by David Laws
Just then the other aerosol Harry had disturbed chose that moment to fall. He silently cursed his clumsiness as it clanged on to the bare floorboards and rolled noisily into a corner. At this, he heard the phone receiver being dumped with a crash on the desktop and urgent steps approached. When the door wrenched open Harry didn’t wait for explanations, just squirted a face-full of perfumed spray into the inevitable Nina scowl. She reeled back, clutching her eyes.
Harry was out, down the stairs, turning a corner and sprinting for the big outer door. He charged the locking bar at full tilt. With one swift movement he hauled it wide and ran into the alleyway, a trail of angry, frustrated voices in his wake.
“I should have guessed,” Patronella said. “That trick is as old as the hills. The dead-letter drop, delivered in person by the minister himself in his own limo.” She gave a little exclamation of delight. “Bad mistake on Tresham’s part. He should have sent his chauffeur to do the drop and parked further away.”
“Traffic,” Harry said, “and that would have made the driver complicit. Added risk, a potential leak.” This time they were in Patronella’s office, a privilege Harry never expected, and the documents from Harry’s purloined file and the contents of the dead-letter drop were laid out across the black leather desktop.
“This,” she said, holding one sheet up, “gives away the British negotiating position in Brussels. The Cabinet have authorised our team there to go for a £20 billion divorce bill, but will accept hiking it by £5 billion. So the Euro side know this and can start pushing for £30 billion, knowing they’ve got a realistic chance. It’s typical. All along, they’ve known our hand before we’ve even played it.”
Harry shook his head. “That’s our money.”
“And he’s selling us out,” she said.
“Surely we can get him for that? Treason or something, at the very least leaking Cabinet secrets?”
It was her time to shake her head. “If we move too soon we risk disaster. Our possession of this document doesn’t prove that Tresham leaked it.”
“But I saw him.”
“He’ll deny it. Say it was his chauffeur. Or a plot by someone in his office that he had no knowledge of.”
“Test it,” said Harry. “See if his fingerprints are on it.”
“Even if we could prove that, he would say he handled the document in the normal course of his work – but still didn’t know it was being leaked.”
“Liar! Would anyone believe him?”
“He’s a politician,” she said. “They’ll shift the blame, dump on anyone around them. We’re dealing here with a serpentine liar from the bottom of the pond.”
They were silent for a while before Harry asked, “What about forensics? Have they come up with anything from Nina’s ashtray?”
A shrug. “A partial. Some numbers, part of a numerical code, but not enough to form a crib for our computers.”
Harry, who’d been on a high, was now despondent. “And the passports, no use either?”
“Well, there we may have something. Clearly, preparations for a fast escape route if something goes wrong. The names are intriguing. We’re looking into that now.”
Another silence.
Patronella sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “We have to move very carefully now. The security people are in his pocket and she’s warned him – he knows we, or people like us, are on to him. That makes him dangerous. Very dangerous indeed. He’s still extremely powerful and you’re going to have to watch your step, Harry; you’re totally deniable and things could turn nasty.”
Harry had become obsessed by one idea. All the way home he thought about it. Why had the names on the Blue List stayed loyal? From his own experience, he clocked it – Toby, fearful and reluctant; Corbishley, elusive and defensive; Tresham, clearly still active at the highest level. But why? They were sleepers of a regime that had disappeared thirty years before. Surely, he reasoned, it would be natural over such a period for second thoughts to set in, for them to back away, forget their earlier commitment and go native? Were they all so indoctrinated, or was there something keeping them in line? Had the people manipulating them still got a significant hold? Something from their Stasi past, he wondered, that was sufficiently potent to prevent disintegration of the network?
Harry changed trains at Tottenham Court Road and again at Liverpool Street, hardly noticing the man in the Tube still reading his Evening Standard, except that by the second change he still hadn’t finished reading the front page. Some people were very slow readers, Harry thought.
He had discussed his idea about agent loyalty with Patronella, and she had been able to provide little illumination. Her main source, obviously, was the lecturer and he had been unaccountably vague on this point, she said, almost as if he were hiding some great personal shame. Harry wanted another chance to question Gifford, but Patronella wouldn’t hear of it. He’d have to try again with Toby.
Thwarted, he returned to the subject during the train journey to Bury, trying to think it through. The Stasi were all about threats, intimidation and coercion, so that had to be a continuing reflex of the Kameraden. Perhaps they possessed some highly damaging information on each agent that still had the capacity to ruin lives. Was there a formula common to all, or an individual to each agent? If he could find out what motivated, or intimidated, Tresham he would have the key to his quest.
The only clue Patronella could offer was the rumour that the top agents of the Stasi had been schooled in their dark arts at a now-extinct training establishment somewhere in the former East Germany.
Chapter 31
10 days to go
Erika sat by the window looking out into the street. Cars splashed by, sending sheets of spray to drench the pavements, giving Risbygate Street a dull and dismal look, even though on a day of sunshine Bury positively gleamed with vibrant character and an expansive sense of history.
