by Tony Walker
John looked around. He was fond of most of his colleagues. They were decent, honest people who believed in what they were doing. They believed they were helping to ensure the safety of the United Kingdom and, if pushed, Western Civilisation in general. The Support Workers were working class girls and boys from Kent and Essex. Just under half of the people in the room were female. The Officers were a mix - there were at least two people there heirs to fortunes so great they didn't really need to work. The others were mainly products of minor public schools. Some would do well and climb the ladder of management success becoming Deputy Directors, Branch Directors possibly, but probably not Director General.
John then considered Stephen. He was known for his ascetic, anally retentive ways. John imagined him folding his nylon pyjamas every morning as soon as he got out of bed and taking a drink of some tonic his mother had started him on when he was at Prep School.
The meeting began with Stephen making an unexpected announcement that Sue would now take over line management for the rest of the K4A officers leaving him free to work on other matters. People looked at each other. John groaned inwardly. Stephen was a robot but had no personal animus towards him. Sue hated his guts. Sue looked pleased with herself. She was a self-made woman - she had come in as a clerk in registry and worked her way up through the officer ranks. But she wore her authority with effort, having to prove every point and make sure that people knew she could tell them what to do. John knew she would micromanage everything he did. Or try to.
After Stephen's promulgations he gave the meeting up to Sue, who with her new status and smug smile spoke of housekeeping and tightening up document handling security for a good twenty minutes. John noticed stifled yawns and tapping feet under the table. When Sue had finished each person reported in alphanumeric order - this had been Stephen's innovation. First K4A, then K4A/1 then K4A/2 and so on. Sue was K4A/2. Stephen smiled at her and invited her to speak. "Anything Sue?"
"I have been investigating Bebur Gelashvili, the KGB Resident."
"Of course. Go on," nodded Stephen.
"I am very close to a break through. But, without surveillance resources, I have been unable to follow it up. I do feel there should be a review of priorities. That's all."
Eventually John spoke as K4A/4.
"Anything to say?" said Sue, in a tone that suggested she hoped he hadn't.
"Well. I had a good run out with A4 the other day."
Sue tutted.
"You were out with A4?," said Stephen, "I hope you didn't get in their way."
"I don't think so. In any case we followed Vinogradov and saw him meeting a contact who A4 managed to observe entering a house with a key."
"Could be nothing," said Sue.
John felt himself getting riled. He spoke in an even tone. "It could be. But it could be something."
"Lots of people meet men in pubs," said Sue. At this there was tittering round the table. Sue flushed bright red. "I don't mean me." The tittering threatened to break into guffaws.
"You're all so stupid," flashed Stephen, "Let him get on with it."
"Well as well as normal identification processes, I'd like to book a session with MAGNIFICAT," said John.
Sue said, "I don't think that will be possible. We have limited time with him."
John persisted. "I think it's important to follow this up. I'd be grateful if you could speak to SIS to see whether we can have 20 minutes with him."
Rob spoke up. "I would like to tag onto that. One of my students at Imperial College has been behaving oddly and I wondered what MAGNIFICAT's views would be on whether he is likely to be an intelligence officer."
MAGNIFICAT had been Soviet Military Intelligence's second in command at their Madrid Residency who had been turned by SIS in the late 1970s and who had worked for several years before the Russians began to suspect and he was exfiltrated from Madrid to London. Since that time had filled his time advising British intelligence and their allies as well as making model aeroplanes from balsa wood and wire.
Sue continued. "As I've said, I don't think it will be possible."
Stephen turned to her. In a conciliatory tone, he said. "It is a possible agent contact. We should follow it up. Ring SIS and see if we can book a slot."
Sue flushed and made a note in her laboured handwriting.
After all the other desk officers had made their reports, John got up and left with Rob. When they were back in the Long Room, Rob said, "Silly cow."
"No comment. I'll see you later. Canteen at noon?"
"As always. I'll ring the guys to be there."
