A Covenant of Spies

by Daniel Kemp

  Job's answer to a problem was far more direct than the others I've quoted. He would have smashed a few heads together to sort the wheat from the chaff. Even though that approach was not alien to me, in this past time-encased dilemma I had no heads to smash.

  I have never offered excuses for rage that was warranted. But when Fraser left for the separate apartment next door to my own that Thursday night, leaving me in the one Hannah and I had shared for such a short period of time, the rage I vented at the unchangeable fact death delivers, meant nothing in palpable terms to anyone but me. Despite that being true, I could feel my own physical presence in my rage melting as my voice calmed before I finally fell asleep with the battle of loneliness being conducted inside my head with the many anguished voices that permanently lived there.

  * * *

  Fraser arrived for breakfast as I was on the balcony with my umpteenth cigarette. The fact that I was smoking more than normal annoyed the part of me that would say I'm strong and dependent on nobody, yet that belief was drifting on the smoky breeze as I exhaled, watching it go. Through the open doors I heard him shout that Michael Simmons had been in touch, saying there was no news from the Sussex Constabulary, but Hugo Glenister was pleasantly surprised we were coming all the way to Farnham see him and looking forward to our visit with great interest.

  * * *

  “I retired when I was sixty-five, young man. I was offered a very enticing retirement package and I had no reason, nor ambition to stay on. The top-table position, the one you hold now, young man, was offered to me the year before I left in early '94. That was to be our final year at Century House. To be brutally honest, the job would have been too much for me. I loved every second I had in the SIS, but I was never happy in charge of any desk in European foreign intelligence. I'd done just over eleven years in the temporary posting to the Soviet floor and, quite frankly, I wanted the end to come. The Middle East was bad enough, but running everything as chair at Joint Intelligence then, thank you, but no thank you. I heard that you'd stayed past retirement, Ughert. Good for you, it's obviously suited as you're looking in very good health.”

  There must be something in fine malt whisky that kept these two septuagenarians in such fine mental condition, I thought as I watched Hugo pour generously large measures of his favourite tipple, a fine aged Macallan, into three glasses, placing the bottle next to an ice bucket in the middle of a circular marble table surrounded by four soft-cane chairs in his conservatory. The windows looked out onto an immaculately presented cottage garden with roses, climbing plants, and summer flowers naturally interwoven. The colours were strengthened by the penetrating sun, particularly around the ornamental pond and fountain, the splashing of which could be heard through the open door.

  “I remember that overseas excursion your PA mentioned on the phone last night very well, West, but I only came into Operation Donor when it was halftime. Apparently, it opened in Prague and was being carried over into Warsaw as an add-on. If I recall correctly, it kept the same coded name even though there was a month or so in between. I'm afraid if you're going to ask me why that was, I have no answer for you as I couldn't understand the reasoning for it either. Your operational name was Frank Douglas and you want to know about your handler, hmm …” he paused, but not for long. “He had the same name as a town in Kent. Hang on, let me think. Faversham, yes, that was his name.”

  His wide angular face with the greying eyes of age shone almost as brightly as the sun as the laughing smile erupted on finding the name in his memory banks. “I believe he died not long after I replaced his DG on the seventh floor. Shame when the young die. Big fellow, as I remember, very obese. Stuck in a chair for too long, no doubt. Not the size of chap you forget that easily.”

  Nor was Hugo. An extremely tall man—I'm not short by any means—but he towered over me at six foot seven at least. I couldn't imagine it was just the garden that kept him as physically fit as he looked, but whatever it was, it was working for him.

  “I was told the field officer was back in the UK when Faversham was stood down and I took overall command of the desk. Part of my instructions from the top floor were to keep John Scarlett on as duty officer as he had first-hand knowledge of the show. I believe he has a knighthood now. He was a little slow for my liking, but obviously his methods suited someone. Anyhow, I was told that all things to do with the officers' home welfare arising from loose ends in Prague, Scarlett was to deal with it. Something to do with a shooting that wasn't scheduled. The Czechoslovakian operation sounded as though it went a bit sour to me.”

