Secret Asset

by Stella Rimington

  Inside the shop the three men worked quickly. Two went upstairs, and, making sure the curtains were tightly drawn, searched with a torch until they found, at the very back, a square trapdoor in the ceiling which gave access to the loft. Standing on a chair, one of the men pushed away the trapdoor and hoisted himself up with a boost from the man below, who then handed up to him a small tool case. Holding his torch low so it wouldn’t accidentally send light outside, the man in the attic examined the beams until he found one directly above a corner of the large room below. Within sixty seconds he was drilling, a slow process since the drill was underpowered to keep its decibel level low.

  Suddenly his colleague was standing below the open trapdoor, speaking urgently. “That was Special Branch. The local police have had a call from a neighbour, someone across the street. She saw us entering.”

  “Bugger. What are they going to do?”

  “They want to know if we’re done in here. There’s still time to leave before the car gets sent.”

  “No. I need at least ten more minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell them.”

  He went away and the man in the attic resumed drilling. He had just come through the beam and was about to put the probe and microscopic camera gently down the hole he’d drilled when his colleague came back. “The car’s on its way, but they know we’re here. They’re going to go and speak to the neighbour who called. Apparently it’s some old lady.”

  “Okay. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

  And ten minutes later, having carefully brushed away the sawdust made by his drill, and carefully closing over the small drilled hole with filler, the man jumped down and, getting up on the chair, replaced the trapdoor. “I’m done up there. Anything else need doing?”

  His colleague shook his head. “I’ve got two mikes in—one’s in the plug in the corner, and the other’s in the back of the VCR.”

  “Have you checked them with Thames?”

  “Yes, they can hear them loud and clear. Come on.” They went downstairs and collected their other colleague, who had put three listening devices in place, one above the inside of the shop’s front door, another in the owner’s small office, and a third in the stockroom in the back. Now even the faintest whisper made on either floor would be heard in Thames House.

  Across the street, Doris Feldman poured hot water onto a tea bag for the nice young policeman who had rung her bell. He knew all about the strange goings-on across the street, and had even suggested they might want her help. She didn’t see the same three figures slip out of the front door of the bookshop and disappear into the night. But by then Doris was no longer worried.

  7

  Peggy Kinsolving had met Geoffrey Fane only once before, when he had spoken at her induction course when she first joined MI6 a year or so ago. She couldn’t recall much of what he’d said that day but she remembered the tall, heron-like figure and the chilly handshake.

  The second meeting was briefer but what he said was more memorable. He was seconding Peggy to MI5 for a month or two, he announced, on a very important assignment that was so confidential she would have to sign a special indoctrination form. She would learn more when she got to Thames House. The one thing Fane wanted to stress was that she should not forget where her loyalties lay. “Don’t go native on us,” said Fane sternly. “We wouldn’t look kindly on that.”

  This had taken some of the gloss off the excitement of her new posting, though Henry Boswell, her direct boss—a nice, well-meaning man, looking forward to his retirement—had tried his best to cheer her up. “It’s a marvellous opportunity,” he said, about her temporary move to the other side of the river, but she sensed he had no idea what it was all about.

  Peggy couldn’t help wondering why, if it were such an important job, Fane himself hadn’t briefed her on it. And why (Peggy was being honest with herself) they were lending MI5 someone so junior. Part of her wondered whether MI6 had already decided they did not need her particular skills and whether she was just a pawn in some personnel deal between the two services.

  But no, there was a real enough job to do. The following day at Thames House, Charles Wetherby had talked to her for over half an hour. He’d been friendly, and had answered all her questions seemingly very frankly. Wetherby had the rare ability to talk to someone as junior as Peggy as if she were his equal. After her session with him, she was no longer in any doubt about the importance, in Wetherby’s eyes, of what she was going to be doing.

  He had explained that Peggy would be working with Liz Carlyle, an experienced and extremely talented investigator, he said, who had particular skills in assessing people. Liz would be leading their two-man team and they would be working direct to him. He would be keeping Geoffrey Fane informed of what they were doing. As Wetherby explained the situation, Peggy began to understand why she had been chosen. She would be following the paper trail and supporting Liz as she made her investigations. This made perfect sense to Peggy. She knew and loved the world of print, fact, data, information—pick your own word, thought Peggy—that was what brought out her skills. It was her métier. She could disinter information which might seem meaningless and sterile to others, then, like a primitive fire maker blowing on a spark, bring it to life. Peggy saw drama where others saw dust.

  Peggy Kinsolving had been a shy, serious child, with freckles and round spectacles. A cheerful aunt had once called her Bobbity Bookworm and this had stuck in the family, so that from the age of seven, everybody called her Bobby. She had taken her nickname with her to her school, one of the few remaining Midlands grammar schools, and on to Oxford. At the end of three years’ hard work she had a good 2:1 in English and vague scholarly ambitions. There was not enough money in the family to support her through a DPhil so she left Oxford with no very clear idea of what to do next. At that stage of her life Peggy was certain of only two things: if you did your best and stuck at it, things would turn out well, and you should not put up with anything you didn’t like. Accordingly she had reverted firmly to the name Peggy.

