Inside Enemy

by Alan Judd

  ‘I saw a body. I couldn’t confirm whose it was. It was years since I’d seen Viktor Klein.’

  ‘Wasn’t one of ours, was he?’ asked Jeremy, in a lowered voice everyone could hear.

  Jeremy had never known about the case. It used to be one of his complaints that he was never indoctrinated into any Sovbloc cases and the obvious answer – that he had never been involved with any – failed to satisfy him. He should have known better than to ask but Charles had anticipated he would. ‘We’d known each other since Oxford,’ he went on, ignoring Jeremy’s question and working on the principle of adhering to the truth where possible. ‘Then we lost contact, then met up again later. I had his address so thought I’d call to let him know we were moving into the area.’

  ‘Do the police think the body was his?’ asked Wendy.

  ‘I think they do, yes.’

  ‘But why – who – was it a robbery?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess they’ll have to search the house, see what’s missing.’

  ‘There was a contract killing at Cripps Corner a few years ago,’ said Jeremy. ‘Chap on a motorbike shot the driver of a Mercedes on his way to work. Drugs killing, they thought. Not sure it’s ever been cleared up.’

  ‘Bound to be someone who knew him,’ said the constituency chairman. ‘Murders are usually committed by family members or by someone the victim knows well. Probably find an ex-wife or something is behind it. Would be if mine was anything to go by.’ He laughed.

  ‘Are there any ex-wives?’ asked Jeremy.

  No-one answered. Wendy disappeared again into the kitchen.

  The subject would not have lasted through dinner but for Jeremy’s intermittent resumptions. ‘Can’t say I took to him myself,’ he said, with his mouth full of stroganoff. ‘Klein, I mean. Arrogant, bit too pleased with himself. I got on with him, of course. You have to in my job. Wasn’t difficult.’ He swallowed. ‘Wendy had more time for him than I did, didn’t you, darling?’

  Wendy, seated between Charles and Rodney, replied without looking up from her plate. ‘I liked him.’

  Jeremy turned to Charles. ‘What was he, exactly – German or Polish or what? And what did he do, who did he work for, what kind of scientist was he?’

  ‘Bit of a mixture, born in one country, parents from another, brought up in a third, can’t remember precisely. He wasn’t a practising scientist though he had a doctorate in physics. I think he was more concerned with the administration of science, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Cern in Switzerland,’ said Wendy. ‘He told me he worked at Cern on that atomic particle thing.’

  ‘I think he did, yes.’ So that was the local version of Viktor’s cover story. He had probably visited Cern and could describe it. ‘More as a science bureaucrat than an actual scientist.’

  ‘But really nothing to do with the Office, then?’ continued Jeremy, adding, proprietorially and for the benefit of all, ‘Charles is the new head of my old service.’

  ‘No, not one of us.’ The lie direct was better than public equivocation. As a member of the ISC, Jeremy would have to be told later, and told to shut up.

  Dinner was the ritual three courses plus cheese. There were long intervals as Wendy lingered, listening to talk of house prices and school and university fees but contributing as little as she ate. Jeremy held forth on what the country needed, the inexplicable inability of all previous governments to take necessary measures and his hopes for this one now that he and a few like-minded souls were there to hold the prime ministerial nose to the grindstone.

  ‘It’s our only hope for a truly compassionate society, a society that’s both caring and creditworthy. There’s nothing incompatible about those three Cs. Indeed, it’s our task to render them compatible.’ A year in Parliament and he was already sounding like something he’d written, thought Charles, addressing people as if they were a public meeting. Though perhaps he always had. It did at least prompt Wendy to get up and offer tea and coffee.

  It was after midnight and as they balanced cups and saucers in the drawing room, trying not to look anxious to hurry away, Jeremy caught Charles’s eye and lugubriously inclined his head towards the door. Charles followed him into the hall as the former constituency chairman pulled his chair closer to Sarah’s.

  ‘Other thing that popped up on my screen,’ said Jeremy in his theatrical undertone, ‘is the news about your old friend Peter Tew.’

