Double Agent

by Tom Bradby

  Kate shook her head. ‘I’m still confused by it. Danny and his team were convinced I was clean by the time I arrived in Alexanderplatz. I don’t know how Mikhail got a burner phone into my pocket. And I have no idea how they managed to ambush me at that point in Friedrichstrasse.’

  ‘Did you raise it with Mikhail?’

  ‘I asked him whether Stuart was Viper.’

  ‘What was his answer?’

  ‘He said Stuart was definitely Viper, but he seemed less sure about the possibility of another mole. I suggested that a second source was working for the GRU.’

  Sir Alan fixed each of them with a steady gaze in turn, his pale blue eyes tinged with a melancholy Kate had never witnessed before. ‘Who knew about the meeting in Alexanderplatz?’

  Suzy stood up, as if this had been her cue. ‘The same group. You, Kate, Julie, Danny.’

  ‘And you,’ Kate told Suzy.

  ‘And me, yes, though I can be ruled out since this mole, if he or she does exist, was part of the original Operation Sigma.’

  ‘That’s merely your conjecture,’ Kate said. Suzy flushed. For a woman so tactless, she appeared to have a strange aversion to confrontation.

  ‘What about Ian?’ Julie asked.

  ‘I informed him,’ Sir Alan said. Kate tried to conceal her surprise. Ian had not bothered to ask her the details of the operation in Berlin – which, now she came to reflect on it, was odd in itself – and it would have been all too easy for Sir Alan to keep them from him. If there was a potential leak, then the need-to-know principle ought to have been paramount.

  The thought came to her unbidden that Sir Alan’s actions could be interpreted as a deliberate attempt to widen the circle of knowledge.

  ‘What about the foreign secretary?’ Julie asked.

  Sir Alan shook his head. ‘She didn’t know the time or the place of the meeting.’

  ‘She was aware of the time,’ Kate said quietly. ‘And she knew it was in Berlin.’

  ‘All right,’ Sir Alan said, moving towards the door. ‘We’re going around in circles. It’s quite possible they’ve been monitoring Mikhail. Kate and I will pick this up with the foreign secretary in the morning. Suzy, I want you and Julie to start preparing the ground in Tbilisi. Work on the assumption that we’ll get approval for the extraction and permission to hire some kind of private jet. And whatever security detail you think we might need, double it.’

  ‘Should we inform the Georgians?’ Suzy asked.

  Sir Alan looked incredulous. ‘Of course not,’ he said, and Kate could see Suzy privately cursing her inexperience.

  As they moved towards the door, Sir Alan put his hand on Kate’s shoulder to stop her. ‘One moment,’ he said. The others hesitated, but he gestured at them to continue. ‘I’ll see you in the office in the morning,’ he told them, ‘and very well done. For all the issues, we got what we went to Berlin for and that is a feather in all of your caps.’ That seemed intended more for Suzy than the rest of them and she smiled for the first time since they had left Berlin.

  He waited until the door was closed, then sat on the bed.

  ‘Are you all right, sir? As I said, I’m very happy to—’

  ‘I’m as all right as you are,’ he said, ‘which is not very bloody okay at all. But neither of us has any choice but to plough on, do we? Anyway, that’s not why I asked you to stay behind. We may have a problem with the foreign secretary.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She’s getting cold feet.’

  ‘Why?’ Kate couldn’t quite believe this.

  ‘Because it’s a very big call and she simply isn’t used to making them. She’s about to authorize an operation to oversee a major defection – which, for all that we’re recommending it, is still a significant step for someone new to this kind of decision-making. The controversy it will bring with it would likely test the bravest of politicians and Meg Simpson is not one of them.’

  ‘You think she’ll refuse to send the letter?’

  ‘I don’t know. But all I am saying is that it’s not a given she’ll agree to this tomorrow and we may have to work hard to persuade her.’ He stood again. ‘I’d better go back to Alice. Get some sleep, Kate. You look like you need it.’