Her mood this day reflected the weather.
She had made her filter coffee last for the best part of half an hour, not biting her nails, instead chewing at her knuckles. She stared at the dripping scene outside, but actually had eyes only for the darkened and barred shop frontage on the far side of the street. For the whole thirty minutes she had been by the window of the Cafe Blue no one had entered or left that little shop. She could almost imagine it as locked and closed for the day. No sign graced the nameplate, no owner revealed himself, as if anonymity was the prevailing ethos of the business.
Just then a clatter of teacups sounded behind her, reminding her of where she was. How much longer before the waitress asked if she wished to order again? How much longer could she ponder and delay?
With a final glance into the street and at that place on the far side, she put down her cup and pulled on her raincoat. Buttoning it up seemed like the finalising of her decision, confirmed when she opened the cafe door and stepped on to an almost swimming pavement. A truck splashed her and she shrugged up her collar as a line of vehicles hummed slowly past, creating their own special symphony of rubber tyres on wet cobbles. Finally, she made it to the far side, stepping hesitantly towards her goal. The windows were indeed barred, and she could see a fine mesh added to reinforce the glass. Behind this were the objects of her interest.
Erika took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Inside the shop looked like a gloomy closet lined with barred showcases and a tiny counter devoid of human presence.
She approached and waited, fingering out of her pocket the grubby brown cardboard cover that Fischer had provided. It looked like a wartime ration book, bore the word licence in the title and had a bad photograph of her on the inside.
Without a sound a figure appeared, as if on oiled wheels: small, male, sixties and bald, save for enormous black sideburns.
No greeting, no salutation, no offer of help. Tight lips and waiting. As if to say, Your move,
madam.
“I want to see the Glock,” she said.
Chapter 32
Wednesday 20th March 2019; 9 days to go
Figures, serious and distracted, stumbled along the Downing Street flagstones. There were no smiles for the cameras and questions from the crowd of pressmen were ignored, as was normal. Even the constable by the front door of Number 10 was blanked. No pleasantries today. The most photographed front door in the land opened to reveal the black-and-white patterned tiles just inside the hallway. The small crowd of ministers congregated briefly in the corridor outside the Cabinet Room in uneasy anticipation of what was to come. The stage had been reached when the usual diplomatic and political waffle no longer did the job. Today the sense was that red lines would be crossed or redrawn, that the feuding parties were no longer content to spar – now they were going for the throat. At issue was the EU transition period, between Exit Day on 29th March 2019 and the twenty-one months beyond. Transition had finally become Cabinet toxic.
No one waited for a Prime Ministerial opening. Even before ministers had stalked through the door and taken their seats, Tresham was wagging a finger at Jake Pinckney. “We warned you about this,” he said. “It’s no good talking up a storm. The EU have put their foot down. If we want time to negotiate a trade agreement, we have to play the game their way.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” This was accompanied by an explosion of noise and spilled water from across the table. “That’s just a negotiating position, a piece of Brussels bravado!”
“Rubbish!”
The Prime Minister coughed, but Tresham ploughed on. “They’ve decided their position and they’re not going to shift.” The Home Secretary appeared to enjoy laying out the position: during the transition period free movement of EC citizens had to continue, no trade deals with other countries would be allowed, and Britain was to continue to pay into the budget and observe all rules, including judgements of the European Court of Justice.
As Tresham spoke, blood pressure rose across the table. Faces reddened, angst came to the boil. “A humiliation!” Jake shouted. “I’ll only go along with all this…” He stopped and looked around at other ministers, as if prompting agreement. He managed to win a nod from Foreign Secretary Beverley Baxendale. “We’ll only go along with this transition if we are our own masters. None of their damned rules!”
“Won’t happen!”
“You just want to keep us in the Customs Union,” Jake accused.
“True.”
“Won’t happen!” Jake liked to steal an opponent’s line.
Tresham now played to his gallery, looking for his supporters. “The Leave mobsters shouting treason at every reasonable sign of compromise – these are the people with no mortgages, no children and no responsibilities…”
“How very true!” This from Pascoe Mortimer, Trade and Business Minister.
“Shame on you!” from Environment, across the table.
Tresham bludgeoned on. “We should ignore these people bent on wrecking our economy.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Just swivel-eyed loons!”
“Prime Minister!” Jake was addressing her directly for the first time. Everything before had been political ping-pong across the table, but now his gaze was turned on her. “Prime Minister, are you going to allow this mud-slinging in Cabinet?”
She coughed. “I really do think we all ought to calm down. Everyone has their view…” She cast about for signs of support and settled on Winterman. “What does the Chancellor think?”
All eyes turned to Winterman, the quiet man of figures Jake had been apt to dismiss as “a man unlikely to storm anyone’s ramparts”. Winterman had been in the job six months, reward for hard work mastering a complex brief at Pensions. He talked the language of the civil service and was clearly in Tresham’s shadow. “I believe experience and stability are two key factors in this decision,” he said.