  ‘Has he made the news, then?’

  ‘Not the news, our news. Come and see.’

  His white-panelled study was on the other side of the hall. On the sparse and tidy desk – Jeremy had always been meticulously and somehow incongruously tidy – was an open laptop. Jeremy tapped a key and a chess game came up. ‘Just get rid of this. My opponent’s move. Probably won’t make it till tomorrow now. Very relaxed games, I usually have with this one.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Calls himself Mintoff. Probably Maltese. Remember Dom Mintoff, the troublesome Maltese premier? I’ve about a dozen anonymous chess friends. Most of us use names with some personal connection.’ The chessboard disappeared as he tapped the keys.

  ‘I’d forgotten you played. Viktor Klein played computer chess. Couldn’t be him, could it?’

  Jeremy shook his head. ‘Could be anyone anywhere. You don’t know unless they tell you.’

  Jeremy had been good at chess, Charles now remembered, a solid county player and untypically quiet about it. Perhaps he thought chess wasn’t smart or perhaps he was one of those who took whatever they were good at for granted and boasted only about what they wanted to be good at but weren’t. Espionage, in Jeremy’s case. ‘What name do you use?’

  ‘Isaac Newton.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A familiar-looking script and format came up on the screen. Headed ‘Intcom News in Brief’, it comprised a dozen or so items of non-sensitive news that concerned or originated from the intelligence community. The brief report of Peter Tew’s escape was item four, preceded by recruitment figures for women and ethnic minorities across the three agencies and succeeded by the announcement of a football competition.

  ‘This isn’t an Office computer, is it? You’re not still on the system?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry. I’m not privy to all your secrets. Not that I’d want to be. They’re mostly in the news two days later anyway.’ He patted Charles’s shoulder again. ‘Although, yes, it is actually an Office laptop. Everyone on the ISC has one now for accessing privileged but not really secret stuff about all three agencies – staffing, structures, obituaries, honours and awards, numbers of submissions put up, that sort of thing. This is my old one, actually, I just hung on to it when I left but all the other members have been issued with one. One of your predecessor’s ideas, part of the open government agenda – though I may say I had no small part in getting him to do it. We can’t get into your operational or reporting systems, of course. Absolute firewall. Just as there is between my personal stuff and access to Intcom on this. Says here, look, he escaped from an open prison. You knew him quite well, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not as well as I thought, it turned out.’

  Further down the list was the announcement of the death of Frank Heathfield, obituary to follow. ‘Seems everyone you knew goes missing, dies or gets killed,’ continued Jeremy. ‘Not to mention your marital predecessor, of course. Odd to see Sarah with you. At least she’s survived – so far.’ He laughed.

  ‘And you,’ said Charles.

  There were prolonged and exaggerated farewells, then relieved silence in the car. He didn’t allow himself to worry about the fuel. It was too late, anyway. They’d either make it or they wouldn’t. Sarah had offered to drive but he’d drunk little and wanted distraction from a small but ominous stream of thought.

  Eventually she sighed. ‘I suppose we’ll have to have them back.’

  ‘Sure it’s too late to rent somewhere else?’

  ‘Jeremy will still be on your committee. Did you hear
what he said about your friend just before we left? You’d gone to the loo, I think. He said Dr Klein wouldn’t be a social loss because he wasn’t very sociable, didn’t repay hospitality, but it would be good news for Rodney because he’d presumably end up selling the house again unless there were heirs no-one knew about. Then he looked at Wendy and said, “No little Kleins running around. There won’t be now, anyway. Something to be grateful for.” She didn’t say anything but she looked upset.’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past Viktor to have something going with Wendy.’

  ‘I don’t know what he meant but it jarred. Struck me as odd. She’s not that attractive, is she?’

  ‘Not bad. Wouldn’t need to be for Viktor, anyway. She’s a woman.’

  ‘D’you really think so, with that funny little mouth? Makes her face look squashed. Perhaps Jeremy murdered him. Crime of passion.’

