by Alan Judd
Mr Mayakovsky continued, still without moving any closer. ‘In Moscow, Russian special services also have this knowledge for a long time. But they have not used it. Now they are thinking they will use it. Perhaps the world should know about this thing. But it is possible to stop them. Perhaps.’
An artery throbbed in the side of Sarah’s head. Mr Mayakovsky was moving towards her now. She found herself moving too, alongside him, towards his car. He was speaking again but this time she was taking nothing in. There was a thickening fog between her and what was happening. Mr Mayakovsky touched her elbow, his car door opened and she stepped in, almost without stooping. It felt and smelt luxurious, the seat was huge. They sat beside each other facing the back of the driver’s head but the car didn’t move. It was as if she was struggling against anaesthetic. Concentrate, she told herself, concentrate. But the threatened resurrection of all that she and Charles had gone through swept through her like a numbing and nauseous wave. It would be the end of Charles; the end of them, perhaps.
‘If it can be arranged sensibly for both parties,’ Mr Mayakovsky was saying, ‘if they believe they will learn things, special things, they will do nothing.’
The fog was lifting. ‘What things?’ Her voice felt normal. ‘What do they want to learn? How do they think they will learn it?’
Mr Mayakovsky’s eyes rested on the fat immobile neck of his chauffeur. ‘State secrets. If they learn state secrets from you, they will be silent.’
‘State secrets? I don’t know any state secrets. How do they think they could learn them from me?’
‘From your husband. He will tell you things.’
‘He doesn’t, he talks very little about his work – past or present.’ It was true; she knew the kind of issues Charles would deal with but he would say little about the detail. Neither would she of her work, come to that. His telling her about the late Dr Klein that weekend, giving her the history of the Configure case, was an exception. But that was history now and was going to come out anyway. ‘What’s more,’ she said, her confidence growing with her indignation, ‘if you think there’s the remotest chance that I’m going to run along to the KGB or whatever they now call themselves and prattle about our pillow-talk, you’d better think again. And if you don’t mind I’d like to go.’
‘It would not be necessary for you to meet Russian special services. It is better you never meet them. You can talk to me.’
His disregard of normal social responses and his unnerving persistence were intimidating. But she felt offended, which helped. ‘So you’re their spy, are you? Is that what you are, Mr Mayakovsky – a spy?’
‘I do not work for special services but I know them and they have told to me about you and your husband and how I can tell you how you can save yourself from this difficulty. You do not have to tell them very much, nothing at all yet. It will be sufficient for them to know that we are friends.’
‘Friends? You and me friends, Mr Mayakovsky?’
‘So long as they believe that, it will be sufficient. It is necessary only that we meet and talk sometimes. My properties can be the reason for that.’
‘Of course, your properties. Your would-be properties. You mean you’re really going to buy them? That all this portfolio business is real and not just a camouflage?’
‘Of course it is real.’ For the first time there was evidence of a reaction. His skin colour changed slightly, as if after a slap. ‘I buy what I want. If I want something, I buy it. Why else have money? I will buy these properties.’
Sarah was beginning to feel thoroughly herself again. She sat upright on the edge of the deep seat, her handbag on her knees. ‘Then I’m sorry to disappoint you but you’re not buying me. I am not going to spy on my husband. In fact, I shall go home and tell him exactly what has happened. He will know what to do with people like you.’ She thought she must sound ridiculously prim and proper, but that was the way it came.
‘There is one other question I must ask.’ He waited for a reaction. ‘Mr Peter Tew. He was friend of your husband until he was sent to prison. Now he is out of prison. Is he friend of your husband again? Has your husband seen him?’
The name meant nothing. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘I would like to meet this man.’
‘Then you’d better ask my husband.’
‘He has computer which we—’
‘Then you can ask him yourself. Goodbye, Mr Mayakovsky.’
