He always sat in the same place, almost at the same time, and almost every day. Sunday was the one day he was absent, duly noted by the three female staff of the Beatrix Café just off Main Street in Ambleside. Unbeknown to himself, he’d become an integral part of their lives, a daily topic of hushed conversations and romantic speculation. They assumed he went to church somewhere, as did most God-fearing folks in this area. They couldn’t have been more wrong.
After suddenly appearing in the café nine months ago, he’d become almost a fixture, part of the furniture, so to speak. Now he didn’t even have to place an order. A barely imperceptible nod towards the ladies sufficed as he entered. Oblivious to the squabbling about who should serve him, he was quickly brought a large espresso coffee accompanied by a freshly baked scone, with locally made blueberry jam, served on a small plate with a Peter Rabbit design. It wasn’t by accident the owners had named the café after the local writer and animator of the amazing children’s books, Beatrix Potter. Her characters were everywhere—on every available visible surface—cups, saucers, plates, notice boards, and of course, menu lists. Even the wallpaper.
They watched in eager anticipation as he began his ritual. Ensconced at his corner table with a window view facing Loughrigg Fell, he placed his backpack deliberately on a chair. After extracting his laptop, he laid it down precisely with the open edge facing his preferred seat and carefully plugged it into a power socket in the wall. Only then did he bend down and remove the one bicycle clip holding up the trouser leg on his right ankle, sliding it carefully into the right-hand pocket of his trench coat, which he then hung on the back of a vacant chair.
Staff knew what he was wearing underneath—his favorite, well-worn, pure wool, white Setesdal sweater, with its traditional black pattern, locally referred to in Norway as a ‘Lice Jacket.’ At least they assumed it was his favorite, since its cuffs were frayed and there was a
small hole at one elbow. They’d discussed several times whether they should ask him if they could repair it, but none had the temerity to approach him. They had no way of knowing he didn’t possess any other, or at least none that would provide him such comfort and warmth.
Each day they waited as if in a movie theater for the lights to go down and the show to begin. After opening his laptop, he appeared to scroll through or read or examine documents. Using two fingers on each hand, he laboriously began typing and periodically sipped his coffee. Although curious, they could not see what he was writing since he sat with his back to the wall. If anyone came too close, he inevitably closed the cover. They wagered how long it would be before he touched his scone, knowing that, on average, it would be about three minutes and thirty-five seconds. The man paused, unwrapped the knife from the Beatrix Potter paper napkin lying parallel to the tri-angular shaped scone, and with surgeon-like skill, meticulously separated the top from the bottom. He stared at it as if smitten by some masterpiece, a work of art, then attentively spread the jam evenly over both pieces, ensuring with surgical precision that he covered each of the corners. Finally, he cut a small portion, slowly placed it in his mouth, then with eyes closed, appeared lost in a trance of unutterable satisfaction.
They watched in silence. Transfixed, as if observing some exotic religious ceremony, knowing that in exactly forty-five minutes he would nod for a second espresso, sending them again into a tizzy of competition as they decided who should serve him. In two hours and twenty-five minutes exactly, he would close his laptop, a signal that he wanted the check. Provided the shop was quiet, they enjoyed standing together near the door observing as he reversed his arrival process. With no eye contact, he would nod in their direction and exit the café. Outside, after fixing the bicycle clip around the cuff of his right trouser leg, he would take his bicycle that was leaning against the window and ride off down the hill towards Lake Windermere.
No longer needing to whisper to each other, the staff almost broke out into uncontrollable laughter, a kind of catharsis after a traumatic event, but this one was not painful, just exciting and mysterious. It was as if his odd, silent presence radiated and commanded an aura of tranquility and calm that nobody should disturb, especially customers. As if the café belonged to him. As if it was hallowed ground, a church perhaps, or some ancient college library where somnolent professors communicated in hushed tones. They asked each other the same questions they’d been posing every day since he first arrived. Who is this silent man? What does he do? Where does he live?
They could never have known why he walked with a slight limp, although they quickly reached a consensus that it was a disability from birth. They’d discussed why he sported a full beard and commented about how handsome he looked. If only he wasn’t almost bald. At six feet two inches, he was an imposing figure, athletic looking, with striking, deep-set blue eyes and noticeable crow’s feet. His craggy face looked as if it had been outdoors a great deal. What they did discuss frequently were his hands, especially his fingers—long and slender they could have been those of a concert pianist or a surgeon. And they wondered.
What they didn’t know was this was the first time in his life he’d grown a beard. It now covered a scar with eleven double suture punctures, extending from below his left ear almost to the center of his chin.
