‘And since then?’
She shook her head. ‘No, she’s PM now. That makes a difference.’
‘Do you have a file on Roland Kramer?’ Neil asked. ‘Or has he had his destroyed?’
‘We do,’ she admitted, ‘and the Prime Minister was fully aware of its contents. He was over-stretched financially five years ago, but his wife is a hedge fund manager, and one of her bonuses took care of all of that. There are a couple of bones in his closet maybe but nowhere near a full skeleton. He was a little fast and loose with his parliamentary expenses before the great scandal, but who wasn’t? His family are respectable . . . his father paid all his taxes; he was a solicitor, like yours, Bob . . . his mother was chair of Ladies Circle, and his sister is married to a bishop. Roland had a promising career at the Bar, before being elected. He was Solicitor General at the start of the last administration, then Minister of State in Defence; his first Cabinet post was Welsh Secretary, then made a big jump to the Treasury, as Chief Secretary at first, then Chancellor. He was there when he contested the Conservative leadership election. He was never expected to win, but he emerged as the recognised number two, which Emily made official.’
‘Private life?’
She smiled at my question. ‘It’s very difficult for politicians to have one these days. Private Eye was bad enough for them but these bloggers we have now, Jesus!’
‘That wasn’t an answer, Amanda,’ I pointed out, quietly. ‘I know he’s your boss, but . . .’
‘He’s a straight arrow,’ she replied, firmly. ‘He has a few female friends from his university days that he still sees, but never one on one with any of them, only at gatherings. He’s a faithful husband, no question, and devoted to his two sons, Billy, who’s twelve, and Jay, who’s ten.’
‘But . . . ?’ I said, for I sensed one.
‘But.’ She paused. ‘We think that Siuriña, his wife, might play away games. We don’t keep her under twenty-four-hour observation, but given her own political position, there is some oversight, for her sake. There’s been a pattern of unexplained absences that have raised the question, but I’ve never let anyone try to confirm it.’
‘What is her political positon?’ Neil asked.
‘She’s the chair of the Conservative Party.’
‘How long might this thing of hers have been going on?’
‘At least three years. George Locheil appointed her as party chair a year before the last election. If our suspicions are correct, and she does have a bit on the side, she’s been able to sustain it because she has a professional life that allows her to explain periods away from home.’
‘Is she still involved with her hedge fund?’
‘No, that had to end when Roland went to the Treasury.’
‘Why haven’t you tried to verify this possible fling?’ I wondered.
‘Because she’s the bloody Home Secretary’s wife,’ she laughed, ‘and he’s my boss. How would you handle it if you were in my shoes?’ she challenged.
‘If I was in your shoes I’d be struggling to keep my balance,’ I retorted. ‘But yes, I get that,’ I carried on. ‘That’s Kramer’s back story; now, fill us in on the other members of the core group, for we’re going to be interviewing them all.’
‘You are?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The brief that Kramer has given me is to establish whether there’s a link between the attack on the Prime Minister and the announcement she was due to make this afternoon, whether it might have been a desperate attempt to scupper the Spitfire project.’
‘The what?’ Neil exclaimed.
I realised that I’d just broken Kramer’s injunction, but I wasn’t too concerned. ‘Tell you later,’ I said, then continued.
‘If there is, it would indicate that the thing has leaked beyond the need to know group. And if that’s happened, who has advance knowledge of what we’re up to? The Americans? The Russians? The French? ISIS? From what I’ve been told, if this system was deployed in Syria it could end that conflict in a couple of days, even if only conventional weapons were used. It’s fucking Star Wars, Amanda. So, too damn right I’m going to interview anyone I need to.’
‘Fair enough, but remember you’re doing this as a member of my service, so don’t start any fires that I’m going to have trouble putting out once you’ve gone. Christ,’ she chuckled, ‘listen to me! I might as well look out my extinguisher now.