  Not for the first time, Charles was struck by the knack women had of making other women less attractive. He would never now be able to look at Wendy without thinking of her face as squashed from the sides. ‘But Jeremy – I can’t get over what’s happened to him. A lesson in how prats may prosper. Pratishness doesn’t seem to be any bar to progress.’

  ‘I thought you were past puzzling at the progress of prats.’ She yawned. ‘How many more Ps can you get into a sentence?’

  ‘Pissed prats.’

  ‘I meant to ask Jeremy about his glamorous Russian-American assistant who wants me to handle her conveyancing but with all this Dr Klein business I clean forgot.’

  ‘I think that was the turning to our hotel.’

  While Sarah was in the bathroom Charles rang the duty officer whom he knew would be spending the night in two scruffy top-floor rooms in Croydon. The question he asked did not need answering urgently and was probably – almost certainly, he thought – a red herring. ‘Tomorrow will do,’ he told him. ‘Or Monday. Whenever’s convenient.’

  But he slept better for having asked it.

  8

  The doorman at Sarah’s office seemed pleased to have something to relieve the Sunday tedium.

  ‘Your clients rang earlier to see whether you would be in, Ms Bourne.’ Everyone in her working world knew her by her maiden name. ‘I said you were expected and they said they would be along in about – let me see’ – he looked at his record-book – ‘about ten minutes.’

  ‘Clients? Which clients?’

  ‘A Ms Katya Chester and a Mr Mayakovsky. American, by the sound of it. The lady.’

  Sarah dumped her bag on her desk hard enough to shake the computer screen. With the sudden demand for billing and a long-running commercial property deal at London Bridge going critical, as her managing partner put it, she had more than enough to catch up on without the Snow Queen and her Russian sugar-daddy. She had no mobile or home number for Katya Chester and her House of Commons office number was, unsurprisingly, unanswered. She felt like telling the doorman to say she was in a meeting all morning but she’d then have to see them another time and if Katya complained to Jeremy it might make things difficult in Sussex or for Charles at work. So she would see them, but they’d pay through the nose for every minute.

  This time Katya Chester was even taller in platform shoes, with tight jeans and a tight white T-shirt. She towered above Mr Mayakovsky who was shorter than Sarah and stocky, wearing a blue suit, shirt and tie. His round face was tanned and his thinning brown hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. He had pale blue eyes, three large gold rings on his fingers and a handshake that was disconcertingly limp and passive, as if what his hand did was nothing to do with him. Or as if he was indifferent to whomever he met.

  ‘It is so very kind of you to see us,’ said Katya, with a fusillade of smiles. ‘Especially during your weekend when you are so busy, I know. We shall be very brief but it is very important that we progress certain transactions this week as Mr Mayakovsky will be happy to explain. I understand you had a very nice dinner yesterday. Mr Wheeler was very pleased to meet you again.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him already?’

  ‘Someone he knew has unfortunately been murdered and it may be in the papers. The victim was a scientist and lived alone and Mr Wheeler asked me to prepare statements for the press.’

  ‘You must let me have your telephone numbers. I have only your office one.’

  ‘Yes, and I must give you Mr Mayakovsky’s too?’ She glanced at Mr Mayakovsky, who nodded.

  Mr Mayakovsky either didn’t know his number or didn’t care to be seen as someone who had to bother about that sort of thing. He seemed content for Katya to act as his secretary. Katya then repeated everything that had been said before about her house purchase. Sarah interrupted to say that there was nothing more to be done pending responses from the Land Agency. She strove at first not to let her irritation show, then decided she didn’t care.

  ‘Thank you, I think we’ve said all that can be said now. Is there anything else?’ She looked at Mr Mayakovsky, who was staring past her out of the window.

  He turned to Sarah, without alacrity. ‘I should like you kindly to transact my property business.’ His English was slow and heavily accented.

  ‘What is your property business?’

  Katya opened her handbag and handed Sarah a sheet of Ritz notepaper with a handwritten list of about a dozen properties, all in Knightsbridge or Belgravia.

  ‘I wish to buy them,’ said Mr Mayakovsky.

