She hardly knew this man, but felt rather relieved to hear he was getting divorced. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to want to talk about it – unlike more than one of the dinner-party table mates she’d been partnered with, who seemed eager to talk about little else, usually with a mix of self-pity and bitter recrimination. But Laurenz carefully steered their talk away from his absent wife, and soon Jasminder found herself describing the particularly difficult case of the Somali woman whose husband had terrorist connections. Laurenz seemed both pleasingly knowledgeable about the issues and interested in the case. Their talk moved on to internet privacy and surveillance by government agencies – flatteringly, he had read an account of her talk at King’s online. For a banker, he seemed very progressive in his thinking, and more sceptical than Jasminder herself about the corrupting influences intelligence services were prone to.
It was serious conversation, lightened by a second glass of wine, and she found herself hoping they’d move on to dinner when Laurenz announced he had to leave soon: he was catching the night train to Edinburgh, for a meeting the next morning.
‘I’ll be back the day after tomorrow,’ he said. He paused, and Jasminder looked at him; he was very attractive, she decided, and it wasn’t just the wine speaking. He had high Nordic cheekbones, but dark hair and dark blue eyes – not at all the stereotypical Scandinavian.
‘I imagine you’re busy at the weekend,’ he was saying.
‘Well, not this weekend actually,’ she said, as if all the others were jammed full.
His face brightened. ‘Would you like to have dinner on Saturday then? There’s a nice new place in Primrose Hill.’
You bet I would, thought Jasminder, and said coolly, ‘That would be lovely. Could it be late-ish, say eight-thirty? I’ve got to see a client first.’
7
Liz could tell that Catherine Palmer was slightly nervous, but she couldn’t understand why. The Head of MI6’s HR department was the first woman to hold that post, and in Liz’s limited contact with her previously she had seemed very able and pretty sure of herself. She had rung to ask if she could ‘pick Liz’s brains’, though she didn’t say what about. It seemed an odd request but there had been no reason to refuse.
They sat in the café in the atrium on the ground floor of Thames House where a decent cup of coffee could be obtained. Catherine Palmer was an attractive woman, about Liz’s age, with rather striking wavy red hair cut very short, like a boy’s. She had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks and very pale blue eyes. In spite of her gamine appearance she had a firm business-like manner and Liz could easily understand how she had reached her present position.
They made small talk at first – about how overcrowded Thames House was getting and how the open-plan arrangements were working out. ‘The new C is all in favour of it. But we’re having some trouble with the old guard.’
Liz knew who one of the ‘old guard’ would be and suppressed a smile at the thought of her patrician counterpart Geoffrey Fane losing his eyrie high up at Vauxhall Cross, with its antique furniture and fine Persian rugs.
‘The reason I wanted to talk to you,’ said Catherine at last, seeming to summon up the courage to get to the point, ‘was because C asked me to.’
‘Really?’ Liz was surprised, since she had yet to meet Treadwell.
‘Yes. You see, he has decided that our service needs a Communications Director. We do have a small press team as you know, responsible for contact with the media, but this would be a more prominent position, and involve a more proactive role.’
Catherine hesitated before she continued. ‘In the past, this would have been a post filled by a member of the service, but C feels strongly that we should cast the net more widely. Not all of his directors agree, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ Liz nodded, remembering how vociferous Fane had been on the topic. ‘They feel only an experienced case officer could properly represent the Service. I was at the meeting where this was discussed, and C agreed that initially we should take soundings in the intelligence community. That’s where you come in,’ she added, almost apologetically.
‘I do?’ asked Liz, slightly perplexed.
Catherine nodded. ‘Yes, your name came up at the meeting.’
‘Well, I’m flattered that you think I can help, but—’
Catherine interrupted, shaking her head. ‘I should have been clearer. It’s not your advice we want, though I’m sure it would be excellent. Rather, it was thought that conceivably you might think about applying for the post yourself.’
Liz was taken aback. ‘Me? Did C suggest that?’
‘No. It was one of the senior officers. But several others seconded the idea.’
Fane again, thought Liz. She thought for a moment about the proposition. It was certainly flattering to be approached, and a small part of her was actually intrigued by the idea. What a mission, after all: to represent to the world a service that traditionally prided itself on its secrecy – too much so, in Liz’s view. And it would be a significant promotion.
But then she thought of all she would surrender by taking such a job – MI5, to begin with, where her greatest loyalties lay; her colleagues, especially Peggy; and most of all the job itself, which, whatever its frustrations, was immensely stimulating, always challenging, and always important. Swapping it for lunches with sympathetic journalists (or, worse still, unsympathetic journalists) would be an uneven exchange she was sure she would regret.
‘I’m very flattered by the suggestion – I really am. And I would like to think about it, and maybe talk more to you about exactly what it would involve. But I have to say that my first reaction is that it’s just not something I would want to do. It’s so different from the way I see my career going and I think it might be difficult ever to return to operational work from such a high-profile role.’