Her exit was marred by the few seconds it took to find the door handle. Mr Mayakovsky did not help. His gaze had returned to his chauffeur’s neck. ‘Think carefully before you tell your husband, Mrs Thoroughgood.’
9
‘We’ll have to think very carefully about what we say,’ said Melissa Carron.
That much they could agree on. They were in Charles’s office. Melissa, who lived in Richmond and had a child’s birthday party to host, had been reluctant to come in but Charles had insisted. Her journey had been slow and vexatious. Power was off throughout south London and the office generators were still not working, thus there were no lifts, no computers and no lights. Only the phones worked.
‘Since it’s possible that his work for us was what got Configure murdered,’ said Charles, ‘we’ve no alternative but to tell the police everything. But can we trust them not to plaster it all over the press or the blogosphere or whatever it’s called?’
‘Would that matter? If it was the Russians who killed him they already know what he did and where he was. And if it wasn’t them it’s too late for them to do anything about it anyway. So there’s nothing left for us to protect. Also, it’s an old case, it’s not as if we remained involved after he was resettled, we didn’t have anything to do with him, so it’s really nothing to do with us any more. And it would all come out in the inquest, anyway.’
He couldn’t tell Melissa the nature of Viktor’s continuing work via his unsuspecting brother. Nor could he show her the handwritten note from the duty officer, shielded by his empty coffee mug. He would have given a lot to fill the mug but there was no power for the kettle.
‘All you say is true,’ he said, ‘but we mustn’t simply assume it was the Russians and not look anywhere else. It’s one possibility among others. Perhaps the most likely – certainly the most obvious, it looks like their sort of job. But’ – he chose his words – ‘Configure continued to be consulted after his debriefing was over. He was almost more a current case than a resettled defector. We can’t keep that back from the police but at the same time we don’t want to let the Russians know. Or open their eyes to what we were doing with him if it wasn’t them that killed him.’
‘But who else could it have been? Robbery wasn’t a motive, from what you say.’
‘No.’ He glanced again at the note. He was tempted to tell her all but the COFE meeting had been unequivocal: someone within MI6 was permitting the Russians or Chinese access to its systems and he could tell no-one. Melissa was one of the last people he would have suspected of treachery but the sight of her unopened laptop on the desk before her was another reminder. He said the next thing that came into his head. ‘A jealous husband, perhaps. He had form in that area.’
‘Why not get MI5 to brief the police? They work with them more than we do and have a better feel for who to trust and how to manage things. And they both come under the Home Secretary.’
He remembered that she was ex-MI5. ‘Good idea. Brief your opposite number and give them my numbers. Tell them not to hesitate if I’m needed.’
She picked up her bag and laptop. ‘You knew him well, Configure?’
‘We go – went – back a long way. I was his first case officer.’
‘Must be upsetting for you.’
‘Yes.’ It sounded a cold and inadequate response but he was thinking again of the note. ‘His is not the only recent death. Did you know Frank Heathfield?’
‘Only by name, from long ago. Headed your counter-intelligence section, didn’t
he? Used to work closely with our CE – counter-espionage – people. I saw he’d died in the e-newsletter.’ She tapped her laptop. As she did so her mobile rang. She scrabbled in her bag to quell it. ‘Sorry. Security breach for the director of security?’
They both smiled. ‘Not on Sundays between consenting adults. Good luck with the party.’
He rang the duty officer. They had reverted to the rota system of using a pool of retired officers but this one, Derek, sounded younger than most and was unknown to Charles.
‘Any news on this power cut?’
‘No, sir, except that it’s more extensive than first thought. Seems to be most of south London. Whitehall’s okay. I’ve just been on to the MI5 duty officer. They’ve been fine all morning. Still problems with our own generators, apparently. We’re waiting for parts.’
‘It’s MI5 I want to talk to. Could you get me the DG? And find out whether he has a secure phone at home.’
‘He does. I’ll call you back on yours when I’ve got him, sir, and put you through.’