They could never have known, nor would they ever discover, that his limp resulted from a gunshot to the thigh, and that it was fairly recent. They would never know his real name even though they referred to him as Mr. James from the name on his credit card, full name James Hatfield. If, in the unlikely event that a person had the sophisticated technology or ability to trace him through his card, they would find it belonged to a nonexistent inmate in His Majesty’s Maximum-Security Prison in the town of March, Cambridgeshire.
What the staff didn’t know was that he wasn’t reading or preparing documents, he was writing a novel. It was a personal form of therapy and something he’d always wanted to do. His renting a remote cottage high on Loughrigg Fell gave him the isolation and quiet he craved for, that he knew would feed his creative spirit. His daily bicycling to Ambleside and his long hikes up the steep and physically demanding Langdale Pikes were helping him regain his strength and mental toughness. If truth be told, he wasn’t sure whether he ever wanted to get back into the ‘Service’ again. In his last conversation with his boss, Sammy Alden-Smythe, whom everyone, making use of his initials, referred to in-house as SAS, he’d made it clear that his future within the MI6 was doubtful at best. That he needed an extended ‘time out’ to think things through, to recuperate, to explore other options. Perhaps, to become a writer.
SAS was the epitome of kindness and genuine understanding. They’d been together at Oxford University, but whereas he’d continued with graduate studies, Sammy had sought employment and obtained a junior position at the Foreign Office.
“Take as much time as you need,” he had said caringly, and with typical British understatement, “You’ve had quite a time of it.” They were drinking tea in Sammy’s office, on the fourth floor overlooking the River Thames after his release from St. Thomas Hospital that morning.
“We don’t need to debrief any further,” SAS began, “unless you have something else you need to get off your chest. It was, sadly, a very regrettable incident, but it’s history now. You need to take care of yourself. Do you have any idea what you’ll do?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he said in a soft restrained voice. “I’ve had time these past few months, too much time perhaps, to give it a lot of thought.” Easing himself out of the comfortable leather armchair, he limped over and gazed out of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Standing silently with hands stuffed into his trousers pockets, he paused for a minute
before slightly turning his head and speaking over his shoulder. “I’ve rented a cottage in the Lake District and will seclude myself for a while. Lots of fresh air, hiking, reading, and some writing, that sort of thing. I need to recoup both physically and mentally. There’s no TV and no cell phone signal, so don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
“OK, that’s fine with me. But how about an address, just in case?”
“No,’ he replied firmly, ‘if it’s that important, then you’ll just have to find me.”
What the café staff would never know was that his real name was Simon Greenfield, an expert in eastern languages who could speak, read, and write Arabic, Amharic, and Farsi. His hearing was so acute and sensitive, it was claimed by others who had worked with him that after hearing a foreigner speak English for just a few sentences, he could identify the country the person was from and possibly the region. He was also completely fluent in French and Spanish.
What the ladies would never discover was that he was forty-two years old, divorced, had worked for the government for the past thirteen years, and until recently, spent seven of those years in Ethiopia as a senior regional intelligence officer.
What the ladies didn’t know was that their assumptions of his attending church on Sunday were kind and Christian, but far from the truth. Simon was a practicing Buddhist. Always having wanted to fly fish, but never in a position to do so, he was now taking lessons every Sunday with an instructor on Ghyll Head reservoir, an eleven-acre sheltered fishery nestled in a small, elevated valley overlooking Lake Windermere. It was the perfect place to learn.
What the ladies would never realize was that the true-life men and women who worked inside the sandstone and emerald-colored MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross on the banks of the River Thames were not secret agents, they were intelligence officers. Agents were the people they recruited and persuaded to spy for them. The Service rated Simon Greenfield as a top-
ranked, highly respected senior intelligence officer. The ‘Brass’ urgently needed him back in London.
What the ladies could never have guessed was that Simon was on extended leave after being seriously wounded in a bungled Mukhabarat Egyptian Secret Service operation in Cairo, some months previously. As a result he had promised himself, he would never, under any circumstances, work with a woman again.
Black, low clouds seemed to touch the ground and made the cottage so dark he needed to turn on the light. At first, he didn’t recognize the two men who’d hammered on his front door in the late afternoon while a February storm raged outside. Cracking it open, all he could see initially were the tops of two heads. Humped forward, coat collars turned up, hats pulled well down over their eyes, they tried to shield themselves from the stinging, freezing rain, driven directly at them by the howling wind. It was only when one of them looked up that Simon recognized him.
“For Christ’s sake, Jamison, what the hell are you doing here? Come inside quickly,” he snapped, and then, “Oh my God, it’s you Bates,” suddenly recognizing his partner. “Come in quickly or the wind will blow the rain into the house.”
Without saying a word, the two men stepped hurriedly inside, standing like drowned rats, while the water ran off their clothes forming separate pools on the black and white tiled entryway floor.