  For want of any better idea Peggy had taken a post with a private library in Manchester. The understanding was that she would assist the readers half the time and the rest of the time was hers. But since only an average of five people a day made use of her services, she had been largely free to pursue her own research into the life and writings of a nineteenth-century Lancashire social reformer and novelist. Why had it palled so fast? For one thing, her topic turned out to be rather drier than she had expected, with not enough facts to satisfy her voracious appetite for detail. For another her days were overwhelmingly solitary, and she had found no way of peopling her evenings. The Miss Haversham–like librarian rarely exchanged a word with her and scuttled off home as soon as the library closed. From this solitude came a growing conviction that however vivid a world she found in books and manuscripts, the world she saw when she lifted her head from the pages was tantalisingly more promising if only she could find a way into it.

  She knew she had to leave, and the obvious alternative was London, where her manifest skills earned her an interview, and then an offer of a job, as a research assistant in the British Library. But the clinical, subdued atmosphere of the modern reading rooms struck her as even less acceptable than the tensions of a working day with Miss Haversham and she never knew what she would have done if an old acquaintance from college had not come into the library one day and told her of a specialised government department that was looking for researchers.

  Which was how, at the age of twenty-five, still with round spectacles and freckles, Peggy came to be sitting in the conference room in Thames House next to Liz Carlyle, with half-drunk cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits on the table before them, along with several stacks of file folders, which Peggy had already accumulated after only six days in the job.

  Though initially Peggy had approached her with some caution, she had liked Liz from the start. Peggy’s previous boss in the library, although herself female, ha
d seemed to resent her on grounds both of age and gender. But Liz was younger, Liz was polite; best of all, Liz was straightforward. Peggy felt from the start they were a team, and the division of labour was clear. Liz would focus on interviews, while Peggy would do the research.

  She had spent her first days with B Branch, the personnel department, reading files, taking notes, organising a hunt, which her unfamiliarity with the records system made more difficult than she expected. Liz was going to Rotterdam the next day, and had asked Peggy to brief her on her progress before she went. She handed Liz the first of what she knew were going to be many, many documents. This is the beginning, Peggy thought to herself. But what if there is no needle in the haystack?

  Liz was surprised. There were only five employees of MI5 who had attended Oxford during the first half of the nineties, and she knew three of them. Perhaps not so remarkable as they were broadly the same age as she was. She looked again at the list Peggy had handed her:

  Michael Binding

  Patrick Dobson

  Judith Spratt

  Tom Dartmouth

  Stephen Ogasawara

  Peggy had done well, thought Liz. She had taken very little time to get used to what must seem a very alien environment.

  “I know Michael Binding,” Liz announced. “And Judith Spratt.” A friend, she almost said, but didn’t. “Tom Dartmouth I’ve only just met—he’s recently come back from Pakistan. He was seconded to MI6 there for a while. Like you in reverse. And Patrick Dobson was at a meeting I went to yesterday.” She handed back the list to Peggy. “What’s Dobson’s job exactly?”

  Peggy found his file. “His job is special liaison with the Home Office on operational matters. Degree from Pembroke College in Theology.” Liz groaned and Peggy gave an unexpectedly lively laugh. Thank God she’s got a sense of humour, thought Liz. Peggy continued: “He’s married. Two children. Very active in his local church.”

  Liz suppressed another groan and tried not to roll her eyes. “Right. And Stephen Ogasawara. What have you got on him?”

  Peggy found another file. “He read History at Wadham. Then—unusual this—he joined the Army. Six years in the Royal Signals. Served in Northern Ireland,” she said, pausing meaningfully. “As the name suggests, he’s got a Japanese father. But he was born in Bath.”

  “What’s his job now?”

  “He’s not here any more.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, he left three years ago.”

  “What did he go into? A private security firm?” With that mix of military and MI5 experience, Ogasawara was probably making a small fortune as a consultant in Iraq, thought Liz. Though he might not live long enough to enjoy it.

  “Not quite,” said Peggy. “It says here that he now manages a dance troupe in King’s Lynn.”

  “How exotic,” said Liz, suppressing a smile.

  Peggy asked, “Can I take him off the list?”

  “Yes,” said Liz, then thought again. “Actually, better not. But you can certainly put him low down.” She glanced at her watch. “You should have plenty to do while I’m in Rotterdam.” Liz gestured towards the files.

  “I thought I’d double-check their original applications to join MI5. And check the facts in the updates too.”

  “Yes, you might as well go through the basics. And read their references.” Liz looked again a little anxiously at her watch. “I think we should probably see as many of the referees as we can. Look out for anything on the personal front that looks unusual. And obviously, any kind of Irish connection.”

  As Liz got up from the table to go, Peggy said, “Do you mind if I ask who you’re seeing in Rotterdam?”

  “Not at all,” Liz said. She had already decided that if they were going to work closely together, she would need to be able to tell Peggy everything. “I’m seeing a man called James Maguire. He was our source for the story that the IRA had put a secret asset into the security services. The officer he gave that information to is dead, so Maguire is the one person in the world, apart from us and the mole himself, who knows about it.”

  “Do you think he can help us?”