  Most meant nothing to Sarah but there were three or four in Eaton and Belgrave squares, probably flats. ‘Are these residential properties or offices?’ She addressed Mr Mayakovsky but he ignored her and left Katya to speak for him.

  ‘They are both,’ said Katya. ‘Mr Mayakovsky owns many properties in London and in other cities. He wishes to increase his property empire by buying these.’

  Total value would be into the high double figures of millions, if not more. ‘Are they all for sale or are you intending to approach the owners and make offers?’

  ‘Some are and some are not. Mr Mayakovsky would like you to approach all the owners on his behalf.’

  Sarah looked at Mr Mayakovsky, saying nothing until eventually he condescended to nod. ‘May I ask where the finance for this investment comes from, Mr Mayakovsky?’

  ‘From my business.’

  ‘Mr Mayakovsky owns many properties throughout the world and in Russia he has interests in oil and gas and industry and banks,’ said Katya. ‘This is just part of his business.’

  Sarah handed her back the list. ‘If you would send me a printed version indicating those advertised for sale and the identities of the owners of those that are not, along with indications of what Mr Mayakovsky is willing to pay in each case, we would then approach them on his behalf. This would of course mean an enhanced fee.’ It was gratifying to see a flicker of irritation cross Katya’s beautiful features. Perhaps work was uncongenial to her. They parted politely.

  She left the office just before four, reckoning that Charles would be heading back from Croydon by then. He hadn’t intended to go in but felt he had to because of the murder. There was so much to sort out in the house which, despite her efforts so far, still felt like a sorting office. Perhaps after an hour or two of that they could relax and do nothing for the rest of the evening. Since their marriage a few months ago it seemed there had never been time to talk.

  As it was Sunday she had left the car on Blackfriars Road rather than go in and ask the doorman to open the firm’s underground car park. This was normally reserved for partners and important clients, on the grounds that partners often worked late and couldn’t trust public transport to get them home. None was in that day.

  She had almost reached her car when she became aware of someone very close to her left shoulder.

  ‘I am sorry to surprise you, Mrs Thoroughgood,’ said Mr Mayakovsky, ‘but there is another subject I should like to discuss with you, if you please.’

  He spoke more fluently than before. She stood looking down at him
. Most Russians she had met were tall but Mr Mayakovsky’s very compactness was threatening, as if he had been compressed by great forces into a thick square block that could be compressed no further. The indifference he displayed in her office had been replaced by an unsettling concentration. Sarah looked around for Katya. She had never thought she would miss her.

  ‘It would be convenient if we talk in my car.’ He nodded at a black Rolls-Royce parked not far from hers. She could make out a driver wearing a cap.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m in a hurry. Could it wait until we meet again? You could make an appointment.’

  ‘We can talk in your car if you prefer.’

  ‘No, I’d rather not.’ It came out too quickly, before she’d thought what to say next.

  ‘Very well, we can talk here.’ His pale eyes were unblinking. A bus passed, then two Lycra-clad cyclists, talking loudly. A taxi pulled in for a fare on the other side of the road. ‘I have some information which concerns your husband. It is important for his career.’

  She waited for him but he seemed to be waiting for her. Let him, she thought. He can say it himself, whatever it is. The taxi pulled away but still he said nothing. They looked at each other. It was becoming ridiculous. She sighed. ‘Well, you’d better tell me quickly or better still tell him. I’m in a hurry.’ She edged towards her car, putting an extra yard between them.

  Mr Mayakovsky did not move. ‘Your previous husband was also chief of the Single Intelligence Agency,’ he said slowly, as if she needed reminding. ‘In his youth, when he was diplomat, he became a spy for French special services. He gave them English secrets. You know this and your new husband, Mr Thoroughgood, he knows it. But it has never been acknowledged by the British government. If this knowledge is published in the English newspapers it would be very harmful for your husband and for you. He would have to resign.’

  A droopy young man with hair over his shoulders slouched unseeing between them. Sarah heard everything, understood everything, was aware of everything going on around her, but somehow couldn’t engage. Afterwards she thought that was what it must be like to have a stroke.