Breaking Cover

by Stella Rimington

  Miles Brookhaven was reporting on his meeting at CIA HQ, at which the request from Mischa for a meeting had been discussed. He had explained the concern in Langley that nothing should be done to risk exposing their covert Station in Estonia.

  He said, ‘I gather that the Russians are there in force and they’re keeping a close eye on what’s going on in the country. My face is well known to them from various encounters over the years; even if I kept clear of our Station and used a completely new cover, Langley thinks it possible I might be noticed. It’s too much of a risk. Which is why they are asking Liz to go.’

  Geoffrey Fane had been invited to the meeting by Liz, who had thought it better to involve him when decisions were being taken, rather than let him find out afterwards and make objections. Fane had brought Bruno Mackay, who was still looking, to Liz’s eye, paler and thinner than when she had first worked with him. Foreseeing difficulty, Miles had briefed Liz and Peggy in advance of the meeting, and they were all prepared for Fane’s objections.

  Fane said, ‘So, now Andy Bokus thinks it’s his job to dictate to us who should go where.’ Fane had never got on with Bokus during the years when he was Head of the CIA Station in London. ‘I suppose he doesn’t think it important that Europe is being threatened by Illegals. Now he’s left London, we’ve become far less important than his precious Station in the Baltics. And what about the Illegal in the US? What has the Bureau to say about that?’

  Miles replied levelly, ‘Of course it’s of major importance. We all accept that. There is no suggestion that we should ignore Mischa’s request for a meeting, only that someone other than myself should go. It seemed to me, and I suggested it, that the ideal person – the person who was least likely to arouse any suspicion in Tallinn – was Liz.’

  ‘I would be happy to go,’ she said, judging that the time had come to stick her oar in. ‘That’s if you agree, Geoffrey.’

  ‘I should add,’ said Miles, ‘that our new Director of Counter-Intelligence, Sandy Gunderson, chaired the meeting. He asked me to say that he would be very grateful if Liz would do this. I don’t think you have met Sandy yet, Geoffrey. He particularly asked me to send his regards and say that he was looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘Hmm,’ replied Fane. ‘Well, I have no objection in principle to Elizabeth going. I have every confidence in her good sense. But I continue to feel it’s rather high-handed of Langley to choose between our case officers. But please give the Director my regards. I would like to host him in London when he has time to pay us a visit.’

  ‘Of course. But I know he’s hoping to see you in Washington soon. He particularly asked me to extend an invitation.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Fane, slightly mollified by this flattery, obvious though it was. ‘But now, as to the matter of who should go to Tallinn, what is your opinion, Bruno?’

  ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I think Liz would do an excellent job and she is probably the best person to go.’

  Liz could hardly believe her ears. This was not the Bruno she had known several years ago. Whatever it was that had happened to him in Libya, it seemed to have made him a changed man. Bruno went on, ‘I am as well known to the Russians as Miles is, and offhand I can’t suggest anyone with the appropriate background knowledge whom the Russians wouldn’t recognise. And after all, we have to remember that Mischa is offering information on a security threat to the UK – that’s right up Liz’s street.’ He turned to her. ‘Of course we’ll be ready to provide assistance with cover identity and any other back-up that you may need. We’ll let our Station in Riga know you’re coming and they’ll be ready to help if you get into any difficulty.’

  ‘Thanks, Bruno,’ said Liz. ‘I really appreciate that. It should be pretty straightforward – unless Mischa is under suspicion by his own side. But I take it there’s no reason to think that?’ She turned to Miles.

  ‘No. I think it’s fairly clear that he isn’t – and obviously we want to keep it that way. He will be making the contact arrangement and he’s probably the best one to judge what’s safe for him in Tallinn. He’s been there for several weeks already and must have a pretty good idea of the lie of the land.’

  ‘Miles mentioned to me a couple of days ago the possibility that I might go,’ began Liz.

  ‘I see,’ broke in Fane. ‘It’s all been squared between you.’

