The House On Los Alamos
 by Ian Hiles

The camera snapped the scene and everything in it: houses, gardens, people.

It showed a nice little cul-de-sac. Four big, well-maintained, detached houses, containing four well-paid couples. Garages held one car, with space for two more on each of the driveways. TV aerials were situated out of sight; a recent survey found that cable TV was mutually favoured, lest the timeless atmosphere of the houses be defaced by "woks on walls". The tops of trees were just beginning to peek over the tops of the roofs. Soon they would block the outside world and create an enclave for the residents.

The sun was so low in the sky that shadows were elongated out of proportion. A strong chill was creeping into the breeze, suggesting that autumn wasn't too far away.

There were no children to play in the gardens or in any of the many rooms inside the houses - it wasn't that type of neighbourhood. Any couples that moved here had either seen their children start their own homes or never had time for any in the first place. Perhaps on a Sunday the peace would be broken by the shouts of grandchildren, nieces, or nephews, but not today. Not for this photograph.

At first glance, the photo wasn't a well-framed shot, since its main subject was off to the right - almost unrecognisable in the shadows of the setting sun. A middle-aged couple were leaving their house and walking away from it all. Their attire was a little too dressy for a regular stroll, but everyone knew that Thursday evenings were set aside for the amateur dramatics in the church hall, and, well, one had to be presentable.

Further on the right of the picture, a woman was giving away cake samples to some of the residents; two men walking home from work together. She was pretty and polite, and one party kept the other talking for perhaps a little longer than necessary.

A vicar on a pedal-bike had stopped another of the neighbours, and asked directions. He wasn't the local vicar, he explained, just visiting the parish on a cycling tour of England, and well, all these modern cul-de-sacs looked alike.

Left of shot: two men talking outside the renovated Edwardian house that had stood alone here until ten years ago. The building was whitewashed, in contrast to the sandy brickwork of the other three houses. The "For Sale" sign at the gate had a tacked-on sign which proclaimed that the place was under offer.

The two men looked it over as if they were the prospective buyers. Both wore dark business suits, not looking too unlike the type of people who came to live in the houses here. As for their ages, either could fit into the surroundings. One was thirty-something, presentable, affluent-looking; the type of upwardly-mobile homeowner that the neighbourhood attracted. His companion was older, perhaps pushing sixty; someone looking for a place to retire to, away from the bustle of the city, and the cliche of a villa in Spain.

"No, I wouldn't say I'm disillusioned," the younger man was saying, "But the way it was put to me, I was expecting a bit more... I dunno, umph! For example: no one's even offered to teach me Russian yet."

On close inspection, he looked like a policeman; short-cropped hair, athletic build, a scar from cheek to voice box that looked as if it had been nasty at the time.

His companion said: "Michael, when you've been doing it for so long, umph is the last thing you expect."

"So you're not going to change your mind and stay on?"

"I think the country can manage without me by now. I want a bus pass, a pension, and the right to bore people about how everything was better before they scrapped National Service."

Mick laughed. "Good! It cost a fortune to get that speedboat."

The other man looked puzzled.

Mick's eyes sparkled with mischief. In a forced Oxbridge accent, he said: "But, double-oh-one, it just looks like a speedboat, but if you flick a switch, it turns into a brass travel clock. Or was it the other way around?"

The older man chuckled to himself as he stole a glance around the street. He had tried to look as if he belonged, but he felt he couldn't live here: it was too remote. Apart from being cut off from civilisation by a series of winding roads, it looked like the sort of place where neighbours kept themselves to themselves. Each house was a separate federation; no sharing of flowers in the gardens, no common theme to the colours of the paint work, no intense twitching of curtains. Anything could happen here, he mused, and not even the closest neighbour would know.

The leaves on the trees rustled as they dried and fell. There was a dusty smell to the air. The atmosphere was quite apt: an autumn evening for a man in the autumn of his years. Retirement tomorrow, and a life of leisure ahead.

