Double Agent

by Tom Bradby

  Double Agent

  Also by Tom Bradby

  Shadow Dancer

  The Sleep of the Dead

  The Master of Rain

  The White Russian

  The God of Chaos

  Blood Money

  Secret Service

  Double Agent

  Tom Bradby

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2020 by Master of Rain Ltd

  Jacket design by Alex Camlin

  Jacket photographs: Venice © Lasse Ansaharju/Alamy; woman © Kristina Hruska/Millennium Images, UK

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  First Grove Atlantic edition: November 2020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available for this title.

  Typeset in 11.5/16pt Palatino LT Std by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd, Pondicherry.

  ISBN 978-0-8021-5764-5

  eISBN 978-0-8021-5766-9

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  To Claudia, Jack, Louisa and Sam.

  Prologue

  KATE COULD NOT decide whether the woman before her had a keen sense of humour, a deep-seated social autism or both. ‘Why do you think you’d be a good fit?’ she’d asked, after a long explanation of the critical role her former deputy and friend, Rav, had played in the day-to-day work of MI6’s Russia desk.

  ‘Like for like diversity replacement,’ Suzy had replied, without the slightest hint of a smile.

  Suzy Spencer was slim, pretty, northern, state-educated and half Vietnamese. ‘The smart half,’ as she’d put it. She didn’t take prisoners, but that was perhaps no bad thing. ‘I’m keen to spread my wings,’ she said, ‘I really am. The Security Service has been good to me and I love working there, but I’ve always had half an eye on a life across the river here – the chance to expand my horizons, play on a wider field. I’m sure you understand.’

  Kate supposed she did, though it was harder to recall, these days, as that wider playing field seemed ever more threatening.

  ‘I’d be grateful, though,’ Suzy went on, tucking a half-curl of neat black hair tidily behind her ear, ‘if you could tell me a little more of what really happened to your deputy, Rav.’

  ‘That case is closed, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But I would need to know the background, would I not?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, no.’

  ‘But if my life is also to be at risk—’

  ‘It won’t be.’

  ‘Given what happened, I don’t see—’

  ‘The file is sealed. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘But these allegations that the prime minister is a Russian spy—’

  ‘Unproven, which is why the file is sealed.’

  Suzy didn’t flinch, or back down. ‘If I’m to take this role, Mrs Henderson, I’d appreciate knowing the background. That’s all.’

  Kate was tempted to wonder aloud why she was under so much pressure from her superior, Ian, to take this woman as her new deputy. Good for interdepartmental relations, he’d said airily, though he’d been fiercely territorial at even the hint of an incursion from MI5 across the river until his ambition to be the next chief had got the better of him. He’d been turning himself into the ultimate Whitehall warrior.

  She leant back in her chair and stared out of the window at the morning commuters hurrying through the rain outside Vauxhall station – the unchanging backdrop to her working life. She’d ideally love to send this woman back across the river where she belonged, but she recognized that, given the questions over her own recent past, she’d probably lost the ability to determine this aspect of her future – and many others. ‘It was called Operation Sigma,’ she said. ‘We received intelligence that a group of senior Russian intelligence officers used to meet regularly on a super-yacht owned by Igor Borodin, a former head of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR.’

  ‘Of course I know who he is.’

  ‘We – I – recruited a young au pair to take a job as nanny to Igor’s grandson onboard. We persuaded her to plant a bug in his study. Shortly afterwards, we recorded him and his colleagues discussing the fact that the former prime minister had cancer and was about to resign. It was clear that one of the candidates to replace him was working for Moscow.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Well, you’ll have seen the leaks in the press—’

  ‘The current prime minister, yes, but was it correct?’

  ‘In the end, there was no way of proving it either way, which is why the case was sealed.’

  ‘Did you agree with that decision?’

  Kate hesitated. ‘We cannot afford to see a democratically elected leader’s mandate undermined without hard evidence.’

  ‘Do you think he was guilty?’

  ‘My view is immaterial. We need to be an evidence-based organization, particularly in this world of disinformation and lies.’

  ‘What happened to Rav?’

  ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘But the coroner’s verdict was suicide?’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘And as I understand it, he – indeed all of the work of Operation Sigma – was betrayed by an agent in your midst, planted here to assist the current prime minister’s rise to office.’

  Kate gazed at her icily. Bloody Ian, she thought. This woman was far too well-informed. So much for the file being sealed. ‘That matter is also closed.’

  ‘The agent – Viper – was your husband?’

  ‘If you already know the answer, there is no need to pose the question.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that must have been extremely hard.’

  ‘I’m looking for a deputy, not a therapist.’

  ‘And you won’t regret hiring me. I’m very thorough.’

  Kate watched the rain hammer the glass. She stood, determined to draw this audience to a close. She offered her hand. ‘Thank you for coming in, Miss Spencer.’