‘Okay, let’s see,’ she continued. ‘Where to begin? Start with Leslie Ellis, Chancellor of the Exchequer. He’s one of the old brigade, age fifty-eight and a member of parliament since nineteen ninety-two.
‘He was Emily Repton’s political mentor; he took her under his wing when she was elected in two thousand and one. Fifteen years on, he ran her leadership campaign and was rewarded with the Treasury, after a career of mostly low-level Cabinet and shadow Cabinet posts, until he became Defence Secretary in the previous administration.
‘He’s a sound pair of hands, been a good Chancellor so far, and they say that he has absolutely no ambition to be Prime Minister. His family business background was metal bending in the Midlands, producing wire components for various industries, but he sold his interest when he was elected to parliament. He was married for twenty-eight years but was widowed five years ago. He has one son, James, age thirty, who’s a PR consultant, for want of a better term.’
‘And on the debit side?’
‘Apart from a penchant for dressing in ladies’ underwear, which he was silly enough to buy on Amazon, under an assumed name but using his London address? Well, for ten years he was an active shareholder in a company that owned and managed rental property in Leicester, which adjoins his constituency. In fact, those properties were virtual slums, poorly managed and maintained, with inflated rents. There was a fatal fire in one of them; an Asian family, parents and three kids, all died. Scandal followed and Les Ellis sold his shareholding. It was held through a company, but it’s traceable, and it might still crush him if it became known. To put an extra spin on it, he was shadow Housing Minister at the time.’
‘What about the son?’ McIlhenney asked. There was something in his tone that made me curious.
‘James is clean as a whistle,’ she replied. ‘Educated at Winchester and Cambridge; openly gay, in a permanent relationship and due to be married next spring.’
‘And his partner?’
‘London born, Pakistani origins, a currency trader; Shafat Iqbal by name. They met at Cambridge and have been together ever since; that’s according to Les, not my people. Shafat’s family are Muslim, but he’s an outcast because of his sexuality and the fact that he hasn’t been to a mosque since he was fifteen.’
‘How close,’ I chipped in, ‘are father and son, Les and James? Would he have access to the Chancellor’s papers?’
‘In theory, he would if his father allowed it. To answer your first question, the two are very close. Les owns a house in leafy Wimbledon which he shares with James and Shafat, and no, he doesn’t claim it as a second home on expenses.’
‘What do we know about Shafat?’ I asked her.
‘No more than I’ve just told you.’
‘Then find out the rest.’ The expression that crossed Amanda’s face, however briefly, pulled me up short. I smiled inwardly, but kept it from showing.
Skinner, I scolded myself, you’re not a chief constable any longer. You’re a seconded member of maybe the most powerful organisation in the country and this lady is your boss. For once in your life, show respect.
‘I’m sorry, Director,’ I said, contritely. ‘I need to get over myself and stop issuing orders. We have to assume that the Ellis/Iqbal household is as relaxed and imperfect as anyone else’s. So Shafat Iqbal, who’s about to be the Chancellor’s son-in-law, might see anything that was left lying around, if only for a second or two, and would be
part of any casual conversation across the dinner table. And who doesn’t talk business occasionally?’
‘Granted,’ she acknowledged. Then she smiled. ‘Apology accepted also, but it wasn’t necessary. When I brought you in on this I knew how it would be. In fact, it was one of the reasons I did. I know that you’re no respecter of office, and that you won’t let anyone or anything get in your way. So just carry on and if you see a red rag, charge at it.’
I remembered an exchange less than an hour before. ‘I’m not that reckless,’ I countered, ‘but I do break a lot of china.’
‘I’ll sweep it up. Okay, I will put people on Shafat.’
McIlhenney coughed. I know that cough, so it got my attention. I frowned at him. ‘What?’
Seven
Talk about being dropped in it. I watched Bob and the head of the Security Service butt heads, I listened to their exchange and all the while I was hoping that she would win. Of course I should have known better.
When he came out on top, I knew I couldn’t sit silent any longer, as a crazy Keystone Cops situation was about to develop.