  ‘Not at all, Geoffrey,’ said Liz. ‘It depends on your agreement, as I’ve made clear.’

  Fane was scowling. He said grudgingly, ‘Very well. Let’s hear what you propose.’

  ‘Peggy has been doing some research into possible covers. Peggy, why don’t you tell us what you think?’

  She leaned forward, looking pleased to have a chance to speak at last. ‘It seems to me that it would be best for Liz to go as part of a group. I’ve found a cultural tour leaving next week that still has a couple of vacancies. It’s run by a company based in Cambridge that organises study tours to different parts of the world, led by experts of various kinds. This one is led by a professor who’s an expert on the Baltic States. It’s called “Historic Estonia” and it’s just three days based in Tallinn.’

  ‘That sounds ideal.’ It was Miles speaking. ‘But what would your cover be, Liz? And what’s your reason for signing up so late?’

  Peggy said, ‘I thought Liz could be a single woman, who gave up work a year or so ago, as a schoolteacher or a librarian or something, to look after her widowed mother, who has just now died. So she’s taking a break to recover from that before looking for a new job.’

  ‘You mean she’s a dotty spinster,’ said Bruno with a grin, suddenly reverting to his old form. ‘I like that.’

  Fane seemed to like this too, and the meeting broke up with a general agreement to go ahead along these lines. Peggy stayed behind with Liz after the others left. She said, ‘I’d like to go with you. I could be your niece or cousin or something. I’m sure it would be helpful to have someone else there.’

  Liz thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think I’d feel more comfortable knowing you were here looking after this end.’

  Peggy’s face fell but she said nothing.

  Liz said, ‘What’s up? You don’t look too good. Is something the matter?’

  Peggy’s lips tightened, and for a moment Liz feared that she’d said the wrong thing. But then Peggy gave a big sigh and said, ‘It’s Tim.’

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ asked Liz. Tim wouldn’t have been her type, with his pale, languid air and attachment to vegetarian food, but he’d seemed to make Peggy happy, which had been enough for Liz.

  ‘Oh, nothing substantial,’ said Peggy. ‘He’s just acting so… weirdly.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ The likeable thing about Tim, as far as Liz was concerned, was his mild eccentricity – lover of John Donne and also the Grateful Dead; never seen in anything smarter than jeans and an anorak.

  ‘He spends more time on the internet than with me. I wouldn’t mind – at least he isn’t texting all the time – but I happened to see what he is looking at, and it scares me.’

  Porn, was Liz’s first thought – it seemed to be the bane of males using the Net. But Peggy said, ‘He spends his time in chat rooms, discussing Government surveillance, the need for full disclosure, and the iniquities of the Western intelligence services.’

  ‘You mentioned that before. I’m surprised; I didn’t realise he was interested in politics,’ said Liz mildly.

  ‘He didn’t used to be. He’s changed, Liz.’ Peggy looked baffled, and very upset. ‘He used to admire Dante. Now Edward Snowden is his hero.’ She added bitterly, ‘A bit rich, considering the job of the woman he lives with.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ was all Liz could think of to say.

  Peggy hesitated, and Liz waited patiently. She didn’t want to push her friend into confidences she might regret, but she could see something more was preying on Peggy’s mind. Finally Peggy said, ‘The thing is, I opened up his laptop.’ She loo
ked embarrassed. ‘It was very peculiar. He’d sent an email that suggested he’s set up another email account – or is about to. It was almost as if someone had told him what to do. He hasn’t mentioned it to me, but that’s definitely what it looks like.’

  ‘You mean, it’s so he can communicate with someone else?’ asked Liz. It did sound odd; if Tim wanted privacy why would he need someone else to help him arrange it?

  ‘The email was from someone signing herself Marina. We don’t have any friends called Marina.’

  ‘It could be entirely innocent,’ said Liz, though it didn’t sound it. Tim seemed an improbable philanderer, but one never knew. No wonder Peggy was so upset.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Peggy wistfully. ‘But then why keep it secret?’