  ‘Was that all right?’ Suzy asked, a sudden and rather startling hint of humility in her gaze. ‘Did I get the job?’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Kate sat again and watched as Suzy retrieved her coat, then headed down the corridor. She couldn’t really have had graver reservations about the woman, but that was beside the point. On this, she accepted, Ian would have his way.

  But the much bigger question was simple enough: why was he so determined to inflict this outsider on them? It wasn’t his idea, of that much she was certain.

  1

  Three weeks later

  SAVE FOR A thin skein of mist that curled its way around the dome of the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute on the far side of the Grand Canal, it was a bright, crisp, clear morning in Venice. The kind o
f day, in fact, that Kate Henderson might have been enjoying in any other circumstances. Sometimes being away with your family was murder.

  ‘Why do you keep drumming your fingers on the table?’ Gus asked. ‘You hate it when people do that.’

  Kate forced herself to stop. She smiled at Julie, who was sitting opposite. ‘Your mum’s a bit nervous,’ Julie said. ‘Under the circumstances, I think that’s understandable, don’t you?’

  They lapsed back into silence and watched a gondolier paddle slowly past. The tables on the breakfast terrace were full of Chinese tourists, mostly glued to their phones. They didn’t seem to be eating much either.

  Kate couldn’t resist returning to a study of her daughter’s plate. ‘Please eat up, love,’ she said. Fiona had ordered a poached egg, Kate had insisted on toast, but neither was going anywhere near her daughter’s stomach as yet.

  ‘Just eat it, for fuck’s sake,’ Gus said. Remnants of his hearty breakfast were visible across a wide arc of the once pristine tablecloth.

  ‘Gus, please!’ Kate admonished. ‘Don’t talk to your sister like that. And don’t swear.’

  ‘Like you don’t.’

  ‘Not long to go now,’ Julie said. ‘And then we’ll all be a lot happier.’

  No one returned her cheerful smile. Normally, Julie’s tumbling auburn hair, startling green eyes and full-figured beauty were enough to keep Kate’s son mesmerized, but not that morning. ‘Does Dad have a new girlfriend?’ Gus asked his mother.

  ‘For God’s sake, Gus!’ Fiona glared at him, her piercing blue eyes radiating fury. She’d applied make-up for the first time in months and pulled her hair back into a neat bun, which served to highlight her increasingly gaunt cheeks. There was no question that her conflict with food was on the cusp of robbing her of her looks. She got up from the table and stormed off.

  ‘You haven’t eaten,’ Kate called after her. But Fiona was already halfway across the terrace. ‘We’re leaving in five minutes!’

  ‘Well, does he?’ Gus asked, once his sister had gone. In contrast to Fiona, his cheeks were becoming chubbier by the day and the pudding-bowl haircut he’d instructed her to carry out wasn’t helping matters.

  ‘Not so far as we know,’ Julie said.

  Gus glanced at her, then returned his gaze to his mother. ‘But you said you can’t ever get back together with him, so why would it be a big deal?’

  Neither Kate nor Julie answered that. What could you say? Gus pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’m going for a dump,’ he announced.

  ‘It’s just the way you tell ’em,’ Kate said, as he departed. ‘I hope time spent with my children is proving a useful contraceptive,’ she told Julie.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourselves. You’ve all got every reason to be tense.’ Julie absent-mindedly tucked into a second croissant. She ate as she drank, as she lived, really: with an easy nonchalance.

  ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I thought you said not in front of the children?’

  ‘Well, they’re not here, are they?’

  Julie retrieved a packet of Winston’s from her bag and threw them across the table. Kate took one, lit it and waved at the waiter, who reluctantly changed course and swung towards her. ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly. The Venice Charm School had worked a treat. She ordered another coffee.

  ‘Because that will definitely help,’ Julie said.

  Kate inhaled deeply and leant back to face the Grand Canal. A half-empty vaporetto glided past in the direction of the Rialto bridge. The mist had reached the dome of Santa Maria della Salute and was now curling up into a clear blue sky. ‘How are you feeling?’ Julie asked.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure. Nervous. Angry. Raw. Upset. Take your pick.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what he has been up to in Moscow?’

  Kate shrugged. Since she had discovered that her husband had betrayed not just their marriage but his country, she’d had no direct contact with him. After his defection, all communication had been routed through a consular official at the British Embassy in Moscow.

  ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘I should think so, knowing him.’

  ‘What will you say to him?’

  ‘Nothing. What is there to say?’

  ‘“You fucking bastard.”’ Julie smiled. ‘That would be a start.’

  ‘I said that already.’ Kate took another quick puff and stubbed out the rest of the cigarette. ‘Come on. We can’t put this off any longer.’

