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Harker found this regime no hardship: his military training caused him to wake naturally at five a.m. no matter how late he went to bed; he pulled on a tracksuit and for the next hour he jogged through the dark concrete canyons of Manhattan, taking it gently so as not to strain his damaged leg; six o’clock saw him having breakfast at his favourite ‘all-nite dinette’ off Union Square, seven saw him showered and besuited at his desk in his bleak cell ready to put in a couple of hours’ work for the South African Defence Force, even if it only meant ploughing through reams of boring and insignificant detail about the private lives of members of the devilish Anti-Apartheid League.

But Harker did not find the fat dossier that Dupont had compiled over the years on Josephine Franklin Valentine boring. On the contrary, he found it fascinating, exotic. He felt as if he knew her personally. And hadn’t he saved her life? He had survived her furious attempted murder of him, had seen her thrust the pistol at her beautiful breast, seen the shocking splotch of blood, seen her blown backwards, arms outflung as if crucified. He had dragged himself over to her, blood pumping from his shoulder and thigh, put his ear to her bloody breast, heard her heart still beating; he had stuffed his field emergency dressing into her shocking wound, then plunged his mouth on to hers to force some air into her lungs – it was he who had yelled for the medics and ordered them to evacuate her on the first helicopter. Jack Harker felt he had saved her life even if in truth it was the medics who had done that. And what South African soldier would have let a white woman bleed to death on a black battlefield when medics were swarming around – particularly a beautiful half-naked, English-speaking woman who could obviously give her captors a lot of military intelligence about the Cuban enemy?

But Josephine Valentine had not told anybody anything. Harker had tried to question her while the medics were loading her on to the stretcher, tried to find out how many tanks and armoured cars the Cubans had down the road, to discover the name of the dead Cuban officer she was so upset about, and she had repeatedly told him to ‘fuck off’ – even when he asked her for the name of her next of kin in case she died. She had even refused to tell him her blood group. ‘I don’t want you to save my fucking life, asshole, haven’t you noticed?’

Nor did the Military Intelligence boys back at base camp in South West Africa have any success with her when she recovered consciousness after surgery, though her language improved. ‘Get lost,’ she said, ‘I demand to see the American Ambassador,’ and when the Intelligence boys had developed her numerous rolls of film and tried to question her about faces and equipment depicted therein she had demanded a lawyer, and told them she and her numerous high-powered publishers were going to sue the South African government to Kingdom Come. In short, Military Intelligence didn’t know how to squeeze information from a furious, beautiful American journalist with a wound in her breast – Military Intelligence was accustomed to black terrorist captives who quickly spilt the beans under a bit of robust interrogation and they didn’t have the nerve to third-degree information from a well-known American photo-journalist. General Tanner himself had flown out from Pretoria to try to deal with her; he had eventually called in the most senior CIA operative of the Angolan desk all the way from Lusaka, but even their formidable combined expertise failed to extract information and they had finally thankfully delivered her into the custody of the American Ambassador and her father, a big-wheel lawyer from Boston who arrived with a crack of thunder and placed her in a private clinic in Pretoria pending her deportation as an Undesirable Alien. She had refused even to divulge the identity of .her dead Cuban lover. Harker had felt almost proud of her when General Tanner had told him what a load of trouble she was. A very desirable Undesirable.