  Liz thought for a moment. “Possibly. The question is whether he will. He didn’t want to meet me.”

  “Well good luck then,” said Peggy.

  “Thanks,” said Liz, her lips pursed. “I have a feeling I’ll need it.”

  8

  The water in the Old Harbour of Rotterdam was sea green, and slopped against the sides of the canal boats and small tugs moored at one end. It was twilight in mid-May, the air was mild, and the light rain felt soft on her face. Liz looked out across the small body of water, relic of the age when it had been the city’s main port. Levelled by bombing in the War, Rotterdam was almost entirely modern; its inhabitants had decided not to reconstruct the city as it had been before 1939 but instead to start from scratch. The results were architecturally renowned but bleak to look at; this genuinely old sector of the city was a small sanctuary from the relentlessly new.

  The café across the harbour was on the ground floor of an old building of dark brick, and lit inside by wall lamps which cast a rich orange glow; at the tables on the veranda candles in bowls provided the sole illumination. Although she had only mug shots from which to identify him, Liz was confident he was not among the café’s few customers. But as the dark now moved in as if by stealth, she suddenly saw him. A tall figure, lean to the point of gauntness, walking slowly along the far edge of the harbour towards the café. He wore khaki trousers and a long raincoat that hung loosely from its padded shoulders, and he carried a newspaper rolled up under one arm.

  Liz gave him five minutes to settle, then moved quickly around the perimeter of the harbour, and into the café. She spotted him at a corner table and, as the man looked up and nodded, Liz sat down across from him, putting her own coat on an empty chair. She said, “Hello, Mr. Maguire. I’m Jane Falconer.”

  The man called Maguire didn’t say hello, only remarking curtly, “I hope you were careful coming here.”

  She had certainly been careful. Liz had flown to Amsterdam rather than direct to Rotterdam’s small airport, then pursued a standard tourist agenda—a taxi straight to the Rijksmuseum, a tour of the Anne Frank house, and lunch outdoors at a canal-side bistro near Dam Square. Then a train to Rotterdam and—Liz had been particularly careful at that point—an unaccompanied walk to the Old Harbour. She sighed inwardly at the time-consuming nature of it all.

  Liz felt at some disadvantage, with her limited experience of the Province. Maguire was used to dealing with old Northern Ireland hands—like Ricky Perrins and Michael Binding. All men and all veterans of the insular yet vastly complicated world of that conflict. Liz couldn’t even pretend to follow all its ins and outs.

  But then I don’t have to, she told herself, deciding she could use her comparative ignorance to advantage. She was not operating in the traditional framework of the place, because all had changed. She was going to have to appeal to Maguire on personal grounds. The question was whether he could respond to that, or whether he would regard his involvement as over, now that peace of a kind held in Northern Ireland.

  “I was careful,” she assured him.

  He looked unappeased. “I thought I’d made it clear I told everything I know to your colleague Rob Petch,” he said, using Ricky Perrins’s working alias.

  “I’m sure you did,” said Liz, “but Rob’s dead.” You know that, thought Liz. She had told him when she’d rung him, trying to arrange this meeting.

  “I’m sure he reported what I’d said,” said Maguire, giving no ground.

  Liz nodded in acknowledgement of this, but then said firmly, “I wanted to hear the story from you direct. Just in case Rob left something out that could help.”

  “Help with what? I told him, Keaney’s secret asset, whoever they were, was never activated. I really don’t see what you want from me.” His voice was starting to rise. Liz looked anxiously around for a waiter, and one came over—a tall
, moustachioed man in a white apron.

  “Kaffe?” asked Liz, trying to recall her ten words of Dutch.

  The waiter looked down at her with ill-disguised amusement. “White or black, madam?” he said in flawless English. They might have been at the Savoy.

  “White please,” she said with a smile. She had forgotten the essential bilingualism of the Dutch. They listened to the Today programme and watched the ITN news, and read more English-language novels than all the inhabitants of London. One of Liz’s friends from university had lived for six months in Amsterdam and never felt the need to learn a word of Dutch, such was the natives’ aptitude for English.

  Maguire still looked angry. Liz decided to use the waiter’s intervention to change the subject. “Is Rotterdam a favourite place of yours?”

  Maguire shrugged to show his indifference, but then grudgingly started to talk. “It’s where I would have wanted to relocate if I ever got blown. Though Rob always said it would have to be further away. Assuming they didn’t catch me first, of course.” He looked at Liz; they both knew what he meant. In the pre-peace years, without exception every informer the IRA had unearthed and managed to get hold of had been murdered.

  “Why Holland?” asked Liz, keen to keep the man talking.

  “I look a bit Dutch, I suppose,” he said. “I feel I blend in here.” Viewing his features—ruddy cheeks, the thinning sandy hair, blue eyes—Liz saw the truth in this. Maguire could pass for a senior lecturer at the local university. All he needed was a pipe.

  “Is that why you wanted to meet here?”

  “Only partly.” He stared out at the harbour with a hard look in his eyes. “I hope they wouldn’t kill me now, if they knew we were talking—or knew that for years I talked to your colleagues. But it seemed safer on the whole to meet outside Ireland.”