  “Why did you say it went sour, Hugo? Did you hear details of something going wrong in Prague?”

  “Not specifically wrong in that respect, no. More than anything, it was the atmosphere on that floor that bothered me. It would not have been unusual to find some resentment with the department head coming from outside as it were, but it wasn't just that. There was no banter on the floor. No smutty gossip, not that I'm into that sort of thing, but you know what I mean. So and so was seen with so and so, and so and so is knocking off someone's wife who's having an affair with so and so. That sort of office chatter. Nothing like that on the Soviet satellite desk. There was nothing I could put my finger on. I got the impression that Scarlett was looking over his shoulder all the time, frightened to piss the Yanks off. As DG, I kept out of it and let Scarlett have the lead. Originally, when I was posted there, I was informed I was to be a short-term solution, but I must have done something right, as I stayed for quite some time, as I said.”

  “A notable achievement, Hugo, considering your stated dislike of power chairs. Was it Dickie Blythe-Smith who persuaded you to take up the posting, and was it he who filled you in on the Prague end of things, or did the two you meet as the show was running?”

  “We never met at all, young man, and I was always sorry for that. You see, I knew Blythe-Smith by name only. Not only was his reputation first class with dazzling honours, but it was he that everyone was measured by, in lots of ways. That was another thing that surprised me. Somehow or other, here we were with the Yanks sitting in on one of our operations and the top floor being aware. When I was on the Middle East desk, we had officers on the ground that were engaged in live, highly sensitive operations, and my staff and I kept it all to ourselves. At no time was I made aware that we shared information whilst the op was running with partners if it wasn't overlapping. That was the conclusion I came to; Operation Donor was impinging on an American action that was going on.

  “I'm sorry to say that the Americans being there didn't fit well with me or any in my department. Maybe that's why the floor seemed stifled. I would have loved an audience on the top floor with Blythe-Smith to sort it out, but he had vanished into retirement.” With deliberation I nodded my head, adding as I did, “Yes, I see, Hugo. I can totally understand your dissatisfaction with the situation. I'm sure Fraser and I would have felt the same.”

  I turned to Fraser and he had that all-knowing look of his plastered across his enigmatic face. It was my show, he'd said in the car as we pulled up. 'I'll play the serious role of Rodin's Thinker, while you play the court jester to Henry II, Roland The Farter. Look him up afterwards.' I hadn't a clue who Roland was, but I understood what Fraser meant.

  “I'm not trying to put words into your mouth, Hugo. I just want to recap and make sure we all know where we are. You thought the Americans were in overall control of Operation Donor in Poland when you switched over from the Middle East desk to Soviet Satellite? Would you say that was the impression you had?”

  Glenister's sizeable presence made the conservatory, at the rear of his charming detached home in the picturesque countryside of Surrey, seem a lot smaller than it really was. Despite that feeling of economy of space, his contribution to my knowledge was far greater than I could possibly have hoped for.

  “It was more than a feeling, Patrick. It was a fact and, as I've said, I was not comfortable with it, but I stuck it out. The actual briefing I had came from
the departing DG, Francis Henry Grant. I can't forget that name. In my youth, I spent a year at university in Ontario in Canada, and whilst there, I had a bit of fun serving in what was called the Fort Henry Guard. It was an entertainment for tourists, nothing more. Lots of drum noise and marching stuff. Yes, sorry, back to the debrief. Grant told me the Yanks were totally in command. However, the rationale in the file was ambiguous over that decision. Nonetheless, the CIA was on our territory and Grant spelled out the sequence of command in no uncertain way—them first, me second, then Scarlett. Despite them being first in the chain of command, my only instructions would come straight from Grant. No direct orders would come from the Americans. As you can understand—odd.”

  “A strange set-up indeed, Hugo.”

  We stopped speaking for a moment as we both gazed out onto the noisy fountain, neither of us troubled by the noise, simply fascinated by it. Fraser followed our stare, rising from where he sat and making his way towards the pond.