That was over two years ago, and now here she was back in his life as he sat in his dungeon in Harvest House reading her thick file. The beautiful Josephine Franklin Valentine smiled at him ravishingly from the pages of many magazine and newspaper cuttings containing her war photographs and stories – wars in Israel, the Middle East, Afghanistan, Mozambique, Rhodesia, Angola: wherever men made war Ms Josephine Valentine went in with her cameras blazing, her typewriter pounding out the staccato Hemingwayesque prose. Very good, lean, evocative writing – you could almost smell the blood and dust and cordite. She evidently loved the high drama of war, the strange business of going into battle, the extraordinary courage it required; she obviously deeply admired the men who did all this for a living when they could be making lots more money in a nice air-conditioned office. Yet she was very liberal, and a strict political analyst. She bitterly condemned the South African government but she was also condemnatory of the Russians for invading Afghanistan; she sympathized with the Israelis, admired their fighting men; she was dismissive of the Arabs as soldiers while very sympathetic to the Palestinians’ cause. She had a high opinion of the Egyptians for making peace with the Jews, and there was a splendid photograph of her sitting in Gaddafi’s ceremonial tent drinking camel’s milk, earnestly discussing his holy Jihad against the West, but in her story she blasted him as an enemy of mankind, particularly for the Lockerbie Disaster bomb. She had great admiration for the Rhodesians as soldiers, as Davids taking on the Goliaths of Russia and China, but she condemned most of their politicians as constituting a ‘cowboy government’. She applauded the Cuban army for fighting the South Africans in Angola – indeed it was she who had deeply embarrassed the President of the United States by revealing to the world that America was waging a secret war on the side of pariah South Africa against the communists, thus causing both countries to pull out of Angola for several years. But now the whole Western world was covertly on the side of the South Africans to drive the Cubans out of Africa, the war was at full blast again and Josephine Valentine was there, boots and all, sweat-stains on her khaki outfit, dust sticking to her face, blonde hair awry, stealing the show with her photographs and stories – until the Bassinga raid that Harker had led.

Josephine had written a dramatic piece about the battle. She admitted that the South Africans had saved her life, but there was no admission that she had attempted suicide – she attributed the self-inflicted wound to her engagement in the heroic battle in which her Cuban lover had been killed at her side. She did not divulge the dead man’s name but the South Africans had eventually identified him from photographs: Brigadier Paulo Rodriguez, forty-four years old, one of Fidel Castro’s top military strategists, the man expected to liberate South Africa from the apartheid yoke after his communist forces conquered Angola and Namibia. And for the first time she declared her political colours. She wrote:

‘I am not a communist, though I am very liberal – and indeed I am sure communism is going to mellow, as Mr Gorbachev’s glasnost and perestroika portend. But for the time being the Cubans are the only knights in shining armour around with the guts to take on the dragon of apartheid, and I’m rooting for them …’

There were many other cuttings and photographs from the society pages that Dupont had collected over the years: Josephine Valentine at country club balls, at yacht club regattas, at anti-apartheid functions. There were a dozen large colour photographs taken by Dupont’s salesmen with telephoto lenses: and, yes, she was certainly beautiful: that long blonde flowing hair, those big dark-blue eyes that looked both sparkling and short-sighted, a wide smile of full lips and perfect teeth, a slightly dimpled chin – and long legs and a bust to break any man’s heart. There were several clippings of her magazine articles condemning America’s policy of economic sanctions against Cuba – ‘Why beggar thy neighbour if you want him to like you?’ Harker read them carefully: she had great admiration for the machismo of Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and the boys of the Sierra Maestro even if she wasn’t a Marxist. He turned to the Covering Report compiled by Dupont over the years.

Codename Bigmouth

Valentine, Josephine Franklin, female Caucasian, born 27 February 1962, in Boston, Massachusetts, US citizen. Parents Denys Adam Valentine, American, well-known lawyer in Boston, mother Elaine Franklin, née O’Reilly, Irish, allegedly aristocracy, naturalized American, now deceased …

Catholic College, Boston … Berkeley University … graduated in Political Philosophy and English Literature … post-graduate course in journalism, University of New York, before becoming a freelance journalist writing for various political magazines … political leanings strongly to left, possibly communist though no actual membership of any party known … tends to the Ban-the-Bomb, long-haired movements, often seen at protest rallies of various kinds … staunch supporter of Anti-Apartheid League, secretary of Chelsea Branch …

Financial situation: evidently wealthy, financed by Valentine Trust in her favour …

Sports interests include yacht racing, tennis, skiing, skating, cycling …

Cultural interests include opera, art, literature …

Lifestyle appears to fluctuate between the extravagant and the quiet … likes fast cars …

No criminal record …

Apparently good health … contact lenses … front teeth capped …

Sex Life …

At this point Harker got up, went to his little refrigerator, extracted ice and poured whisky into a glass.