“Better take those coats off,” Simon urged. “You can hang them here on the rack. And I suggest you take off your shoes as well. Bring them in to dry near the fire. I’ll clean up this mess later.”
“It’s good to see you, Prof.,” said Bates, using Simon’s nickname. As far back as anyone could remember, even to his college days, he’d always been called ‘Professor.’ “But what a fucking place to get to. We had to leave the car on the side of the road at Skelwith Bridge and
scramble up here. It’s taken us almost an hour. Talk about being isolated. There’s not another house for miles around.”
“Come on in, both of you,” replied Simon, leading the way into his cozy sitting room. “Get close to the fire and dry out a little. Would you like a cup of tea or something stronger? All I have is whiskey.”
“Tea is just fine,” both chorused.
“OK, then, just give me a sec.”
Once he had served them, Simon let them relax with chit-chat, small talk about the weather, then addressed the obvious. “So, you finally discovered where I’m living,” he quipped with a smile. Both visitors looked at each other knowingly. Simon understood that when he refused to give SAS his address, it wasn’t even a game, it was him just wanting to feel in that moment he actually had some control of his life, some privacy. He knew the second he left his office, all SAS had to do was make one call to Scotland Yard Special Services, and he’d be followed and tracked immediately. Shit, perhaps the three ladies at the café, whom he knew scrutinized his every movement, were involved. “I know you’ve not traveled 300 miles from London and hiked up the Fell for an hour in a filthy storm, just to ask about my health,” he said wittingly, “So, what brings you here? And why did he send two of you? It must be important.” He didn’t need to describe who ‘he’ was, since all three of them worked for him.
It was Jamison who responded first in his distinctive, lilting Scottish accent. “Pretty much everybody in the agency knows what happened, Prof., and what you did. They’re all enormously proud of you and wish you the very best in your recovery. Even the tight-lipped ‘Brass,’ assholes though they are, have commented on it and there are rumors of some special award, even though it would have to be a clandestine one. All of that said, SAS has asked me to pose only one question to you, are you ready to return to work? Will you come back into The Service?”
Simon leaned forward in his chair and was about to answer when Jamison held up his hand indicating he should wait, and calmly continued, “There’s only one answer Prof, ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ If it’s ‘No,’ then we’ll leave here immediately with no hard feelings, and not bother you again. If it’s ‘Yes,’ then Bates will give you the full story.”
There was a long pause as Simon looked into the middle distance, then standing up reached over to a metal box containing logs, selected one, and threw it onto the fire. A shower of sparks immediately lit up the hearth and the faces of the men staring at it. They could feel the warmth slowly returning to their bodies and little wisps of steam began to spiral from their soaking wet trouser bottoms.
Looking directly at both of them, he knew what he wanted to say, he’d already made up his mind. These men were not just friends, they were a band of brothers and had served together. There was trust here. They should hear what was on his mind.
“It’s taken many months for my body to fully heal,” he began. “Regular walks through the Langdale Pikes and bicycling back and forth to Ambleside almost daily, together with good vegetarian food, have helped me not only recover but build up my strength. The hardest part for me was the inner healing required. It’s difficult to relinquish anger, revenge, and hate. They’re very destructive and tenacious forces. I felt they were eating me alive. But peace, quiet, isolation, and a Buddhist way of living have helped free my mind and restored some sanity. Watching their faces, he could see they were hanging onto his every word. Then, pausing briefly, he switched his tone. He didn’t want to dwell on the past or sound self-pitying.
“It’s also amazing what fly-fishing can do for the soul,” he joked. “Both of you should try it. And regarding the beard, you can tell Sammy that it’s staying. I don’t want my nickname changing to that of Scarface. So, all of that said, then ‘yes’ I believe I’m ready to get back into The Service.”
The visitors’ faces showed relief and happiness. Spontaneously, they stood up and gave each other a high five. For men trained professionally not to emote, this was, by any stretch of the imagination, an extraordinary, unusual outburst of genuine happiness.
Simon continued. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about contacting SAS for the past couple of weeks, simply to reconnect again, but am tied up in a different kind of project. I’m writing a novel,” he explained in an impassioned voice, his eyes sparkling with intensity. “It’s been hugely therapeutic for me, and I’m close to finishing it. I think I’ll have it completed by the end of the month. And you don’t have to worry,” he teased, “I’ve carefully disguised your true characters.”
He could see immediately, from the looks of consternation and concern on their faces as they briefly turned to each other, that something was wrong.
“Holy shit,” he blurted out, “I wasn’t serious. What the hell did I say that was so offensive?”
“Relax, Prof.” It was Bates who broke the tension. “It’s not about us. I need to fill you in and let you know why Sammy needs you.”
