by Alan Judd
She stared at him, then laughed briefly and mirthlessly. ‘Isn’t that what we now call a big ask? It is revenge, isn’t it? Whatever your reasons now. You never did like him, you were always jealous. It’s personal, isn’t it, Charles? In the end it’s personal.’
‘I’ve never disliked him, it’s nothing to do with all that.’
‘And if he didn’t go quietly you’d do it the other way, wouldn’t you? You’d expose him. And you’d want to use me to help you end my husband’s career, ruin his chances of another job, ostracise us from all our friends, the life we’ve built for ourselves. Quite a lot to expect of me, don’t you think?’
He nodded.
She pushed back her chair and picked up her handbag. ‘I was happy to help you today, pleased – I don’t mind admitting it – to see you after all these years. I often think of you, I really do. But I’m not prepared to blow up my life – our lives – just to give you the satisfaction of getting your own back on Nigel. After all, what if everything you say is true? What terrible things would happen as a result of it? Martin is either lost and there’s nothing anyone can do about it or he survives but doesn’t want any more to do with your office. You’re a free man and when your contract ends you can go back and sulk in Scotland and get on with your boring book. Nigel stays and does a good job – as he always does, wherever he’s been, I don’t think anyone would deny that – and where’s the harm? What’s history is history, Charles, it can’t be rewritten.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for dinner. I’d hoped we might start seeing each other again. But not with all this. I’ll try to make sure the partners don’t bill you too fiercely.’
He watched her walk out, aware of other diners staring, and no longer minding.
He paid and left. The pavements were wet and the street lights showed an uncertain thin rain. He chose to walk again, turning into Belgrave Road and crossing the railway bridge towards Victoria; walking was better for ruminating and he didn’t mind getting wet. In one respect – probably only one, he conceded – she was wholly wrong, one hundred and eighty degrees wrong: history could be rewritten. History was the record and the record was the only thing about the past that could be changed. That’s what Nigel would be doing: destroying or doctoring the secret annex. Then any allegations made by Charles, Martin, Sonia, even the dying Matthew Abrahams, would be neutered, the unsubstantiated grievances of the discontented and rejected. There might be fuss but without evidence it would be difficult to remove him, and he’d have had no need to try to get rid of Charles and Martin.
But he had, so bringing upon himself the very fate he feared. Why? Failure to think it through? Panic? Indulgence of a long-nursed enmity, his judgement warped by malice? Charles wished they could sit down together and talk about it. Imagining that, as he walked, was easier than facing up to the rest of what Sarah had said.
It was as he came off the bridge towards the traffic lights on Buckingham Palace Road that he noticed them, the younger couple who had been at the next table and had left before Sarah. A pair of thirty-somethings, the man slim with short brown hair, jeans and a fleece; the woman also slim with close-cropped black hair, jeans, a dark jacket and shiny, black, low-heeled shoes. Like him, they had chosen to walk although not dressed for rain. He wouldn’t have noticed them if they hadn’t stopped to cross Buckingham Palace Road, then stayed on the kerb when the pedestrian lights went green. They stood with their heads cocked very slightly to one side, as if listening. After a few seconds they turned to their right, as one, and walked rapidly towards Victoria Station, looking straight ahead.
Charles at first assumed they were lost or had been somewhere else since leaving the restaurant, given that they were only twenty or thirty yards ahead of him. He didn’t think about surveillance until, coming into Sloane Square, he glanced at the trees and paved area in the middle and saw the woman walking ahead of him, alone. She carried an umbrella now and wore a headscarf and a lighter jacket – possibly the dark one reversed – but he knew her by her busy walk, tight-fitting jeans and those shiny, black, low-heeled shoes. They were unusual: comfortable walking shoes with an almost patent leather shine. She crossed the square and disappeared behind the far side of Peter Jones. As he entered the King’s Road she emerged onto it ahead of him, out of Cadogan Gardens. She still walked briskly without looking back, drawing farther away until pausing at a shop window, her umbrella shielding her from him. She would have been given that and the headscarf in the car that must have picked them up out of sight, along Buckingham Palace Road. That’s why they’d paused at the crossing, listening for instructions. The car must have just dropped them off ahead of him, someone else having followed him meanwhile. Her slim companion was presumably nearby, but Charles was careful not to look round.
His surveillance-spotting skills were rusty but something of them survived. Those unusual shoes were a give-away; careless, or a sign of unpreparedness. To have sat at the next table and then reappeared on the street afterwards suggested that the team was too small to do the job properly. Presumably they had wanted to hear what he and Sarah said in the restaurant and perhaps the older couple who had taken their place were doing the same. He had been too taken up with Sarah to heed what went on. Unprofessional, he would have conceded in earlier years. But so were they; it must have been a rushed job, mounted at the last minute when they discovered he and Sarah were meeting.
But how? By intercepting his phone, or simply because Sarah had told Nigel? He hadn’t asked whether she had. It wouldn’t have been police surveillance – they’d have had no reason to do it and it would have taken too long to set up if Nigel had requested it. Deploying the SIA’s usual resources would also have taken time to set up and justify. There were laws these days about following people, laws Charles had disapproved of when they were introduced, but useful now. Most likely Nigel had rapidly called in part of Martin’s old Z organisation, if it still existed.