Sex life? This detail he found really distasteful. It was offensive that ordinary people out there should be sleuthed by his salesmen trying to get smutty details of their sex lives. The hypocrisy of it! Sex, the great equalizer, the great common denominator, why the hell can’t we all just decriminalize sex? But no, almost the whole English-speaking world felt compelled to adhere to the hypocrisy, marriages were broken, careers ruined, ministers and governments fell. And what irritated Harker as he went back to his desk with his whisky was that he was, pruriently, looking forward to reading about the beautiful Josephine Valentine’s sex life … He took a sip of whisky and began to read on.

Scandal on campus when subject was having an affair with a married professor, Cedric Mansell, wife Elizabeth threatened to cite her as co-respondent … affair with Joshuah Danning, son of Senator Danning of Massachusetts … became engaged to football star Stephen Dickason who was subsequently jailed for drug-possession … affair with sportswriter Jim Nichols of New York Post … weekend in Poconos Mountains with Columnist Frederick Jackson of Washington Post …

Subject leaving US to take up residence in London. Case summary sent to Regional Director of Region Two, Chairman alerted in case she attempts to enter South Africa …

Conclusion: subject is dangerous because of her access to the media and because of her influential social connections, particularly in New York and Boston.

CAMs: Her sexual appetite generally can be portrayed as promiscuous – father is high-profile Catholic and subject could possibly be prevailed upon to spare him embarrassment. Best CAM is probably evoking scandal by planting evidence of criminal activity such as drug-dealing, paedophilia, pornography, shoplifting …

‘Jesus!’

Harker had tossed the report aside. Jesus – ‘CAMs’, Character Assassination Methods. Christ, did he really have to soil his hands with this sort of thing? Did South Africa’s military defence really require spending taxpayers’ money on an investigator to search back into the woman’s girlhood to find possible sexual peccadilloes? It would be laughable if it wasn’t so awful. And her sex life looked pretty average – could he really be expected to plant evidence of criminal activity on her? Ruin her life with a smear campaign because she organized protest rallies against apartheid? No way would he obey such an order.

And there was another reason for his truculence: although he didn’t admit it to himself, Harker felt possessive towards Josephine Valentine. Goddammit – he had saved her life!

Harker turned back to the large colour photographs of her taken with a telephoto lens when she was on the tennis court: and, Lord, she was beautiful. There were about a dozen shots of her in a variety of poses, bending, stretching, swiping, jumping, volleying, her blonde hair in a long pony-tail whipping dramatically around her face, her eyes flashing. Look at those long golden legs, look at that glorious ass, look at that bust …

He wondered where she was now. What wars were there, apart from the Angolan conflict? Plenty – Somalia, Ethiopia, Sudan, Middle East, not to mention Northern Ireland, Cyprus, Tibet, Pakistan, Burma, Indonesia. He could easily find out her whereabouts by putting some of his salesmen on to making discreet enquiries. He could telephone her magazine publishers and ask. And she was a member of the New York Yacht Club – Harker had joined when he first arrived a year ago, maybe he would meet her there one day …

And then, that very week, Felix Dupont telephoned him on the scrambled line and said: ‘I see your girlfriend’s back in town soon.’

‘Which girlfriend?’ Harker really did not like his boss. ‘I have so many.’

‘The one you gave mouth-to-mouth to, old man. Just got a signal from our man in Angola, spotted her at Luanda airport, or what’s left of it, boarding a Russian transport flying to Cuba, onward destination New York via Mexico City. Our man in Havana will let us know her arrival details. I want you to have a salesman at the airport to tail her, then get on to her.’

This was interesting news. ‘Get on to her?’