The woman with the cakes chuckled at the patter of the two men. It was an earthy chuckle, a little too knowing for the woman's age. She flicked her head, throwing her hair away from the side of her face - pretty even at a distance.

Mick growled - more to himself than to his friend: "I'll flatten the first one who asks for her number."

"Trust her," said his companion, "She knows what she's doing."

"I know what she's doing. I'm objecting that she's not doing it with me."

"You've never given her the opportunity, have you?"

"I didn't want to try my luck so soon after getting the job. What do you reckon my chances are?"

"You mean, is she easy?"

Wide-eyed and mouth agape, Mick faked looking shocked; "No, that's not what I meant. My intentions are entirely - well, moderately - honourable."

"So, you like the chase, as long as the kill is a foregone conclusion."

"Do you always have to be cynical when you paraphrase?"

"You mean, am I a bitter and twisted old bugger?"

"Charlie Faith, I'll be glad when you retire."

Charlie chuckled again, but stopped when he heard the tinkle of a bicycle bell.

The vicar was riding off, thanking his navigator.

The couple on their walk had just reached the T-junction.

A third person joined Mick and Charlie in conversation. No one could see him, and few could hear him. Until now he'd kept quiet. The conversation was too frivolous for him and besides, it distracted him from his photos.

Now he whispered into their ears; "The Rosenbergs have left Los Alamos. Vernona, lead on when ready."

Vernona - more regularly known as Charles "Charlie" Faith - was ready now. Mick obviously hadn't expected him to move so quickly, and he heard Charlie curse himself for his sluggishness.

They strolled across the road, pulling on rubber gloves. They walked casually up the path to the house they'd seen the middle-aged couple leave two minutes earlier. The garden smelled of flowers, not the dog mess and dustbins that generally greeted Charlie when he went home to his flat.

No one was going to answer the doorbell, but as Charlie rang it, his body shielded Mick's lock-picking actions from the view of any neighbours who bothered to look.

Another glance by Charlie to his left; the man who had helped the vicar was already in his house - the one that faced out over the entire cul-de-sac.

To the right, the men still hadn't given up with the alleged marketing researcher and her cake samples.

And then Charlie and Mick were in the house.

The floor in the hallway was uncarpeted; their footsteps echoed as they set up their positions. The floorboards were rough and unvarnished - the natural effect had obviously been a recent decision by the owners.

They didn't turn on the lights. The hallway window gave enough light for now, and their intention was to be gone by the time it got too dark.

Charlie spoke into the microphone under his jacket; "Hiss, this is Vernona. Philby and myself have entered Los Alamos. No further commentary will be given unless required."

The reply came through their earpieces: "Roger, Vernona. Silence until required."

Mick took an Instamatic camera from his coat, and snapped off shots of the hallway; umbrella stand... click-whirr... under-stairs cupboard... click-whirr... fuse box... click-whirr... anywhere that might conceal something... click-whirr....

Charlie watched, appraising the youngster's actions now the pressure was on. In one minute he had used up the film in the camera; sixteen photographs giving various views of the room; photographs that would be used to restore anything touched to its rightful position.

Mick nodded to Charlie; he was able to deal with whatever was in here.

Taking the camera, Charlie loaded a new film as he went into the living room and did the same: windowsill ornaments... click-whirr... TV and video... click-whirr... fireplace ornaments... click-whirr... wall-mounted pictures... click-whirr... bookshelf... click-whirr.... As the photos were put to one side to develop, he inspected every item of the Rosenbergs' furniture, piece by piece.

The best starting place was the old favourite: the bookshelf. It was almost too easy to slip something between the pages, down the spines, under the dust-jackets, so it was always best to check the easy way first. It was also a good way to get into the mindset of a person - to see what they read outside of the office. Was Rosenberg a work-a-holic, reading work-related material instead of relaxing? It didn't appear so, as there was nothing on the shelves that was too technical for a retiring snoop like Charlie Faith to understand. Perhaps Rosenberg was an armchair traveller, there were plenty of atlases and a variety of Rough Guide To.... And for pure escapism, a light thriller: Dick Francis as opposed to James Ellroy. But for all that insight, the bookshelf revealed no secrets.