Catherine nodded regretfully. ‘I understand; I did think it was a long shot. Think about it, and if there’s any chance you might be interested, give me a ring and I’ll arrange for you to meet C and some others for a chat. We’re planning on asking some head-hunters to do a search so we’ll be producing a detailed job spec and profile very shortly. I’ll send you a copy just in case.’ She seemed weighed down by the prospect of trying to fill the post; Liz sensed the meeting with C and senior MI6 officers had been a contentious one. Old hands like Geoffrey Fane were experts at digging their heels in. Catherine went on, ‘I’d be really grateful if you have any ideas for people who might be interested and suitable.’
Liz thought for a moment. ‘In the intelligence community?’
‘Or outside. C would not be against an outsider, provided they had the right skills and profile. Frankly, I think when he agreed to look first inside the intelligence community, he didn’t think it likely anyone suitable would emerge. And he’s already made it clear he doesn’t want an MI6 insider.’
Interesting, thought Liz. Her respect for this man Treadwell was growing. He was lulling old recidivists like Fane into thinking he was backing down by compromising, all the while confident that they’d be forced in the end to revert to his original idea of going outside. Fane – for Liz was certain it would have been he who’d first raised her name – was going to be furious. And not just with C – Liz expected she’d bear the brunt of his displeasure for turning down this ‘golden opportunity’ to cross the river and work with him.
But something else was stirring in her. She remembered how Peggy had reported back on the talk she’d been to at King’s, given by Jasminder Kapoor. Peggy’s account of it had been positively glowing, and she’d been equally laudatory of Kapoor’s ability to handle tough questions.
And, slightly to Liz’s surprise, from Peggy’s account it seemed clear that Jasminder wasn’t a firebrand, but that rarer bird – a dispassionate observer of the Janus-like problem of keeping the country’s citizens safe without destroying the rights that gave them something to be safe for. In Liz’s view, MI6 and the intelligence world in general could only
benefit from having someone represent their views publicly; she liked the sound of this chap Treadwell, moreover, who seemed keen to sweep a new broom through the dusty corridors of Vauxhall Cross. And, to be honest, there was something that appealed to Liz’s mischievous side in the idea of Geoffrey Fane sitting on a selection board interviewing a highly intelligent and personable female civil rights lawyer for a post he didn’t approve of. That would set the cat among his pigeons; he’d set plenty among Liz’s in his time.
So she said cheerfully, ‘Actually, I do have one thought. Why don’t we have another cup of coffee and I’ll tell you about it.’
8
As the hands of the clock in the small tutorial room moved towards noon Jasminder said, ‘That’s it for today. I’d like you each to do an outline brief for the defence of this case, making the points we’ve been discussing as convincingly as you can. Put it in my pigeon hole by Friday evening, please.’
She watched as the students gathered their papers together, scraped their chairs back and filed out of the room. When they’d left she sighed. She knew that one of them would make most of the relevant points, a couple more would include some of them, and the remaining three would produce something that showed they had understood very little of what she’d been saying. But the most dispiriting part was that even the brightest didn’t seem to have been taught how to write; how to marshal an argument; how to make points effectively. She shouldn’t have to waste her time teaching undergraduates how to write English; the schools should have done that before they ever reached university.
She got up to collect her things. She had a couple of clients to see at the charity in an hour and a half and was intending to grab some lunch in the restaurant before she left the college. As she was putting on her coat, the phone rang.
A woman’s voice said, ‘Oh, hello. This is Rosamund Butler from Egerton Smith, the executive search company. We do a lot of our work for Government departments and agencies. May I take a moment of your time to explain one of the searches we have been commissioned to do? I wanted to ask your advice, and to ask particularly if you had any suggestions as to who might be interested in applying for the position.’
Jasminder sat down. She had had dealings with head-hunters before and she recognised the approach. This woman was going to try and persuade her to apply for the job.
‘Before you go any further,’ she said, ‘I am not interested in applying for anything in Government service. And if I were, I don’t think I’d be successful. I assume you know something about me, and if so you’ll know that my views are not the same as those of the Government on lots of things. I’m a civil liberties lawyer and I spend a lot of my time helping people work their way through Government regulations.’
‘The reason I am approaching you is that this post is directly about civil liberties,’ Rosamund broke in. ‘I saw a report of your lecture a few weeks ago and I’ve read the text online. It was the views you expressed on the balance between our rights to a private life and freedom of expression, and the Government’s need for information to protect us at a time of high security threat, that made me think you might be the ideal person for this job. It is a post in a Government agency directly concerned with the security of the country. They are looking to appoint a Director of Communications. They don’t want a cheerleader for their work. They need someone who understands the arguments of their critics, and who can, in a sense, represent one side to the other and so help bring the two sides nearer together. From what you said the other week it is clear that you do.’
Jasminder didn’t reply. Unusually for her, she didn’t know what to say. Surely this could only be one of the intelligence agencies and the thought that they might be trying to head-hunt her took her breath away. But it also intrigued her. While she was still thinking what to say, Rosamund broke the silence. ‘Look, why don’t you come over to my office when you have a moment? I can show you the detailed job description, and I’ll get someone who knows about the job from the inside to come and join us. The only thing I would say is there is a certain confidentiality attached to the search at this stage, so I would be grateful if you wouldn’t talk about it.’