‘Don’t,’ I said, quietly. ‘He’s one of mine.’
They stared at me. ‘Yours?’ Mrs Dennis gasped; yes, that’s what it was, a gasp of incredulity. ‘SCD10?’ My, she was on the ball; very few people remember the designation of my section.
‘Yes.’
‘Then his cover’s bloody good.’
‘It is, ma’am,’ I agreed, with due deference; I’ve always been more respectful of rank than Bob Skinner has. ‘Most of it’s true, as well. He and James Ellis did meet at Cambridge, and he was indeed a currency trader, until he was twenty-three. Then he quit and became a cop. He was noticed early, because he’s bright and, I suspect, because he’s Asian, and he was posted to my team. It all happened before I arrived there.’
‘Go on,’ Bob urged. I could tell that they were both intrigued by my revelation. Me? I was quietly chuffed that I knew something MI5 didn’t.
‘He did a couple of operations,’ I continued, ‘long term, deep cover, with a new identity. The first was abortive when the target was murdered in a dispute with a rival. In the second he infiltrated a crew who were importing fake electrical goods from Bulgaria, and flogging them at street markets all around the country. That might not sound too glamorous, when compared with narcotics and the like, but there was a level of violence involved that peaked when they killed a security guard in a lorry park. Shafat got a result there, twenty convictions with total jail time of over two hundred years, and he earned himself a promotion to DS. That’s what he is now.’
‘So why do we think he’s still a currency trader?’ Mrs Dennis asked, pointedly.
That was when it got tricky. I almost said, ‘For your ears only,’ but I remembered who and what she was.
‘Because he is,’ I said, ‘as far as the world’s concerned. I have an operation in place in the City that’s been going on for a couple of years; I won’t go into detail because it isn’t relevant, but there’s an organised, multi-multi-million pound scam going on in the money market, and we are in there, through Shafat. When I was tasked with getting into it and breaking it up, he was the obvious guy to infiltrate it; I didn’t have to change his name or much of his background. All I needed to do was invent a reason for a seven-year absence from the trading floor and give him a new address. Ostensibly, he’s living in a flat across the river that’s worth a couple of mil and was confiscated from a Russian gangster, and his CV has been doctored so that it includes a spell working in Singapore.’
‘How exposed is he?’ Bob asked.
‘Very; we’re talking very serious money and there are dangerous people at the top of the chain, Indians, not your usual east European hoodlums, but just as vicious. He’s due to report to his handler tomorrow morning. He’s very close to success, but this job is as risky as any other, so please,’ I looked at the chief spook, ‘Mrs Dennis, do not do anything that might put him in danger.’
‘Of course not,’ she replied, then glanced at Bob. ‘I’m glad you brought him in,’ she added.
Eight
I could tell that, inwardly, Amanda was boiling mad that her people had been taken for a ride by Neil’s cover yarn for Shafat Iqbal, complete with fake CV. I didn’t envy the operatives involved in what would be coming their way when she found time to deal with them.
At the same time, I was pleased with the way that my mate had handled a delicate situation. She recognised it too, as she made clear when Neil had finished. Then she set it aside.
‘In any event,’ she continued, ‘going back to the Chancellor, leaving out Commander McIlhenney’s operative, and a potential security leak through James Ellis, no, I can’t rule it out, Bob, but remember that Spitfire is so secret that there is minimal reference to it on paper and even then it’s coded. James could look at it and probably not have a clue what it was.’
I nodded. ‘Point taken, who’s next?’
‘The Right Honourable Montgomery Radley, MP,’ she replied, ‘age sixty-two, Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. I give him his full title because he’s so far up himself it wouldn’t seem right just to call him Monty. When the inevitable next leadership contest happens, if anyone runs against Roland Kramer it’ll be him . . . if he can find enough backers to get on the ballot paper.’
‘Will he?’
‘Probably, because he does have a degree of support in the traditional wing of the party, and among the Commons dinosaurs who went with Emily because they don’t like Kramer. He won’t get anywhere near winning, though; if I thought he had a chance, I might have to do something about it.’