  Kate went to brush her hair and touch up her face. She studied herself in the mirror, concluding she’d aged at least a decade in considerably less than a year. She sat on the bed, stared at the ornate ceiling and closed her eyes. This hotel had seen better days and she knew that feeling. The knot of tension in her stomach had been steadily tightening ever since she’d boarded the plane at Gatwick.

  Fiona and Gus were on time for the brief stroll through to St Mark’s Square. And once they were there, Julie distracted them from the slowly marching hands of time on the clock tower by reading aloud from the guidebook. ‘Okay. This area by the water’s edge is known as the Molo and these columns were carried home from Tyre by the Doge Michieli in 1125.’ She turned the page. ‘In fact, he brought back three, but one fell into the sea as it was being unloaded here. Huh. How about that?’

  No one was listening to her. Kate glanced at her watch, as if it were a more reliable mark of time than the clock above them. She returned to surveying the groups of tourists across the square.

  ‘Relax, Kate,’ Julie whispered.

  Kate didn’t answer. She felt foolish for agreeing to meet here now. Venice was a hostile intelligence service’s dream location. ‘Why would they try anything?’ Julie said, reading her mind. ‘Stuart would never let them.’

  Kate tore her eyes away from the survey of the square and glanced at her watch one more time. ‘All right.’ She looked at Julie. ‘Just give me ten minutes, okay?’

  ‘Yes, as we agreed.’

  ‘What are you going to say to him?’ Fiona asked. Her voice was softer now.

  ‘I don’t know, love.’

  ‘It would help if you told us.’ She glanced at her brother, who looked uncomfortable in a way he usually reserved for encounters with members of the opposite sex.

  ‘I’m just going to talk about the arrangements for this visit and how we might work things in the future. If there’s somewhere you’d be able to stay with him and so on.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to him about what happened?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure how that would serve any of us.’ She rubbed her daughter’s shoulder affectionately, but got no response.

  Kate set off across St Mark’s Square, weaving her way through the shoals of slow-moving tourists, then turning into Ala Napoleonica. Once she was out of view of Julie and the children, she paused by a shop and pretended to browse the jewellery display in the window as she glanced back the way she had come.

  Nothing was amiss. Perhaps Julie was right. Why would anyone be watching her?

  Kate walked on and paid her entry fee for the Correr Museum further down the street. She went into the cool, quiet interior and browsed through the costume section, with its fine collection of ancient fashions and silk banners.

  ‘Hello, love.’

  She swung around. Stuart was dressed in black jeans and a blue T-shirt, with a stylish leather jacket and trainers. He had shorter hair and designer stubble. He’d lost some weight, half a stone, perhaps more. He looked much more like the funny, irreverent young man she’d fallen so heavily in love with all those years before.

  The one she’d known instantly she wanted to build a life with.

  ‘You look well,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t.’ The sense of contentment she’d convinced herself she’d embraced appeared to have deserted her. She felt like a teenager again, giddy, uncertain, embarrassed.

  ‘Where are the kids?’

  ‘They’
re with Julie. They’ll be here in a minute. I thought it was best to have a few minutes together first, just to . . . discuss practical things.’ But even as she said it, she knew that wasn’t true. Did it show?

  ‘Of course. How are they?’

  ‘They were all right for the first few months, but things have got a lot more complicated since then. You’ll . . . see. Gus is taciturn, even by his standards, and Fi has got very weird around her food.’ She felt on surer ground discussing their children.

  ‘Is she seeing a therapist?’

  ‘They both are. She’s perilously close to anorexia, but we’re monitoring it closely.’

  Stuart nodded. It had always been so easy to talk to him. And it was, strangely, still. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She looked up at him and suddenly, through her disorientation, anger burst through. What did he expect her to say? That after seventeen years of marriage, more than twenty together, she had felt cleaved in two by his departure? ‘I’m fucking fantastic, Stuart. What do you think?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And stop saying that.’

  ‘What else would you like me to say?’

  Kate bit her lip. She breathed out slowly, her head spinning, her stomach churning. It was like their first evening together, but without the giddy sense of possibility. ‘How’s life in Moscow?’

  ‘Not much fun. I get a paltry pension for my betrayal, which is hard to live on. I’m trying to find work, but they have little interest in helping. They treat me as if I’m a vaguely infectious disease.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘Which perhaps I am. The British Embassy does a good job of killing off my chances with any company that checks in with them, so I’m a bit screwed, to be honest. But no more than I deserve.’

  ‘Do you get a flat?’

  ‘Yes. And a car. But both are pretty decrepit.’

  They were silent for a moment. Kate stared at the floor, which seemed the safest place to look. ‘I just wanted to discuss how things are going to work with the children in the future,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we’d both agree that their interests are paramount.’