By this time Jasminder was far too intrigued to say no, and a meeting was fixed up for the following week at which Rosamund and this mysterious ‘someone’ would explain more.
During the next few days Jasminder said nothing to anyone about the approach from the head-hunter, though she was very tempted to ring her friend Emma and ask her opinion. She thought about the job a lot. In fact she couldn’t get it out of her head. Twice she decided not to go to the meeting and twice she changed her mind, curiosity overcoming her doubts.
On the agreed day, at the agreed time, she rang the bell on the door of an anonymous Georgian house in a street off Berkeley Square. A smartly dressed young woman showed her into a small room, more like a drawing room than a waiting room, furnished with draped curtains, a couple of soft grey-upholstered armchairs, and a low table holding copies of Country Life and The World of Interiors plus a stack of glossy company reports.
Jasminder sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, putting her bulging bag, full of students’ essays, on the floor beside her, feeling very out of place. She wished she hadn’t come; she was sure she was not going to like Rosamund Butler, who had sounded so smooth on the phone.
She had just started to flick through one of the magazines when the door opened and a short, middle-aged woman, wearing a grey flannel skirt and a jumper, with her glasses dangling from a chain round her neck, came in. Jasminder stood up as the woman walked across the room and, shaking her warmly by the hand, introduced herself as Rosamund.
‘I am so pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘Let’s go into my office. I have someone there for you to meet. You can leave your bag here.’
Jasminder, who had been expecting a cool, elegant woman in a sharp suit and Louboutins, started to feel much better. The other person turned out to be a red-haired woman just a few years older than Jasminder herself, who was introduced as ‘Catherine’. From her, Jasminder learned that the post was Communications Director in one of the intelligence agencies. It was a new post and something of an experiment. The person appointed would be working closely with the senior management, and the Head of the Service himself was taking a keen interest. They were looking for someone who would be an intermediary with the media and other external contacts. It was important, Catherine said, that whoever was appointed should understand the current freedom of information and data access issues, not to bang the drum for the agencies but to listen and explain and act as a sort of conduit between the Service and its critics. The post was for a year in the first instance and if it were a success it would be made permanent. If Jasminder were appointed they could help her negotiate a sabbatical from King’s.
Three-quarters of an hour later, when she walked out into Berkeley Square carrying a folder containing a description of the post (which actually told her not much more than Catherine had said), and several long and daunting-looking forms, Jasminder was exhilarated. How very much more interesting this would be than reading her students’ confused and garbled scripts. It would be a risk to her reputation, of course, because a lot of people would think that she had sold out and gone over to the other side. But if what the two women had told her were true, she could have a big influence on a very important national issue. She would be in a better position than anyone else to see all sides of the freedom versus security debate. She hadn’t expected to be interested at all, and here she was getting excited about a job she hadn’t even been offered. She told herself she needed to slow down and think things over.
9
In reorganising the internal space in Thames House to provide large open-plan floors, a few small corners had been partitioned off as meeting rooms. It was in one of these featureless, windowless rooms that the Counter-Espionage Group was to assemble for its meeting. Peggy, who was the group’s secretary, had given Liz an agenda headed ‘Counter-Espio
nage Assessment Committee (CEAC)’. There were four items on the agenda:
1. Review of terms of reference and membership
2. Report by GCHQ
3. Review of current cases
4. AOB and date of next meeting
‘Do we really need to be this formal?’ enquired Liz, agenda in hand.
‘Yes,’ replied Peggy firmly. ‘I think we do. There was a bit of moaning and people saying “not another committee” when I rang round to invite them. I think if we don’t make it formal we’ll get poor attendance.’
Peggy’s forecast seemed to be borne out when Liz arrived at the meeting room dead on eleven o’clock to find there was no one there except her colleague, who had set the table with pens and paper, water and coffee in a thermos jug.
‘Where is everyone?’ Liz asked irritably. She hated hanging around waiting for people.
‘Charlie Simmons’s train from Cheltenham was delayed but he should be here in about ten minutes; DI Ferguson from Special Branch said he was coming, as did Rona Benson from the Home Office, and we’ll have the pleasure of the company of your second-favourite Six officer.’
‘Bruno Mackay?’ When Peggy nodded, Liz demanded, ‘What’s he doing here? Last I heard, he was in Libya.’
‘I gather he covered himself with glory and had some sort of nervous collapse, so he’s on light duties for a change.’
‘Hmm.’ Liz said nothing else but she knew (and she knew that Peggy knew) that she too was on ‘light duties’. No one had ever actually said so, but it was obvious to her that the decision to post her away from counter-terrorism into counter-espionage had been taken because the powers that be thought she needed a period of comparative calm after Martin’s death. Untypically, she had not complained. Counter-espionage was fascinating and important even if cases proceeded at a less hectic pace than in counter-terrorism. That suited her for now, but not for too long.
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