‘Figuratively – but if you can do so literally so much the better, of course. Fuck the information out of the bitch.’

Oh, Harker really didn’t like his boss – and it sounded clear that the man was drinking, at seven o’clock in the morning. ‘What information in particular are you looking for?’

‘Any information, old man, you know that, don’t you remember anything they taught you at Intelligence School? Any fucking information is important in this dog-eat-dog world of espionage, these veritable valleys of dust and ashes in which there are so few oases of hope – any fucking information even if it’s what she has for breakfast or how she likes blow-jobs, because we never know when the info will become useful. But what we really want to know urgently is what Castro’s knuckle-dragging, tree-dwelling generals are planning in Angola, and we figure that your girlfriend may have some clues from all the pillow-talk she has out there.’

‘Is it known that she’s got a new lover in Angola?’

‘Of course she’s had another lover out there, how else does she get her free ride back to Havana? So get on to her and find out what she knows.’

‘Any specific orders about how I achieve that?’

‘The Three Bs – don’t they teach you anything at spy-school? Burglary, Bonking, Blackmail. Burgle her apartment, of course. Don’t do it yourself – send Clements in. She’s sure to come back with all kinds of film, notes, computer disks and so on – make microfilm and computer copies of everything. And you should also burgle her Anti-Apartheid League’s offices; it’s about time we dry-cleaned them to find out what they’re up to. You never know what snippets our lady may have sent back to them from sunny Angola.’ Harker heard Dupont take a swallow of something. ‘And then there’s bonking. Pillow-talk. Give her some of her medicine, old man. Swear undying love, tell her you want to publish her innermost memoirs, particularly what the generalissimos told her over the vino and cigars. That shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.’

Harker grinned to himself. Jesus, did Dupont really think that what this left-wing adventuress might know was worth all the effort?

‘And then,’ Dupont continued, ‘if all else fails, blackmail her. But that’s only as a last resort. And don’t you do it personally, get Clements on to it – but consult me first.’

Harker smiled. ‘Okay, send me her flight details.’

After Dupont hung up, Harker looked at Josephine Valentine’s file again. He turned up a colour photograph of her. Yes, she was beautiful … So, she was a member of the famous New York Yacht Club. He should try to meet her there before she started dating somebody seriously.

4

The following day Derek Clements checked out her apartment. The locks were standard; he picked them, made impressions, got keys cut. The next day he was at Kennedy Airport to tail her. That night he met Harker in a bar near Union Square.

‘How do you know it was her father who met her?’ Harker asked.

‘I heard her call him Dad.’ Clements was a tough, wiry little man with a ferrety face. He had been a US marine before showing up in the Rhodesian army as a mercenary.

‘What is the father like?’

‘About sixty. Stony-faced sort of guy. Grey hair. Good-looking. Nice suit, obviously lots of dough.’

‘How much baggage did Josephine have?’

‘One big holdall, one rucksack, sleeping bag. Camera box, video case, one camera around her neck.’

Harker was making notes. ‘And then?’

‘They took a taxi into Manhattan. I followed. They went straight to her apartment block on East Eightieth Street. It was now lunchtime, five-past-one. While she entered, the old man went to the delicatessen on the corner and came back with a package. He went inside. I went to the same deli, bought a coffee and sat and observed her apartment block. At two-thirty a taxi arrived, the old man emerged, got in and drove off. I waited another hour – had another coffee – waited to see if subject came out. She didn’t. I took a taxi home.’ He pulled out a wad of receipts. ‘Bureau owes me over a hundred and fifty bucks.’

‘Put it on the monthly sheet. Okay, you said you’d give me a plan of her apartment.’

Clements pulled an envelope from his pocket, took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it.

‘Small two-bedroom place but a nice view of Central Park. She uses the second bedroom as a study. Here.’ He pointed. ‘Computer, a rack of disks, lots of stationery. Piles of files with her stories and photos. Lots of framed photos on the wall, mostly military stuff. I microfilmed everything and copied all her disks.’ He indicated a small hand-grip on the end of the table.