Heads turned back to the Prime Minister. Nobody was listening to Winterman. And the Prime Minister was in the grip of Jake’s mesmerising stare.
“We must keep to our red lines,” he told her. “No compromise on free movement and trade deals. No surrender!”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She knew it only took forty-eight MPs to trigger a leadership contest. She knew her critics were demanding she name a date for standing down. She knew the opinion polls were neck and neck. She said, “We have to stay together and act as a team on this.”
Suddenly Jake was very quiet, very deliberate and very slow. “Prime Minister, you have stated your red lines and you must stick to them. And now you must dismiss from the Cabinet anyone who denies them or deviates from them. I insist—”
The end of the sentence was drowned out by a chorus of protests.
“Objection!” A shout from Yardley Meyrick, Ag and Fish.
“Out of order!” cried Mortimer.
At the same moment there was a screech of stressed chair-legs. Ministers were jumping to their feet, shouting, waving agendas, even fists. No one waited for the Prime Minister to call a halt. And the civil service note-takers, cowering in their seats at the back of the room, scratched their heads for want of appropriately anodyne phrases with which to write up their minutes of the meeting.
Chapter 33
9 days to go
Erika had been busy with her preparations, though she was careful to keep them secret from Harry. This wasn’t difficult, given his distracted air of endeavour and excitement. She didn’t ask him about his latest activity, not wishing to prompt a similar inquiry of her.
Out in the garage she had assembled and concealed her escape kit. She had also made use of Scobie’s workbench. A collection of cleaning materials was assembled there: several large wash leathers, a mop and bucket, a dozen rags and a brush, and finally a tin of Scott’s Patent Fire Grate Polish.
Difficult, she knew, to explain the last away.
And then there was the gun. Or rather, guns.
She took out the air rifle, worked the mechanism, regarding it with contempt. However, the weapon would serve her purpose. It would provide a plausible explanation and cover if her plan should inadvertently be discovered or interrupted.
Then for the real thing.
She was conversant with the Walther P38 as well as the Baby Browning mouse gun used by the French Resistance which could be concealed in the palm of the hand. But her preference was the Glock. The 38 was deadly up close, while the 45 had a bigger knockdown punch.
The little man in the shop had watched her heft and handle the weapon with a dead-eyed stare; watched her disassemble it; watched her insert and retract the magazine with practised ease. But he’d made no comment and that was how she liked it. Discreet and silent was the nature of the business and their transaction.
In Scobie’s garage she spent half an hour going over the 38 in the most minute examination; cleaning it, working the mechanism, loving the feel of it. The 38 was her weapon of choice, and preparation for action helped banish all doubt.
Chapter 34
9 days to go
They were in a small, L-shaped room at the Williams Hotel, an unimpressive place frequented by one-nighters changing trains at Victoria. It was just a short walk from the architectural layer cake the Secret Intelligence Service occupied at Vauxhall Cross and, as Patronella pointed out, a spook should not do business inside her own front parlour.
Harry sighed. There was hardly room to get past the bedpost to the tiny desk that was the focus of their attention.
“Called you here because you’re being followed,” she said.
“Thought so. I kept seeing the same strange bloke on my way home last night.”
“Harry, they’ve got you in their sights. We need to get you out of the country and fast before they pull you in and give you a hard time.”
He could not resist a little mockery. “And of course this is all
about me. Nothing to do with you guarding your back.”
She pursed her lips. “You’re deniable, I told you that. Entirely deniable.”
“Still…” He shrugged, waiting for her to go on, then sat upright with a jerk. Erika! He couldn’t simply quit the country and leave her alone without protection. “Difficult,” he said, wondering how to explain.
Patronella surprised him again, belying her pose as the ultimate dullard, demonstrating her grasp of detail and reading his concern. “You’ll just have to park your partner,” she said. “We can’t risk you here.”
“But—”
“No, Harry, you’ll have to make other arrangements. Send her to friends or relatives.”
“Can you provide protection?” Even as he asked it, he knew Erika would throw a tantrum at the prospect of some stranger checking up on her.
“A nursemaid? No way. She’s a big girl, Harry, haven’t you got a brother somewhere? Birmingham, isn’t it?”
“Jane hates her. My sister-in-law. They’d tear each other to pieces.”
Patronella carried on talking but he stopped listening. Partner, she had said, in referring to Erika, and Harry was intrigued by this description. Was it right? Was this Erika’s current status? He considered the alternatives: friend, ex-girlfriend, associate, a woman in distress or… back with him as his partner? Harry finally nodded assent to the new word, and then became aware of a silence.
“You’re not listening,” Patronella said, a little crossly.
“Sorry.”
“I mean it, Harry, I want you out of the country.” She slid a passport out of her briefcase on to a corner of the tiny desk, mostly taken up by Harry’s laptop. “Your new persona.”
He sighed and opened the passport at the title page. A ghastly mugshot of himself stared back under the name of Alexander Stock. There was something vaguely familiar about the name. “So who am I, where am I going and what am I doing?” he asked.