  By the time Kate passed the room further down the corridor, Sir Alan was seated at his wife’s bedside again, head bent as he read to her. Kate watched him for a moment, envious of his devotion and loyalty. It made her feel lonelier still.

  She walked home, despite the rain, which had slowed to a drizzle. She found herself wishing Sir Alan had not left her with that departing instruction about sleep, which loomed larger with every step she took homewards. She recalled the days when the house in Battersea had represented only comfort, love and rest. Now it served as the instrument of her torture, and that alone made her feel guilty. What kind of mother doesn’t want to return home to her children?

  She passed her own mother’s nursing home and felt the familiar pull of filial duty. She overrode it and had almost reached her front door before guilt got the better of her and she doubled back. Why did she feel any loyalty to the woman who had spent a lifetime traducing and belittling her? It made no sense at all.

  But Lucy was a shadow of her normal self today. She sat in an armchair, facing the window, gazing out into the darkness. ‘Hi, Mum,’ Kate said, as she installed herself in a corner of the window seat beside her.

  ‘Hello, my love.’ Her smile was full of quiet warmth. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘Glad I stopped by, then. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. And I’m pleased you came. I’m so sorry for the things I said in Cornwall. I don’t know what got into me.’

  Kate stared at the floor. Her mother had resolutely refused to seek any psychiatric or psychological help over the years, determined to view even the suggestion she might as a sign – or, rather, an accusation – of weakness. It was impossible to be certain whether she was a depressive, or bipolar, or was dragging around some other psychological disorder, but the speed with which she oscillated between two entirely opposing personalities still took Kate’s breath away. And even now, after all these years, she couldn’t help the rush of warmth she felt at even the slightest expression of love or affection.

  ‘I know I’ve made it hard for you and I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mum.’ It wasn’t, of course, not by the longest shot. But what else could she say?

  ‘I think your aunt Rose brings out the worst in me.’

  That wasn’t true: her mother was capable of being equally poisonous at all other times, but she let that ride as well. ‘I don’t know why,’ Kate said.

  ‘She’s always wanted to think of you as her own child.’

  ‘She does her best to look after me.’ If there was an accusation in that, it was designed to stop her mother in her tracks.

  Lucy nodded, as if to acknowledge this. ‘All right. I don’t want to pick a fight. I know she’s the mother you never had. But she’s more competitive than she lets on and I’m never certain she’s as generous – or perhaps I mean as straightforward – as she appears.’

  It was said without rancour, or bitterness, or the twinkle in the eye with which Lucy usually delivered her malicious barbs, so if it was an impression she took issue with, Kate didn’t doubt it represented, for once, her mother’s genuinely held view. Lucy was looking at the picture of her former lover on the side table. ‘I think you’d better put that away now. Perhaps you could retrieve the photograph of your father from the drawer.’ Kate did so and they both sat in silence for a while, as if determined to enjoy this momentary contentment. Kate could hardly take her eyes off her father’s kind, smiling face.

  They retreated into safer subjects after that: the weather, Fiona’s dress sense and Gus’s gaming habits. Kate waited for the wheel to turn, for the malice to creep back in, but her mother retained her equanimity throughout and they parted, much later than Kate had intended, with a hug
. ‘You do look tired, love,’ Lucy said, as she released her.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘It must be hard without Stuart.’

  ‘Yes.’ Kate couldn’t help bridling. ‘Nothing I didn’t bring upon myself, I’m sure.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that and you know it. I understand that trying to have it all – and do it all – on your own must be impossibly difficult. But you must sleep. And if you need help, please ask for it – from whomever. Rose. Even me.’

  Kate didn’t pick that up immediately, but neither did she walk away.

  ‘I know we’ve had our differences over the years, but I’ve never shown the children anything but love, and I’m not so gaga that I can’t look after them now and again.’

  ‘I understand, Mum. Thank you.’

  ‘You can’t look after them if you’re not well yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t think you are, but I’ll leave it there.’