Time to check down the back of the sofa - an investigation which only resulted in Charlie's being £2.13 richer.

The rest of the room took time to search, but Charlie wasn't going to hurry.

Rosenberg wasn't the real name of the occupier of the house; Rosenberg was a little joke thought up by Charlie's boss. Everyone in the operation had one of his little jokes as a codename: Mick was Philby, the vicar following the Rosenbergs was Burgess, and Mary - Mick's as-yet-unrequited love, the market researcher who distracted any neighbours from delaying the Rosenbergs' trip to the church hall - was McClain. Even the house was referred to as Los Alamos, and the faint hiss in their earphones was their man in the street - an ex-BBC soundman, named after Alger Hiss, hilarious.

Anyone reading one of their reports would think they'd picked up an account of America's spy trials, or a substandard LeCarre novel.

Of course, Rosenberg wasn't a Russian spy. Charlie and his team were not Secret Service - at least, not any more. But there were just as many reasons to spy on a domestic level as on an international one. And if there was espionage in business, there was counterespionage in business - and the chance of a little pin money for MI6 spooks prematurely pensioned off. So what if their reports went to managing directors rather than cabinet ministers?

Mr. Rosenberg's business was nuclear power, prompting the Los Alamos theme and the subsequent milking of the joke. Charlie knew all about him. He'd asked questions of third parties, even spoken to the man himself for a few minutes, just to see what he was up against. At forty-five, Rosenberg was a mid-executive in mid-career. Amiable when prompted, but he tended to keep to himself. He'd had a steady climb on the career ladder over the years, gaining enough performance-related pay awards to enable him to pay off the mortgage on this house in three years. There was plenty of work to keep him occupied, but not enough to give him ulcers.

So, his bosses wanted to know, why had he put his foot through the picture on his office wall last month? ("And how? I should wonder," Charlie said.) Why had he spent most of one day washing his hands, Lady Macbeth-like? ("Where's his wife?" asked Mary.) Why had he snapped at the canteen lady for inadvertently giving him coffee instead of tea? ("Well," said Mick, "If she's anything like the one we had at the Met...") These, and other unusual instances, had put Rosenberg on the receiving end of some curious gazes.

His bosses had said that they wanted to know - discreetly - whether anything was wrong at home; a worrying overdraft, noisy neighbours keeping him awake all night, Mrs. Rosenberg not being up to scratch in the kitchen....

"Whatever," they'd said.

Charlie paraphrased in that famous way of his, telling Mick they wanted to know whether Rosenberg was being coerced into working for another company. The man's welfare was secondary to company secrets.

But Rosenberg's bosses paid Charlie's boss. Within a fortnight, Charlie and his team were taking the man's house apart, looking for evidence of bribes, blackmail, extortion, stolen memos, or other such illegal activity.

They were acting illegally, of course, but Rosenberg's superiors were overlooking that. In true Mission: Impossible style, connection would be denied if Rosenberg or the police found out.

So, just to be safe, Charlie had hand-picked his team; called a few friends, bribed a few small-key figures, and worked out a plan of action. Though he could have done it with the minimal two people, he set his team to a grand scale - a grand finale to see him off with. The only compulsory addition was Mick. It was argued that he was a disgruntled copper, and fresh news of police procedures always came in useful. Charlie didn't like newcomers he hadn't recruited himself, but admitted that they needed fresh blood. He knew his team would knock Mick into line if necessary. Young Mary was brought in on the pretext of balancing the age ratio - her sexual magnetism acting as a safety net, keeping the youngster too distracted to rebel, or report to other sources.

The problem turned out to be containing Mick's eagerness, not reluctance. The lad knew surveillance techniques and used them well, but he soon became convinced that the proof of any wrongdoing by Rosenberg was inside the house on Los Alamos.