‘Thanks, Derek. And let me know if you hear anything more about Frank Heathfield.’ Charles waited. He was still getting used to being called ‘sir’ again, the first time since he had left the Army many years ago. His predecessor had abolished the practice, insisting that everyone should call him Nigel but Charles had reverted to the old MI6 tradition under which everyone was on first-name terms with everyone else except when addressing the Chief, who was called ‘sir’ or CSS. Charles favoured it not because it enhanced his importance but because it emphasised his difference. As Chief he could be friendly but no-one’s friend; it was part of his job to sack or censure people.
‘This is a bit keen, isn’t it? In the office on a Sunday? What can I do for you?’
The secure phone made Michael Dunton sound as if he were shouting in Charles’s ear. ‘You can tell me whether I’m being a paranoid fantasist,’ said Charles. He described Viktor’s death.
‘Oh Christ.’
‘And now there’s Frank Heathfield, too. Have you heard about that? Our duty officer has it from your duty officer who had it from the police that Frank was murdered in pretty much the same way but with his wife in the house and at night. Knock on the door, he answered, a single shot – shotgun again – then the sound of a disappearing motorbike. She didn’t see anything.’
Michael said nothing for a moment. ‘I knew Frank from when I was in CE. Nice man, kind man, very shrewd. You think there’s a connection? Hard to believe there isn’t, but what?’
‘Peter Tew.’
‘Go on.’
‘Four people were responsible for unmasking Peter: Matthew Abrahams, who died while Peter was in prison, Configure, murdered since Peter’s escape, Frank, ditto. And me.’
‘Jesus. I’d better come in.’
‘No need. Nothing to be done just now, apart from check on the police hunt for him.’
‘I’ll do that and make sure you’re kept informed. The police need to know about this. We’ll raise it at the emergency COFE this afternoon. You know about that, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘I did hear they were having trouble getting hold of you. Your mobile was off and no-one seems to know where you live. The meeting’s not about this but there may be a connection. It was you he confessed to, wasn’t it? Tew, I mean.’
‘Me plus the other two. It was my question that provoked his confession but that was by chance. I wasn’t the main inquisitor. Then we spent the weekend together, he and I, walking and talking. He told the whole story. Then we handed him in.’
‘Wouldn’t happen like that now. Better watch your step.’
Charles sat for a while, gazing out of the window at the Sunday morning traffic that seemed to manage perfectly without traffic lights. With the computer system down he couldn’t check whether Peter’s file had been preserved in paper form or whether it had been digitised or, worse, microfilmed.
Not that he needed it to recall Peter’s interrogation, boldly coloured in his memory. A Thursday and Friday were set aside for it in a panelled room in the Carlton Gardens house the Office then used as a front office, overlooking the Mall and St James’s Park. There was an ancient polished table with three leather-padded captain’s chairs on one side and one on the other. On the table were a water jug and four glasses, a heavy circular glass ashtray, three white blotting pads with plain notepaper and pencils and several fat, buff, red-striped files. There were no telephones or screens. On a smaller table to the side, near the stone fireplace, were cups and saucers with a milk jug, tea, coffee, kettle and a plate of custard creams. Embedded in the walls and ceiling were concealed microphones operated by a button on the underside of the desk. Downstairs, in one of the green brick basement offices which recalled wartime austerity, were two large tape recorders, two black telephones and a built-in cupboard of radio communications kit. There were four grey metal desks, two with microphones, manned by a man and a woman. They too had tea and coffee, but plain biscuits.
When Matthew Abrahams, Frank Heathfield and Charles reassembled in the panelled room on the Friday morning the air was still stale with cigarette and pipe smoke from the day before. Smoking, already discouraged in the office, was not actually banned and Peter Tew was a regular smoker. For most of Thursday he had not smoked but towards the end of the day, when Matthew handed him a paper from the top red-striped file, he opened the packet of Gauloises he had put on the desk before him not long after they began. The paper was a four-page top-secret report with a distinctive blue border.