A long silence followed as Bates, feeling the heat from the fire, stood up momentarily, slipped out of his jacket, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor.
“First, I can speak again for both of us by repeating we’re delighted you’re coming back. The problem is you may not have time to finish your novel. I’ll do the best I can to give you the full picture.” He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a red Moleskine notebook with an elastic page holder. After thumbing through several pages, and having found what he wanted, he continued. “You may not know, but since your, shall we call it, ‘incident,’ I’ve been temporarily filling in for you in Ethiopia. It’s been weird for me trying to walk in your shoes, and especially so since I can’t even greet a person in Amharic! However, last week we received a garbled
message from the resident London Guardian photographer in Addis Ababa, a Harry Slack.” He paused momentarily to check the name in his notebook. “He claims that while he was working officially at the Queen’s birthday celebration in the Hilton Hotel and shooting some video, he may have accidentally caught some audio of a plan to abduct, to kidnap the US Ambassador. He came into the embassy the next day and dropped this bombshell. They contacted us immediately. We interviewed him and his girlfriend, and of course recorded the conversation. I’m sure SAS will give you a copy when you meet.”
“Well, that sounds interesting, for starters,” Simon replied. “If we have the files, it should be relatively easy to decipher and reconstruct. Why would you need my help so urgently?”
“It’s just not that simple,” Bates continued. “You see, we don’t have any tangible evidence. Both Slack and his girlfriend gave us a list of words that they believe are on the audio, but there is no actual recording. They went to a nightclub after the event, and somebody broke into his car while they were inside and stole all of his camera gear.”
“Oh, great, that’s useful,” Simon quipped sarcastically. “so what does SAS expect from me?”
“First, the authorities believe this photographer is not a flake and has worked in some very tough situations. He’s not the person to create an unnecessary situation or crisis, so they’re taking his words seriously. SAS wants you for a special operation, to try to trace the memory stick which was left in the camera bag. Nobody knows better than you or understands the political underground in Ethiopia, and you already have an entire network of operatives. It’s thought that if, in fact, there’s some sort of plot being hatched against the USA, it might be because of their new policies and determination to fight terrorism in the Horn of Africa. So, these will be the big boys, and not some small fry outfit looking to make a name for themselves. One word apparently used sounded like ‘July’ and if that’s correct, then the clock
event, SAS would like you to stop what you’re doing here and get to London as quickly as possible.”
“Well, that’s a lot to take in,” Simon replied, his face set in a deep frown. “However, I’ll do my best to wrap up here within the next twenty-four hours, so you can let The Service know I will accept the assignment. I’ll call SAS myself when I’m on the road and have a good signal.”
“That’s just fine,” replied Bates. “Then we should get back. This storm doesn’t seem to be easing off at all.” He stood up, took his shoes from the fireplace, put on his jacket, and was preparing to head towards the hallway when Jamison, who’d been noticeably quiet during the discussion, suddenly stopped in his tracks.
“There is just one other item, Bates, that perhaps you should have mentioned.” The two men looked at each other quizzically. “Have you forgotten about the CIA?” Jamison asked.
“Oh, my God, yes, it completely slipped my mind. Fuck, I guess I was just so pleased and excited that the Prof. was coming back and was thinking selfishly I would no longer have to work in Ethiopia.” Turning to Simon, he said, “I’m so sorry, Prof., I should have mentioned this earlier. Although the information we have came through the British Embassy, since this is a USA issue, it’s essential we collaborate with the CIA. SAS took care of this with the ‘Brass’ and we received notification yesterday that Langley wants us to be the tip of the spear in the investigation. They know we already have a sophisticated infrastructure in place in Ethiopia, but they’re sending over an experienced, Amharic-speaking partner for you. One of their top officers.”
For what seemed like an eternity, nobody spoke.
“Well, thanks for the information, Bates,” replied Simon, breaking the silence, his face for the second time that evening beginning to crack into a wry smile. “I hope the fuck you’re
right. The last thing I need is to babysit somebody. You know what happened the last time I did that?”
* * *
“Hello SAS. This is Simon, and I’m on the freeway about sixty miles north of London.”
“It’s so good to hear your voice again, Prof., and I’m delighted you’re ready for some action again. When will you come in?”
“How about tomorrow morning? I’m heading to my pad in Balham just now. Will that work for you?”
“Excellent,” he responded. “Come in about 10:30, we can talk, and then let’s have lunch together. I’ll also invite your new partner, and I hope you can handle this.” Simon immediately picked up an almost imperceptible hesitation in his voice. “It’s a female, a lady. She flew in from Washington yesterday. Her name is Lisa Kravitz and I’m hoping you’ll like her.