  ‘People do things for all sorts of reasons. You mustn’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘I know. And I feel terrible for snooping.’

  ‘It’s completely understandable. You must be worried sick about him. It’s not as if you were prying for the sake of it.’

  ‘I think he’s got another girlfriend. I could bear that – it happens – but why hasn’t he told me?’

  Peggy looked anguished, and Liz wanted to comfort her. But she wasn’t convinced it was that simple. ‘It doesn’t explain everything, does it? I mean, you said he’d joined these political chat rooms. That’s not about cheating on you.’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe his new girlfriend likes politics. And maybe she has a poster of Edward Snowden in her flat.’ Peggy sounded deeply hurt rather than angry.

  ‘Can you talk to him?’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘He’d only get angry. And want to know how I knew any of this. If he thought I’d been going through his laptop, he’d go spare. And probably move out.’

  Let him, thought Liz, but one look at the misery on Peggy’s face meant she couldn’t possibly say it. Part of Liz thought Peggy would be better off without Tim, now that he was acting like a creep. But part of her was curious about what was going on – she wondered whether it was worth having a closer look at what he was doing. After all, he was living with a member of the intelligence service. Was he a security risk? Surely not mild-mannered Tim.

  29

  It was her third week at Vauxhall Cross, and at lunchtime Jasminder left the building after collecting her phone at reception. She found a message on it from Laurenz asking her to ring him. He answered at once. ‘Ah, good,’ he said, ‘your new guardians are letting you use your phone.’

  ‘No, it’s just I’ve left the building for lunch. It’s such a nice day I thought I’d take a walk along the river. Do you want me to pick anything up for supper while I’m out?’

  ‘No. I thought we’d go out tonight. I have a surprise for you.’

  ‘Really, what is it?’

  ‘That would be telling, and then it wouldn’t be a surprise. I’ll see you at the flat first, okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll make sure not to stay late tonight.’ She was intrigued.

  As she passed Vauxhall Bridge, heading upstream on the bright spring day, Jasminder decided she had never been busier – or happier. Work was demanding; she was expected to learn all the background to her job and do it simultaneously. Already she’d spent whole days visiting GCHQ at Cheltenham and MI5 across the river, only to find a new stack of paper had accumulated on her desk in her absence, which made no allowance for the fact she’d been away.

  But the job was fascinating, and she didn’t mind burning the midnight oil, especially now that she had Laurenz for company. Though they would occasionally meet after work in a wine bar or a restaurant for supper, most nights they stayed in, and he cooked – something he said he enjoyed, which was a good thing, since Jasminder’s cooking skills stopped at scrambled eggs. He seemed to have an uncanny sense of when she wanted to talk about her day, and when work was the last thing she felt like discussing.

  The only odd thing about their relationship, something that seemed odder still as time passed, was that they never saw anyone else as a couple. He’d already rebuffed her suggestion that they meet up with Emma so firmly that she didn’t dare propose it again. But what about his friends? Laurenz did talk sometimes about his work, and the geopolitical risk assessments he made for his clients. When Jasminder and he watched the ten o’clock news together, inevitably there would be a report of something going on somewhere that would have an impact on one of Laurenz’s clients’ holdings. But he didn’t seem to have friends among his colleagues, and sometimes she wondered if he even had any. There was a man called Karl at the bank, who would come up in conversation from time to time, but according to Laurenz, Karl was a pain, rather than a pal. To be fair, Laurenz had told Jasminder that he worked largely on his own. She wondered if he preferred it that way. No one would have called him a social animal.

  But this evening he surprised her all right. They went to a local bistro, where he insisted on ordering a bottle of wine. When their starters came he leaned forward and clinked glasses with her.

  ‘Are we celebrating something?’ she asked curiously. He seemed in exuberant spirits.

  ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘You know how you have been complaining that you never meet any of my colleagues?’

  ‘Well, not complaining, just wondering really.’