But why, to what end? There was surely nothing Charles could do that Nigel couldn’t discover simply by asking Sarah, or the police, or Charles himself. Unless it was something that Nigel badly wanted to know and couldn’t get any other way, something perhaps that Charles didn’t yet know himself.
A taxi disgorged a couple of drunks whom he presumed to be British bankers until hearing them arguing in Russian. Time was when they’d have been the quarry on a Chelsea street, not him. He ambled on towards the Boltons while his surveillants presumably scurried around him. What Nigel most wanted, surely, was for Gladiator never to be found. Or, if found, to be found only by him, Nigel. What he did not want was for Charles to find him. That was why he had had Charles arrested and taken off the case, and why his SIA pass hadn’t been returned with his possessions. The reason for following him now must be that Nigel feared he would continue his search for Gladiator, perhaps all the more determinedly. And would perhaps even find him.
He was right, Charles concluded as he turned into Bolton Gardens. More right than he knew.
15
The SIA switchboard answered promptly the next morning. Nigel was not available and the operator couldn’t say when he would be. Charles asked to be put through to Nigel’s secretary. This was not possible, either. He asked why. The operator, sounding more awkward as she became more formal, said: ‘I have to tell you, Mr Thoroughgood, that that is all I am authorised to say.’
‘To anyone or just to me?’ He knew the answer.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t say any more.’
‘Could you put me through to Jeremy Wheeler instead, please?’
There was a pause. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Thoroughgood, but Mr Wheeler is not available.’
‘Could you pass him a message, please? Could you—’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not authorised—’
‘—tell him that if he doesn’t ring me in the next half an hour I’ll call at the front door of the office. That’s all. Thank you.’ He put the phone down.
He was fairly sure that Jeremy would not call his bluff. He h
ad no intention of humiliating himself by trying to gain admittance without a pass, still less of creating a scene and risking further arrest. But he thought he could reckon on Jeremy’s fear of fuss. Ten minutes later Jeremy rang, sounding his most pompous.
‘Charles, before you say anything I have to tell you that I am unable to discuss or comment on the situation in which you now find yourself and am authorised only to hear and if necessary note anything you may say.’
It was important to remain polite, albeit easier with blameless switchboard operators than with Jeremy, whose features would be swollen with self-importance.
‘I quite understand, Jeremy. Thank you for ringing. I appreciate it. I was just wondering whether I’m expected to come into work and if so how I get my pass back.’
Jeremy couldn’t resist the bait. ‘Of course you can’t come to work, you’re suspended. Didn’t anyone tell you?’
‘No-one’s spoken to me apart from the police, and presumably they can’t suspend me as they’re not my employers.’
‘No-one’s sent you a letter? Someone should’ve. I’ll organise it.’
‘Bit late now.’
‘We have to. Employment law.’
‘For how long am I suspended?’
‘Until the police have completed their investigation and decided whether or not charges are to be brought.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for making that clear, Jeremy. It’s very kind of you. I appreciate it.’
‘You realise that I can’t comment on your case.’
He was weakening. Charles smiled to himself. ‘Of course, of course, I fully understand your position. You have wider responsibilities.’ Jeremy always responded to anyone using phrases similar to his own. Flattery could not be overdone so long as it was shameless, which for Charles meant ignoring his own embarrassment. ‘A man in your position has to consider the interests of the service as a whole, as well as important legal aspects. Not to mention the interests and well-being of individual members.’
‘Indeed. One has also to take into account actual or potential reputational damage.’
‘Indeed. And with the new SIA, all such considerations must have a more complex context requiring far more interpretation, inter-relation and inter-disciplinary awareness than before. But if I can just step outside my own case for a moment, I’d like to say how beneficial it is for all concerned that you are where you are, Jeremy. People must be very grateful. A relief, too, for Nigel to know he’s got a rock to lean on.’
‘Well, he’s – you know – one does one’s job.’
‘I was just wondering whether it’s okay for me to speak to one or two friends in the office. Purely socially, of course. Not about my case.’
‘Friends? In the office? Who?’ Jeremy sounded genuinely surprised.
‘One or two. It’s just that I wouldn’t want to put anyone in an awkward position.’
‘An instruction’s gone out that no-one is to speak to you. What friends have you got? Who are they?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s okay. As I say, I wouldn’t want to put anyone in an awkward position.’ He knew now what he needed to know. However, it was important to part on a good note since he might need someone to take his calls later. ‘But I fully understand, Jeremy, thank you. I’m glad you’re there.’
‘As I said, I can’t discuss your case but you’re welcome to ring again and talk about anything else. Anything at all.’
‘Thanks, I shall.’
‘I can’t meet you, of course.’
‘Of course not.’ He put down the phone with a purifying surge of energy. With every door that closed, he felt more determined and more confident.
He next rang Matthew Abrahams at home. There was no answer and no answerphone. He assumed that calls from his own flat were being intercepted but this was one he made no attempt to conceal; they would have expected him to contact Matthew. He put on a suit and took his umbrella, hoping for rain. He walked to South Kensington underground with Jane Eyre tight in his jacket pocket. If he ever had another suit made he would specify larger pockets. Or buy a Kindle.