‘Do you remember this report?’ Matthew asked as he pushed it across the desk. ‘And could you explain how the Russians came to have it?’
Peter read quickly and smoked slowly. When he finished he laid the paper on the desk, flicked his ash, sat back and stared at Matthew. ‘What am I supposed to say? Of course I remember it. I wrote it. It’s one of P24029’s early reports from New York, one of his best. He’s always good on Security Council machinations. I was his case officer at the time. But I’ve no idea how the Russians got hold of it. Nor how you can be sure they have?’ He raised his eyebrows.
Matthew ignored the question, speaking slowly. ‘What puzzles us, Peter, is how they come to have that copy and not another. Because that is the telegraphic version you sent from New York station back to the Requirements officer in London. She made one or two stylistic alterations to your text and added a paragraph of R desk comment. It was her version that was circulated to customers, including the Americans and your own ambassador and other CX readers in New York. But the first version – your own unedited version – was seen by very few people: you, your head of station, your secretary and the R desk here. And that’s the version the Russians have.’ He paused. Peter said nothing. ‘If you were in our shoes, Peter, confronted by this problem, where do you think you might start?’
Peter shrugged. ‘I think I would start where you have, with the New York station.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’ Matthew laid one hand on the file. ‘Especially as this is not the only New York station paper that found its way to the Russians.’
‘Although there’s always the R desk. The leak could be from there.’
‘We considered that. But the R desk gets reports from all Western hemisphere stations, none of which is known to have leaked. And the leaks from New York began, we now know, not long after your arrival and stopped about when you left.’
The only sounds were the traffic on the Mall and the ticking of the oval clock on the mantelpiece. Peter stubbed out his cigarette, staring at Matthew, ignoring Frank and Charles. ‘I do see you have a problem.’
‘Think, Peter, about what you would do in our position.’ Matthew paused again, then surprised everyone by saying, ‘Meanwhile, I think we should call it a day.’
The Thursday morning had started quite differently. Peter arrived in Carlton Gardens having been told by Personnel in Head Office that some interviews were temporarily relocated due to building alteratio
ns. When he saw who his interviewers were and it was explained that this was an informal board of inquiry seeking his help, he was at first puzzled, then irritated. As they shook hands he said to Charles, ‘Didn’t know you had security interests. Career move or here for the fun?’
‘I was asked to help out.’
‘Kind of you.’
He faced them with his legs crossed and an expression of polite scepticism. Matthew explained that this was a general inquiry into a leak of information. It was not necessarily related to him but they hoped he might be able to cast light on the context and on other individuals who might in due course be interviewed. It was not part of any legal proceedings. They then took him through his career, post by post, seeking his opinions on those he had worked with and issues he had dealt with. Matthew concentrated on subjects he had reported on, Frank Heathfield, with his Cornish burr, on how he felt the Service treated staff and agents and on his own professional relationships. Charles said nothing.
Peter relaxed as the morning went on, perhaps because he was talking about others rather than himself. They adjourned for lunch on an almost jocular note, with Peter saying, ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do for me to invite you to join me in the Savile?’ His eyes danced across all three, resting very briefly on Charles. ‘No, I see it wouldn’t. You might be accused of frivolity. Important to maintain seriousness of purpose.’ He put on an exaggerated frown.
Followed up to Brook Street and the Savile Club, he gave no indication of suspecting surveillance. ‘Perhaps he assumes it,’ said the woman in the basement ops room who was in radio contact with the team on the ground. ‘They can’t follow him into the club so we’ve got no idea who he might be talking to or ringing from there.’
In the afternoon session Matthew and Frank moved on to Peter’s time in New York, without at that stage referring to the leak from New York station. They did not focus on Peter himself but sought his opinion on why anyone in MI6 – assuming it was a human source, not technical – might in the post-Cold War era wish to spy for the Russians.