumed eating. By the time he started his dessert, a miniature strawberry cheesecake, the woman was stacking her plastic pots. She shut her eyes and leant back, which made it somewhat inconvenient for Ian to escape to the toilet, when he had finished eating.
“Excuse me, but I need to go to the bathroom.”
She glared at him. Her table was still in the lowered position, with the empty lunch packaging resting on it, and she could not work out how to get out of her seat.
“I think you’ll have to wait until they clear away the lunch things,” she hissed.
Ian stood up and waved at the air stewardess, beckoning her over.
“Please could you remove this lady’s rubbish, so I can go to the bathroom?”
“Madam, I’ll take these items for you,” responded the stewardess, kindly, picking up the little tray.
Ian escaped, and after using the bathroom, decided to walk round the plane a few times, before returning to his seat. When he did return, the middle-aged woman was sitting with her head back and eyes closed.
“Excuse me, again, but I need to return to my seat.”
No response.
“Madam. Hello. Excuse me.”
Still no response.
“Excuse me,” repeated Ian.
He did not want to shake her shoulder, in case she accused him of assault, so he went and found the stewardess.
“Hi. I have a slight problem. The lady next to me is sleeping and I need to return to my seat. She won’t wake up when I speak to her, and I don’t want to touch her.”
“Would you like to move seats?”
“I would love to move seats, but my book, knapsack and Walkman are by my window seat.”
“Ah. I see.”
The stewardess approached the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. Ian stood just behind her.
“Madam,” she said firmly, nudging the shoulder gently.
“Leave me alone. Stop. He’s attacking me!” she shouted as her sleep was disturbed.
Realising the situation, the woman turned beetroot-red with embarrassment.
“Excuse me, Madam. I would like to access this gentleman’s belongings. Would you stand up, please?”
The middle-aged woman hauled her corpulent bottom from the seat and stood aside. The stewardess gestured to Ian to rescue his belongings.
“Thank you, Madam,” she said, politely. “Now, sir. Come with me.”
Ian followed her to the opposite side of the plane, where there was a vacant aisle seat.
“Is this suitable, sir?”
“Thank you.”
Ian sat down next to a man, probably in his sixties, who was reading a copy of The Times. The man acknowledged Ian and turned back to his newspaper. Ian took out his novel and resumed reading.
“Good read?” commented the older man.
“It is good, yes,” replied Ian, hoping the man would not attempt to engage in further conversation.
“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” asked the man, thirty seconds later.
“Yes. Have you?” replied Ian, making a spontaneous decision to be polite.
“Yes. I once owned a Triumph, but I’m a little old now.”
“Is someone ever too old to ride a motorcycle?”
“Yes. When you no longer have the strength to put it on its stand,” laughed the older man. “I once rode all the way to Italy. Have you ever been to Italy?”
Ian was just about to respond that he had not been to Italy but had been to Russia, when he remembered who he was, now.
“No.”
“During the second world war. I had to go and observe what Mussolini was up to, and report back to my superiors in London.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It was. I nearly got caught escaping from the back window of a woman’s house, when her husband came home early.”
Ian smiled.
“Seriously, the Resistance risked their lives on a daily basis. The man was quite clearly unhinged.”
“Most Fascist dictators are.”
“And Communist dictators. Some animals being more equal than others.”
Ian picked up on the reference to Orwell’s Animal Farm.
“I read Animal Farm.”
“You know, I’ve been to Russia, too. In the sixties.”
Ian knew he must avoid any admission of his ability to speak Russian.
“Where abouts did you go?”
“Moscow. We were in the middle of the Cold War. I was a correspondent, reporting on the Soviet space programme. It was such a huge relief when the Americans reached the moon first.”
“I’d love to experience the view of earth from space.”
“I’ve seen a lot of technological change in my lifetime but watching the moon landing was the greatest triumph. Talking of Triumph, what was your motorcycle?”
“Honda 250.”
“There’s nothing like speeding along the open road on a warm summer’s evening, wind in your hair.”
“I’ve always had to wear a helmet,” laughed Ian, “but yes, I get the speed thing.”
“Will you excuse me, only I need to go to the toilet.”
“No problem.”
Ian stood to let the older man out and sat back down to his book, thinking how interesting his interlocutor’s life must have been, and wanting to ask more. The older man returned, and Ian was about to ask him about the changes he had lived through, when the older man spoke first.
“For a man who has never travelled, how come you’re flying to Canada?”
“I was invited to go and stay at my cousin’s house. You’re only young, free and single once, so I thought, why not.”
“Where will you travel, as a tourist, I mean?”
“I don’t know. I would love to see the Rockies, but my cousin lives in Ottawa. I guess, I will go where they take me.”
“Well, if you get a chance to travel to Toronto, take it. The CN Tower is the tallest free-standing structure in the world. The so-called Space Deck is well worth a visit.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must finish doing my crossword.”
“Nice talking.”
Ian picked up his book, again, and resumed reading. After three quarters of an hour, his eyes started to grow heavy, so he put the book in his knapsack and took out his Walkman again, changed the cassette to Pink Floyd Wish You Were Here, and put the earphones on. Somewhere in ‘Shine on you crazy diamond,’ he fell asleep. He slept for just over three hours. When eventually, he did wake up, the older man was desperate to escape to the toilet. As soon as he returned, Ian went to the toilet, himself.
“Tell me about the changes you’ve lived through,” Ian invited the older man, sitting back in his seat.
“Where to start? Television, electric razor, cats-eyes in the road. The helicopter, nuclear reactors and microwave ovens. Personal computer. Space travel. Lots of medical things, like the first heart transplant. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”
“Were you a trend-setter or a follower?”
“Most of the technologies available to the ordinary person were hugely expensive when they first came out. I couldn’t have afforded to be a trend-setter even if I’d wanted to be.”
“Which invention would you say was most important to you?”
“To me personally?”
“Yes.”
“I would have to say cats-eyes, because during the war they were so important to travel around the country, especially during the black-out and when car headlights had to be shuttered. I would have had to slow down, otherwise!” the older man joked. “Are you any good at crosswords?”
“Sorry.”
“I’m determined to finish this, before we land, and I’m stuck on one last clue.”
“Try me.”
“Jolly good. Two parts to this. Nineteen across and twenty-three down. Five and eight. Here’s the clue. ‘Cyclist brings small change.’ I must be missing something.”
“Five letters and eight letters, you say?”
“Yes.”