‘When you go back in after she’s unpacked, will you be able to identify the new notes and disks?’

‘Yeah, all her disks are numbered, and all her notebooks, and all the entries are dated. When do you want me to go in again, sir?’

‘Give her a chance to settle down and establish a routine. Maybe she goes to the gym every day, or for a jog. You better set up an OP and find out her movements.’

‘Where, in a car?’

‘In a car. Read a paper, like they do in the movies. Move the car around, and change the model. Put Spicer on to the job as well, do a rota with him.’

‘Does Spicer know about this?’

‘No, and there’s no need for him to, just tell him I say so.’

‘He likes you, Spicer does, wants to know when you’re coming to his whorehouse again.’

Harker smiled. ‘And give me a call every morning before nine o’clock to report progress.’

A week later Harker had established a pattern of Josephine Valentine’s movements: Clements reported that her study light burned until about midnight every night, so she was writing hard. She slept until about mid-morning when she went to the corner delicatessen to buy newspapers, milk and fresh fruit. At one o’clock she emerged again wearing a leotard, wheeling a bicycle and wearing a pink crash helmet: on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she rode across town, belting through the traffic, to attend an aerobics and dance class in a loft studio on the west side of Manhattan. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she rode to the rackets club where she played squash. In both cases she returned to her apartment block at three o’clock; her study light burned until midnight.

‘No evidence of a boyfriend yet?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ Clements said. ‘You want me to go in again one lunchtime? She’s settled down now, all her new gear must be on that desk.’

Harker sighed. He hated this – the risk, plus the dishonour of it, of unlawfully entering somebody’s home. But, war is war.

‘Not yet, helluva risk doing it in daylight. We’ve done well in a week. Let’s cool it, I’ll see if I can meet her at the yacht club or the rackets club before we do anything dangerous.’

It was much easier to meet her than anticipated. He had imagined that she would be surrounded by friends, that he would have to bide his time and ask somebody to introduce him, or contrive, with his usual uneasiness, to strike up a casual conversation. But she was alone when he first saw her, sitting at a table reading Time magazine: she was dressed to play squash, wearing a short white skirt, her racket on the table.

‘Miss Valentine?’

He had expected her to have a no-nonsense manner but she looked up with a ready smile. ‘Yes?’ And she was even more beautiful than her photograph suggested. And, for a flash, Harker glimpsed her again in that room in the heat of battle, naked but for her white panties, her breasts swinging as she turned on him.

‘I’m Jack Harker, I’m a member here. I saw your picture in the paper some time back and I’ve read a number of the war stories you’ve written. So I decided to be bold and introduce myself, because I admired them.’

‘Why, thank you!’ Josephine Valentine beamed. Praise is the quickest way to a writer’s heart but she surprised Harker by seeming flustered by it; he had expected a hard-nosed war journo who had seen and heard all the blandishments – instead she was blushing.

‘May I sit down a moment?’

‘Certainly, but I’m off to play squash in a few minutes.’ Harker sat, and she continued hastily, for something to say: ‘And what are you doing in New York, Mr Harker? You’re not American, with that accent.’

‘No, I’m a sort of British–South African mongrel.’

‘I see.’

He wondered whether she thought she saw a racist. ‘I run a publishing firm here, Harvest House. We’re fairly new in town but we’re keen. And that’s another reason I’ve introduced myself, apart from the pleasure of meeting you – I wondered whether you’ve considered writing a book?’

He felt he saw the light in her eyes.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I’m busy writing one right now. About South Africa, in fact.’

‘Well,’ Harker said, ‘would you consider having lunch with me one day to discuss it? Or dinner?’

‘That would be lovely.’

He felt a shit but he was a publisher. And war requires espionage. Personally, he felt as pleased as she was. As he watched her walk away to her squash date he thought: what a lovely girl, what lovely legs …