  “Are there fish in the pond?” he asked as he was walking down a short flight of steps into the garden.

  “As long as the herons haven't stolen any.”

  I returned the conversation to Operation Donor. “I'm sorry to load you with Russian names, Hugo, but I have no choice. Did you come across the name Nikita Sergeyovitch Kudashov at all? I have the names written down on some notes, if my Russian pronunciation is too rustic for you.”

  He waved away my suggestion to withdraw some papers from the document folder that rested against the side of my chair. “Not necessary, your Russian sounds fine to me, Patrick. Yes, I know that name. He was the Czech agents' handler before I arrived. Again, this is only from a briefing, remember, and it was twenty-five years ago. I saw nothing written down. I understood he had the Prague end for us.”

  I tried to hide my look of utter bewilderment the best I could. Maybe he had it mixed up, I told myself, ignoring the fact that up until that moment he had confirmed everything we knew, so why should he now be mistaken? Before I realised what I'd done, the file with Hannah's written notes of names was on the table beside his half-empty glass. Obviously, somehow I had put it there and opened it, but I had no answer to when or how. My hands were working independently to my brain. Without asking, I filled his glass and mine, adding what remained of the ice to mine. I sat waiting for a response with my glass nestled in my hand, but not daring to move, as no matter how melodramatic this might sound, I sensed a hand on my shoulder. I turned my head slightly, away from the pond, and there stood Hannah, as clear as day.

  At that moment, Glenister spoke. “Yes, that's the same name and the one above it—that one,” he pointed at the name of General Anotoly Vladislav Kava. “I was told he was the agent's dead father.”

  I blinked and Hannah had gone.

  “In respect of the handler, Hugo, are you sure it was agent that was mentioned, not our asset or operative? This Kudashov fellow was our agent's handler. Was that correct?” Fraser was standing in the doorframe facing inwards and I looked at him as I asked. His look of concentration reflected what was racing through my mind and making my fingers twitch in excitement.

  “I'm positive, gentlemen. I did know the difference in those days. I had enough agents to deal with in Palestine, Lebanon and the rest of Middle East. Yes, agent it was. He or she was one of ours.”

  “I bet you did have agents and officers in the field from your Middle East days, and I bet those names were just as complicated as Russian names, if not more so.” I smiled and hoped I had reassured him and settled my nerves. “I have another name, but this time it's Czechoslovakian and my Czech is useless nowadays.” I took hold of Hannah's notes and my inside froze as I pointed. Those nerves were far from settled. “Did you ever hear that name mentioned, Hugo?”

  “I never heard it spoken, Patrick, but I saw it written down on a classified memo on Lieutenant Colonel Ward's desk.”

  When I was on the spy, and things became tense or exhilarating, my breathing and heart rate slowed to tortoise-like speeds. I was told that was an advantage, but I didn't know if the slowness of them now would be an advantage. “Do you recall seeing anything else written on that memo, Hugo?”

  He stared out of the window towards the fountain and cascading sunlit water, but his focus was inside an office twenty-five years ago, not his own, and in a building he couldn't wait to leave. The silent Fraser, who had retaken his seat to my right, had told me he'd met Glenister a few times on service business, forming the opinion he was a diligent, measured man in the dealings the two had had. I was hoping Fraser's estimation was correct and Hugo's dedication to details was still available to me. As I was thinking my question had defeated his memory, he slowly turned his head towards me motioning it up and down ever so slightly, raising my hopes.

  “Do you know what, I do know more. In situations like this, I try to visualise the scene where I was. Put myself back in time and into the space I occupied. Very rarely does it not work for me and thankfully this is not one of those times. Neither the lieutenant colonel nor the naval commander were in their office so I had ample time to look, and look I did, Patrick. I was a nosy bugger back in those days.” His infectious smile seized hold of both Fraser and me, easing the tension we shared. “It said—no show Petr Tomsa at Battery. Strike zone empty. I was a bit of a sports fanatic all through my life and I believe they are baseball terms.”