  ‘Perfectly understandable. But as I have tried to explain, I haven’t lived in the UK very long, so it’s true I don’t really have friends here. However, I’m not a hermit and I do have colleagues and some of them are friends. It’s just that they’re spread all over the place. Banking is so international these days.’

  She nodded slowly. He went on, ‘A couple of years ago one of my pals at the bank got married, and the whole group of colleagues who knew him realised that we only ever got to see each other socially at special occasions – like a wedding. But you can’t plan on those happening very often. More importantly, we realised that months could go by without our getting together and we needed to meet periodically to exchange views and keep in touch.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So now our bank has an annual conference, usually held somewhere exotic. The problem is it only last two or three days, and it’s quite intense – lots of meetings and presentations; outside speakers come in and clients. It’s not an excuse for a party; we all work very hard.’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t sound like a jolly to me.’

  ‘Far from it. But we always go to a good place. This year we’re meeting in Bermuda. Have you ever been?’

  Jasminder shook her head. He said, ‘It’s where the bank has its headquarters, though that doesn’t mean we have a great big building – more of a house with offices in it, really. But Bermuda is lovely – even nicer than the photographs. White sand beaches, blue skies, friendly people, good food. I worked there for a while a few years ago, and didn’t want to leave.

  ‘Anyway, some of us usually stay on after the conference to relax and have a bit of a holiday, and occasionally clients and speakers join us. We’ll have wonderful meals, play some golf perhaps or just lie by the pool. It’s a brilliant way to decompress, and best of all, it lets us see each other for more than a few snatched minutes between conference sessions.’

  ‘Are partners invited?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘Absolutely. That’s the whole point.’ He paused. ‘If you’d come this year, you’d meet my colleagues and I could introduce you to some of our clients as well.’ He put down his glass and reached over for her hand, gazing at her with a smile. ‘It would mean a lot to me for them to meet the person who is making my life so happy. My close friends know what I’ve been going through with this wretched divorce. I want them to see how much better things are.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Jasminder said, but her face gave away the fact that there was a problem.

  ‘But…?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve only just started this job, and I don’t see how I can ask for time off so soon.’

  ‘I have thought of that, don’t worry. You could join us at the we
ekend. One of my clients is also a good friend – he’s absolutely stinking rich.’ Laurenz held a hand to his face in mock apology. ‘Or should I say, highly affluent?’ Jasminder laughed. Laurenz continued, ‘If you could take just one day off, then it would work out perfectly. Discover a great-aunt whose funeral you have to attend. It’s only a day, after all. You could fly out on the Friday, and be with us in time for supper. We’d have all day Saturday, most of Sunday, and then that night this client of mine will be flying back to London – on his private jet. We could get a lift with him, and you’d be at your desk first thing on Monday morning. Everything would be paid for.’

  ‘By the bank?’

  ‘By me.’

  And before she could object, he squeezed her hand again across the table. ‘Don’t say no, please; it would give me such pleasure, and I promise you’d enjoy yourself.’

  They walked back in the slowly gathering dusk to Laurenz’s flat. He put his arm through Jasminder’s and said, ‘See? I’m not the mystery man you thought I was.’

  She laughed, partly in relief that he understood how strange she’d been starting to find his behaviour. She said, ‘Does this mean you’ll finally agree to meet Emma?’

  She felt his arm stiffen, almost imperceptibly. ‘Of course,’ he said carefully, ‘but that might take a little longer. I’m still quite wary of my wife, and our negotiations have reached a critical point. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardise things there. I hope you understand.’

  Jasminder told herself she did, though she still couldn’t see why having lunch – or even dinner – with Emma was going to make any difference to his divorce settlement. But she sensed it would spoil the evening to push the point. She said instead, ‘I meant to tell you, I’m going to be away for a couple of nights next week.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m going to Berlin. With C and the senior management team,’ she added; she had only been told that afternoon. ‘He’s giving a speech to a meeting of European intelligence heads.’ She paused. ‘Please forget I mentioned it. I shouldn’t have said anything.’