"He went a little loony in his office one day," Mick argued, "He noticed that everyone was looking at him. So what's he do to distract attention? Gets back to being Reliable Rosenberg, that's what. Shop, church, amateur dramatics, Eastenders omnibus on a Sunday afternoon. Within a month, there'll be an office party, and everyone'll be more concerned with whose bumprints are on the photocopier.

"Trust me, Charlie. Whether it's a burglary or an armed raid, your suspect will act the same before and after, and as close as possible during. They'll go to the pub, watch the football with their mates, see the kids, beat the wife.... Same as they always do. And when we want to know where they were, everyone can vouch for them with all misplaced honesty because that's what they do every week!

"Mr. R. isn't going to do anything out of the ordinary out on the streets. Whatever he did, any proof is going to be in the house."

Charlie knew that, forty years had given him a good layman's understanding of human psychology, but he was cautious about Mick's motives for pushing them into the house: entrapment, anybody?

As Charlie felt his way along the back of a painting from above the fire, Mick came into the room and shook his head. He didn't look too sure of his argument now, but wasn't going to let that stop him having a good rummage. He forced himself cross-eyes, wiped non-existent sweat from his brow, then took the camera from where Charlie had left it and set about repeating the procedure in the dining room.

Charlie nodded to himself; the lad didn't give up easy and hadn't conjured up anything to prove his point. There was still the possibility that he was marking time, waiting for a police raid, but Charlie was beginning to admit that Mick was a genuine snoop.

Finding no inexplicable bulges behind the painting, Charlie re-hung it in accordance with the photo taped to the wall.

The room had now been searched, and the only place left to look was the wastepaper basket. He passed on that - someone else on the team went through the rubbish every day, so he'd only be duplicating work.

As he stepped back to check his restoration work, something looked out of place. Figurines facing each other, okay. Candle holder with the handle to the left, okay. Electricity bill unopened in the letter rack, fine. Well, the scene matched with the photo, so nothing was strictly out of place, but something was definitely wrong.

And he was disgusted with himself that he couldn't spot it.

The click-whirr, click-whirr came from the dining room.

Charlie forced himself to look - to see. He wasn't going to make a stupid mistake on his last job, and miss the obvious. He took his attention outwards; picture... click-whirr... wall... click-whirr... fireplace... click-whirr... room... click-whirr....

That camera was getting on his nerves!

Then he noticed it; a slight discolouring of wallpaper on the right of the fireplace. A 5" x 4" landscape rectangle, a shade lighter than the area around it.

A smaller picture was missing.

Now that he was looking for them, he spotted three more such discrepancies about the room. A glance in the dining room gave him four more.

Mick looked up from under the table, curious as to why Charlie was spying on him.

Charlie smiled to show everything was okay. Pictures got moved. It didn't prove anything other than he still had hunches that meant something. He would've spotted it earlier if he hadn't got sidetracked thinking about Mick's loyalties. Still smiling, he took the camera and went into the kitchen; footsteps echoing on the lino.

He began photographing: click-whirr... click-whirr...

By now it was dark outside - night was coming in quicker than expected. The camera's flash was a signalling beacon to anyone who that knew the Rosenbergs were out and would cause too much curiosity for even this neighbourhood. This would have to be the last set of photos. They had an hour left before the Rosenberg's return, by then everything downstairs would have been inspected. A second visit next week would tackle upstairs.

But Charlie wouldn't be around to see that one. He was finished as of tomorrow. He was turning his back on the spying and snooping after forty years. He would be on the first leg of a Russian tour by the weekend - to see it again, at his leisure, before it decomposed into more civil wars. After that? Memoirs? A regular seat in the club with other members of the Old Tie Network? He didn't care; he'd planned day-by-day for long enough, and made on-the-spot adjustments where necessary. Now it was time to let his whims take him away.

The voice in his ear nearly made him jump; "Evacuate Los Alamos."

In case they had missed it, Hiss repeated the message.