  The smile had disappeared from Hugo Glenister's face, replaced by a strong impassive bearing, one I imagined he carried throughout his service years. My breathing was at its slowest. “This is going to be a difficult one to answer, Hugo, but I'm going to ask it anyway.” My smile was not as genuine as his had been, but he returned it just the same. “Have you any idea of the date of that memo?”

  “More than an idea. I know exactly, young man. It was the first of September 1982. That was the same day the Israelis entered Southern Lebanon and pushed the Palestine Liberation Organisation out of the country. My old desk had alerted me of the situation out of courtesy, and although they had up-to-the-minute reports, I thought the Americans might be able pull strings and find more information for me. It was the reason for me going to their office. An ex-wife of mine was an American-Jew and she was serving as a field intelligence officer in the Israeli military when the Israelis invaded. That was perhaps the main reason I'd been given the Middle East desk.”

  Chapter Fifteen: Fall-Out

  After leaving Hugo's genial hospitality, I spent the remainder of Friday with Fraser and Molly at their home in Buckinghamshire, supposedly in research, absorbed by the information on a computer screen, but in truth I was wasting away the hours before an inevitable return to solitude in a once happy environment. As much as I loved Fraser, I found his predilection for any involvement of the Rothschilds with the Cambridge spy ring of the sixties debilitating and hard to bear. Although I held his logic in the highest regard, I could not see the sense in going back so many years in order to harden up 'proof' that had been constantly denied.

  During the preceding early morning hours that we and a bottle of Jura had spent together, I toyed with the idea of flying off somewhere to wipe away my memory of Hannah. How far would I need to fly to completely erase my past? Not only the one I'd shared with Hannah, but the history I had with the other voices that hid in my mind until they hammered at my conscience? But the impossible was beyond what I could achieve as I did not possess that amount of detachment or insensitivity. Or did I? As the night closed in and the dark descended on the Whitehall apartment, I realised I could not be that person. I was cruel to her memory in removing her possessions to Sussex. The wiser thing to do would have been to keep them, as they would have been comforting and not crushed me with sentiment.

  Having arrived at the conclusion that I needed a new approach to the situation I was in, I carried it further and decided there was no amount of whisky that could drown either the tangible or the intangible memories that remained. I resolved to turn my back on that remedy. What I did try was
to return some of the unanswered calls from her family. Her brother was the first name on the lengthy typed list left on the blotter of my desk and he was still awake.

  * * *

  To begin with, he expressed his sorrow for Hannah's departure, but it wasn't long before a degree of spite found its way into his empathy. Why did she marry a man who would expose her to so much danger was only one of the accusations he found to aim at me. I finished our exchange after another insinuation as to her welfare, which I found one too many from an uninformed source, even allowing for his grief, which by then I found insincere. The newspapers said her car was fitted with inferior glass compared to the top civil servants who need protection. Couldn't a man in your position ensure my sister's life was adequately secured from an assassin looking for revenge for something you had done? It was you who murdered her and I hope you can live with that guilt.

  There were several ways I could have reacted to that remark. One would be to forget it and move on, leaving just another disgruntled encounter behind me lying in the passage in life. Or, I could have noted it mentally and tried to reconcile family differences that occur in the heat of moments of despair, when outrage might subside when rationality returns to fill a void. Another way, and perhaps this was the best way I could have dealt with it, was to send a car to take her brother somewhere quiet and find out how he came to think that revenge could be a motive.

  Until I'd met Hannah I'd had nobody in my life to worry about. Nobody to care for or to care for me. I had never experienced the fear of not being able to reconnect with a person I'd left at home, because there was no one to go home to—until, that is, I said those two small words of I do in a church, facing the woman I was smitten by. Now my best friend, my lover and wife had gone and I was left with more anger than any brother could imagine in their wildest nightmares. It was not my responsibility to open his eyes to the brutality of life and to the savages that I had lived with and walked amongst. Yes, Hannah died because of an action I had sanctioned, but Hannah knew the life she had chosen and she also knew I wasn't about to leave it.