  Kate walked home slowly, as if to make the feeling of relative warmth last. She wished she had stayed longer. Why hadn’t she lingered awhile?

  It wasn’t until she turned the key in the door that her rational mind reasserted itself. It said everything, surely, about her upbringing that twenty-five minutes of relative normality could have elicited such a response.

  Rose had cleaned the kitchen so that it was immaculate. She sat at the table, reading an old copy of Vogue and drinking herbal tea. She stood to hug Kate. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Valium.’

  ‘As bad as that?’

  ‘Basically. It’s been a long day. Is Gus still awake?’

  ‘He might be.’

  Kate threw her coat on to the sofa. ‘I could murder a glass of white wine, if I’m completely honest.’ She went up to find Gus face down on the bed with Nelson beside him. For once, she didn’t feel inclined to move their ancient dog.

  ‘Don’t take him,’ he said, as she sat gently on the bed.

  ‘I don’t know how you can bear the smell.’

  ‘You don’t notice it after a bit, though Rose gave him fish skin for dinner.’

  ‘Yuck.’

  Gus turned on to his back and looked at her. ‘How was your trip?’

  Kate couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked a question like that. It was the night all her ships were coming in. ‘Complicated.’

  ‘Why?’

  She smiled. ‘State secret.’

  ‘Did you see Dad?’

  ‘No. I’ll arrange another meeting with him very soon.’ Kate couldn’t miss the longing in her son’s eyes. ‘You miss him?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Will you ever get back together?’

  ‘I don’t see how. Quite apart from all the emotional damage, it’s a practical impossibility.’

  ‘Will you get another boyfriend?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it.’ She squeezed his leg under the duvet. ‘You are my priority and always will be. Have you spoken to Fi?’

  ‘No.’ There was a long pause as Gus stroked Nelson’s ear. Kate sensed he had more to say. ‘It feels a bit strange here without her.’

  ‘It’s only for a few days.’

  ‘Maybe. She’s behaving very weirdly.’

  ‘How was Rose?’

  ‘She’s great. She’s so kind. I guess she’s how Granny should be.’

  ‘Granny has her own issues.’ Kate bent down to kiss her newly articulate son and ruffled his hair. For the first time in a very long while, he held her tight. She stood and moved to the door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘Will you leave Nelson?’

  ‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘Things might be a bit busy for the next week or two at work, but it will calm down after that.’

  ‘Like it did last time?’

  ‘Fair point. I’m going to consider asking for a period of absence so I can spend more time with you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Would that be a good idea?’

  ‘It’s up to you.’ She took that as a massive endorsement. ‘Why is work busy?’ he asked. ‘Matters of life and death?’

  ‘Political life and death, perhaps.’

  ‘Fiona told Jed you’re basically James Bond.’

  Kate had to stop herself laughing. This was turning into a very surprising conversation. ‘My work is supposed to be secret,’ she said.

  ‘Not to family. And I guess Jed is family now.’

  ‘I guess he is.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Gus persisted.

  ‘No one is James Bond. He’s a bit ludicrous, really.’

  ‘Jane Bond, then. That’s kind of cool.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ Kate said. She was still smiling as she walked into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to him,’ she told her aunt. ‘I just had an articulate, affectionate conversation with my teenage son.’ She glanced at the wine. ‘You’d better make that a double.’

  ‘He’s a lovely boy. So funny.’

  Kate sat opposite her aunt. ‘He seems to be missing his sister, which is an even greater wonder. Is she all right? I texted her earlier and got no reply.’ Kate took a large slug of wine.

  ‘She’s fine. I imagine she’ll be home in a day or two. I sense the Jed exile might be wearing a bit thin for both of them . . . I’m not going to preach,’ Rose continued, ‘which would be incredibly tedious, but, my God, you look tired.’ Kate glanced at her aunt, whose gaze radiated concern. ‘Are you still on the sleeping pills?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Zopiclone?’ Kate nodded. ‘Be careful,’ Rose went on, ‘they’re highly addictive.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’ll be fine. I won’t need one tonight. I’m dead beat.’ She took another slug of Pinot Grigio. ‘Did you have anxiety or depression?’