Mick stuck his head around the door frame, looking concerned.

Or guilty? Charlie thought.

Calmly, though still watching Mick, Charlie asked why they should leave. It was a betrayal of protocol, trust in his team, and wasting time, but hey, sack him.

"The Rosenbergs are at the end of the street!" Hiss replied, obviously annoyed at having to explain himself, "Where's Burgess?"

Neither man replied. How were they supposed to know where the vicar was? He could have had a puncture, or -

Another hiss: "Charlie, I can't see you two coming out."

Looking about, Charlie clicked his tongue and ignored their panicking colleague. The clicking calmed him, or at least gave the appearance of calm; the adrenaline was flowing, but he wasn't going to let it take him anywhere rash. Besides, he wanted to see if Mick led him anywhere.

If they went out the front door, they'd run straight into the couple's arms. The woods outside provided nice cover, but how to get there? The back door was all locked up from the inside; if they went out that way, the Rosenbergs would know. The windows were the kind that locked with keys, which would leave a clearer signal than the back door. Going upstairs would require finding a hiding place, and only delay finding an escape route.

Then he spotted the door leading to the garage; it was a simple lock. He could easily restore it from the other side by sticking his penknife between it and the door frame. They could be out through the garage door in ten seconds.

Mick seemed to have the same idea at the same time. That either meant the youngster was fast, or the old man was slow. Alternatively, he could just have been taught well.

They opened the door just as the Rosenbergs came in through the front.

A snatch of conversation - Mrs. Rosenberg, scolding: "- fidgeting like that. Makes it obvious -"

Charlie shut the door behind them.

An argument between the couple; their return wasn't anything to do with Mick tipping them off, then. At least that was a relief, because Charlie actually liked the lad.

Mick was already searching by the garage door for the switch to open it - Charlie could tell by the scratching, tapping, and hissed curses in the dark.

Voices could be heard in the kitchen; sharp mutterings, the precise words of which didn't come through the door.

The lights came on in the garage - the switch was inside the kitchen, and someone in there was coming in here.

Mick stopped his search. He pointed to the top of the garage door, where a little box had a little red window. Rosenberg had an infrared door! They had to find somewhere to hide until he opened it.

Rosenberg's company car was parked too close to the far wall for them to hide behind.

Gardening tools were stacked against the wall, but there was no cupboard that could provide any cover.

The kitchen door rattled. Someone was pulling on it.

At a whistle from Charlie, Mick pulled a ski mask from his pocket and pulled it over his head.

At the other side of the garage, Charlie did the same.

Escape Plan B - the burglary scenario.

Charlie grabbed a rake to use as a weapon; he wouldn't hurt the couple, but the sight of a rake flailing through the air would help distract them from looking properly at the intruders.

The rake snagged on a bag of compost lying over its teeth.

Charlie began to curse from increasing frustration; this was not the ideal mission for him to sign off on - though Mick should be relishing the umph!

With a guttural snarl of almost desperation, he dragged the rake free, ripping the compost bag and spilling the contents.

The smell told him that the bag did not contain compost; it was the smell of dust, of copper, and the sickly-fruity smell of rotten flesh. He saw the underfelt of carpet, rolled up, then slotted into plastic bin bags.

Mick, taking up an aggressive position by the kitchen door, watched as Charlie took out his penknife and split the carpet down its length.

They looked down on a lifeless face; a woman's face, which stared back from behind hundreds of photographs of herself that were packed in with her.

"This might be a stupid question, Charlie," whispered Mick. "But if that's his wife...?"

IAN HILES was a Civil Servant from 1994 to 2000, then he moved into the Public Service. Each job, he claims, gives him a good foundation for his fiction: "All human life is here." Although crime fiction features heavily in his portfolio, he spreads his remit over a large number of genres, incorporating supernatural, sci-fi, and domestic politics. He has also scripted a one-woman play and the basis for an Internet animation serial. He lives in Washington (North-East England) and is working on both short stories and full-length novels.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Ian Hiles

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