‘Why?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Because he drinks too much and he beats his wife. Oh yes, and because he’s a rapist.’
Both Neil and I stiffened in our seats. ‘Alleged, or for sure?’ I asked.
‘Alleged, but I believe it. It happened in the year of his election to the Commons, nineteen eighty-seven. He strolled into his safe seat in Hampshire, and as the victory party was drawing to a close decided that he fancied his female agent’s fifteen-year-old daughter, who’d had a couple of glasses of champagne and was passed out in a spare room. The mother caught him in the act. The kid was moaning and she’d been sick; she didn’t know what was going on, and to this day I don’t think she knows for sure that it happened.’
‘The mother hushed it up?’ Neil exclaimed.
‘Completely. I’d like to think it was for the daughter’s sake, but I’m not so sure; political professionals are often real zealots. She carried on as Radley’s agent for another eight years, until she died of spinal cancer. When she was terminal, she told her husband about the incident. He went ballistic, as one would at such a story, but he knew that if he went to the police, it could ruin his daughter’s life. However, he was a Grade Six in the Home Office and he knew enough to come to me. I went to see his wife myself. She told me the tale, and I believed her. Then she died.’
‘I see,’ I murmured. ‘Didn’t the husband want to tackle him, even privately?’
‘The husband wanted to horsewhip him on College Green, but I talked him down. We had a crime whose victim had no knowledge of it, and the only witness was dead.’
‘Dying declaration?’ Neil suggested.
‘To me? Forget it. To the husband? Try that on the Crown Prosecution Service, Commander. No chance. Even if the victim’s memory of the rape could be stimulated, there would never be an absolute guarantee of conviction. No, guys, it stays with me; but if there was ever a chance of Radley moving into Number Ten . . . that would be my secret weapon.’
‘What about the domestic abuse you mentioned?’ I asked.
‘That comes from his protection officers. They’ve had to intervene on a couple of occasions when he’s given Valerie, Mrs Radley, a slap. An
d once when she had some of her own back. It’s a volatile household. She’s a formidable lady. She’s his second wife; they married eight years ago. She was his researcher, and eased the first Mrs Radley out of the picture. Not an uncommon occurrence in this place,’ she added, although I knew that well enough.
‘She runs a charity now,’ Amanda added. ‘It’s pretty high profile; it advertises on Sky TV. It raises money to fight eye disease among African children, and she has no qualms about using her position as wife of the Foreign Secretary to win special treatment.’
‘Does that give her contacts . . .’ I began.
‘In some pretty unstable countries,’ Amanda finished. ‘Yes it does.’
‘Children?’
‘Two daughters, Faith and Chloe, from the first marriage. They’re very much on their mother’s side and don’t see much of him. In fact Faith sees nothing at all; Chloe’s married to a racehorse trainer and their paths may cross when the Right Honourable Montgomery and Valerie show themselves off at Royal Ascot.’ She peered at me, as if she was wearing spectacles and looking over the top. ‘Are you sure you want to meet this man, Bob?’
‘I don’t want to, Amanda,’ I replied, ‘but I have to. He’s a wife-beater with a deep dark secret who’s managed somehow to elevate himself to one of the high offices of state. If that doesn’t make him worthy of attention nothing will.
‘Who’s next?’ I continued. ‘Apart from Ellis, is there anyone running the country who isn’t a shit?’
‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘There’s the Defence Secretary, Nicholas Wheeler MP, age thirty-four, and the youngest member of the Cabinet by quite a margin. You’ll have read all about him, I’m sure. The chattering classes call him the acceptable face of the Tory Party, and that’s what he is; good-looking boy, an ad-man’s dream. He’s Emily Repton’s protégé as she was Les’s. He’s also the second cousin of her former husband, Murdoch Lawton QC, Baron Lawton of Forgrave, but that’s by the by.
State Secrets Page 8