  ‘The one tends to lead to the other.’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’

  ‘But mainly the former.’

  ‘About what exactly?’

  ‘I came to define my self-worth by my ability to become a mother. The more times I failed, the more anxious I got about never succeeding. But, as Dr Wiseman will already have told you, I’m sure, it’s rarely just one thing.’

  Kate nodded. ‘You said you were very busy at work?’ The question was genuine: the Finance Department had always seemed to be a pretty sedate place.

  ‘It was in the period I was attached to Operations.’ Kate looked at her aunt, gobsmacked. Rose permitted herself a wry smile. ‘I know, I probably should have told you about it long ago.’

  ‘When – I mean, how long ago? Where? Doing what?’

  ‘I joined as a Finance trainee straight from university. But in those days you could opt to transfer to Operations for an attachment. The idea was to give those of us who were going to spend our lives bean-counting a sense of life at the sharp end. I guess it would have been ’ninety-two to ’ninety-six. Something like that. I was mostly working in Bosnia.’

  ‘With Sir Alan?’

  ‘Yes. And Ian at the tail end.’

  Rose was staring into her wine as she swirled it in her glass, as if to conjure old memories.

  ‘How come you never told me about it? I feel embarrassed not to have known—’

  ‘I had my breakdown straight after that and had to take four months off work.’

  ‘Do you know what tipped you over the edge?’

  ‘Everything. Alan was mostly focused on Mladic and his Bosnian Serb friends. Ian took over from him. I came in and out, trying desperately to get pregnant in between and repeatedly miscarrying. I pushed myself far too far and was very stupid about it. I’m anxious you don’t do the same.’

  ‘So what did you do when you returned to work?’

  ‘Transferred back to Finance, prioritized my marriage and my mental health and tried to wipe the period from my memory.’ Kate could see that her aunt was now determined to change the subject. ‘How was Berlin?’

  ‘It went to plan, mostly. T
he foreign secretary has a very big decision to make, which Sir Alan predicts she is not going to enjoy.’

  Rose knew better than to ask any more. She got up and went to wash up her mug. While she did so, her phone buzzed. Kate glanced at the screen. It was a message from Sir Alan. Call you later, it said.

  Rose turned, noticed the message, picked up her phone and slipped it into her pocket, without meeting Kate’s eye. She kissed her niece tenderly on the head and headed for the stairs. ‘Sleep well,’ she said.

  Kate finished her wine in melancholy silence. Call you later . . . What was that about?

  Almost certainly none of her business.

  In fact, definitively none of her business.

  But still . . .

  She washed up and followed Rose up the stairs. She removed her make-up, brushed her teeth and collapsed into bed, convinced she would go straight to sleep.

  But the more she circled closer to it, the more her mind began to torture her again. For a long time, her patience held. Just rest, she told herself. Sleep is close. It will happen. But it didn’t. Not quite.

  Her pulse quickened. She recognized the signs and got out of bed. The digital alarm clock told her it was just after two in the morning: four hours until she needed to be up.

  She went down to the kitchen, switched on a side lamp and sat in the chair in the corner reading Vogue. After twenty minutes, she didn’t know if she was tired or not. Was sleep creeping up on her? It didn’t feel like it, but the clock on the wall was closing in on half past two, which meant her window to sleep was closing fast.

  She returned to bed. Her self-discipline held for what seemed like an age, but as the minutes marched past the panic crept back in. She tried some yoga, slowed her breathing right down. She felt better and attempted again to drift off. But it was ultimately always the same threshold she couldn’t cross. She realized she was sweating it too much and tried to roam far and wide with her thoughts. They returned, like a dog with a bone, to her inability to sleep.

  The dawn was once again a relief, the sun inching along the painted terraced houses opposite. She had a shower, dressed and put on her make-up. She faced the day, momentarily uplifted by the fact that, for now at least, she was roughly able to function.