Nigel would lack resources for twenty-four hour cover without going through normal procedures, but Charles still could not afford to assume he was clear of surveillance. It was important to appear unaware, to encourage them to relax. He took the tube to St James’s Park – imagining their urgent messages to the effect that he appeared to be making for Head Office with the possible intention of forcing entry – then crossed Victoria Street and walked down Horseferry Road to Marsham Street, by the Home Office. He asked the porter in Matthew’s apartment block if he could leave a message.
‘You’re very welcome, sir, but I’m afraid Sir Matthew was taken to hospital yesterday.’
‘Was he – did it appear that he might be there some time?’
‘Impossible to say, sir. St Thomas’s, over the river.’
Charles retraced his steps along Marsham Street, detouring through Dean’s Yard in Westminster Abbey because he liked it, then crossed St James’s Park to the Duke of York’s steps. As he reached the top there were a few introductory drops of rain, which was perfect. He turned into Pall Mall and shortly after entered his club. That would set them a problem. They wouldn’t be able to follow him in, wouldn’t see who he met there, wouldn’t know whether he made any calls on the club phones or whether he emailed anyone.
In fact, all he did was have a club lunch of fish and a glass of wine, catch up with the papers and sit by the fire to read a chapter of Jane Eyre. Rain was by then beating against the tall windows giving onto Pall Mall. There was only one entrance, so they’d have to watch from somewhere along the street, since it would be hard to linger in a car in that area. They’d be having a miserable time of it. He ordered tea.
When the wet November afternoon faded into dusk, he took his umbrella from the cloakroom to the corner behind the porter’s box where the club and any stray umbrellas were kept, substituting it for a large green golfing one. Then he crossed the deserted dining room to the door opening onto the unlit gardens at the back of all three adjacent clubs. From the bottom of the steps he headed for another set that led down to the basement of the Athenaeum, but the door was locked. Climbing onto the terrace and getting in that way was too risky, so he crossed to the plane trees, bushes and shrubs at the rear of the garden. From there he could watch unseen any activity in Carlton Gardens Terrace. The parking places were fairly full, which would partly shield him. Three men stood talking outside the Royal Society until a taxi drew up. As they were getting in Charles reached through the black iron railings to put his umbrella on the pavement, then set about scaling them.
The effort proved another unwelcome reminder of age. He used a diagonal as a foothold but the railings were high and when he heaved himself up to the spikes he found them too close to get his foot comfortably between them. It was a struggle to get both legs up and swing them over while turning and jumping. He landed heavily but, so far as he could see, unnoticed. Opening the umbrella and holding it so that he was shielded from the left, he walked rapidly towards Trafalgar Square. At what appeared to be the dead end of Carlton House Terrace were steps down to Spring Gardens and the Mall, which formed a useful surveillance trap. Unless a team was already deployed ahead covering every option, anyone following would have to come down the steps to see which way he went, while he watched unobserved from the underground car park. No-one came and so, still shielded by his borrowed umbrella, he headed for Charing Cross underground.
At Euston he bought a return ticket to Milton Keynes, the stop beyond Tring, Sonia’s station. She normally reached it at about seven, he remembered her saying. He got off at Tring at six-thirty. It was easy enough to wait in the dark as if for his lift home, while watching who came and went in the car park. At least he could be sure that everyone who got off with him had left the station.
She drove a Toyota Landcruiser, used for transporting children and the generations of rescued dogs she and her husband collected.
When Charles had worked with her on the Russian desk, after their operational outing to Paris and following their postings to Geneva, he used to confuse the names of dogs and children, but now the children had left home. He had called on her shortly after starting with the SIA but couldn’t remember what she’d said they were doing. Something professional, both of them; she had steered them away from the re-shaped intelligence profession.
There were two Landcruisers in the car park, one of them new. He stood behind the other and watched the next train disgorge its hunched figures, picking her out as, head down, she hurried through the rain towards him. When she unlocked the car he jumped in the back, crouching on the floor by the seat.
She gasped.
‘It’s okay, it’s me,’ he said. ‘Just drive on. ‘I’ll explain when we’re out of the car park.’
Once they were clear and the interior lights had gone out he sat up.
‘God, you made me jump’, she said. ‘I’m getting too old for this sort of thing and you’ll be covered in dog hairs. What’s going on, what are you doing? Where’ve you been the past two days? I tried ringing your flat and then a notice came round saying that anyone who had contact with you was to report it.’
‘Nigel Measures had me arrested.’
‘What for?’
‘Allegedly for leaking to the press. In fact, to stop me finding Gladiator.’
They drove to a pub where, over her mineral water and his Guinness, he explained.
‘Measures must be off his head,’ she said. ‘Manic. Getting Gladiator to go back was a death sentence. But if he is here now – regardless of whether he’s al-Samit or not – why would Nigel want to find him? I can see why he’d want you off the scene but better let sleeping dogs lie, surely? If Gladiator’s never heard of again, so much the better for Nigel.’