John sat down at his desk. In front of him was a sheet of blotting paper; a brown phone with red scramble button on the right. Also on the right was the empty Out Tray. To the left was the full In Tray. In the In Tray was the A4 surveillance report on Vinogradov. He scanned it and put it down. There were various Personal Files and a few yellow GEN files for those contacts not yet identified. There were telephone intercept reports from A2A stamped SECRET mainly detailing the domestic conversations of the Russian Embassy staff and their wives. There were also reports from the A4 static observation post that overlooked the Russian Embassy. These were long lists of times of people entering and leaving with some photographs attached. It didn't look to have anything particularly interesting to tell him. In the pile of paper and files there was also an agent report from K3. K3 was the joint MI5/MI6 section that attempted to recruit Russians in the UK and also ran support agents - businessmen, journalists and any other British citizens who had daily dealings with the Russians. This report was from one of these. John didn't know the identity of the agent who went under the name N2932. The report was typically brief and split into two parts. The first was the factual agent report: "Vladimir Vinogradov has recently taken up post as the replacement of Scientific Attaché Dmitry Tyomoshenko. In the first few months he will be picking up Tyomoshekno's agents but will also be under pressure to make his name by recruiting new sources. The second part was the Field Comment - information given by the agent handler, in this case John's friend Philip Neilson, an SIS officer currently with K3. This said: "Tyomoshenko is an identified KGB Line X (scientific intelligence) officer and therefore it is possible that Vinogradov is also KGB Line X as they jealously preserve their slots against other KGB lines, GRU or Foreign Ministry inserting their own staff. Vinogradov was previously in Denmark. This is his first posting to an English speaking country. Danish security have not yet responded to a request for information."
John put the agent report aside and picked up the photograph that Liz from A4 had managed to take of Vinogradov's contact as he was approaching his flat in Bethnal Green.
The first step in identification was to apply for an excerpt of the Electoral Roll to see who was registered there. Once they had a name, John would apply for disclosure of his National Insurance records. He also had access to health service records. If they were sure of his identification MI5 could then apply for his bank details and credit card details. John would check with Special Branch for any Police intelligence and of course he would check him against MI5's own huge database held on thousands of card indices down in Registry. This would take days to complete. John would create a temporary GEN file while the identification process was ongoing.
At 12 noon, John looked up. Rob was already putting on his suit jacket. He gestured with his thumb to the door. John grinned and got up. They were at the door when Sue called to him from her desk. "John, can I have a word with you a moment?"
He called back from the door. "I'm just going to lunch. Can I see you afterwards?"
"No, John, I want to talk to you now."
John sighed. "But I always go for lunch at 12."
"Yes, I've noticed. And that's why I want you to do this now."
"You want me to do this now? Because I always go for lunch at 12?"
He felt Rob touch his arm. He turned away to face Rob. Rob quietly said, "Remember she's now your boss."
John sighed. "Ok
, very well. What is it?"
"I want you to speak to Mark about the lack of care he is taking with his paperwork."
"What? Mark the support worker. Can't you speak to him?"
"No, he is below you. There is a hierarchy here."
"I've noticed."
She raised her eyebrows.
"You want me to speak to him now?" said John.
"Yes please."
She looked at her watch. It was ten past 12. "You may go to lunch afterwards."
John looked down the Long Room. Mark wasn't at his desk. He turned to Sue. "Tell you what. I'll go find him in the canteen."
He thought she was going to explode. He waved and walked out. Outside on the way to the office canteen in the basement Rob said, "I thought you wanted to keep your job?"
"I do, but something comes over me when she talks. Or breathes."
"She hates you. Maybe it's because you're Scotch."
"Bah. Maybe it's because I'm of common origins."
"No, it's not that. She's commoner than you."
May 1967, Dalkeith: Towards the end of the school year. The weather was dull. John was kicking round a football near the War Memorial at King's Park when he first met Karen. He was 16. She was 15. He'd seen her before. He thought she was pretty - small with long black hair and blue eyes. His first impression was that she was fierce and had strong views about random causes. He wondered whether she chose opinions just to pick an argument. He thought she was too attractive for him but he still had an atavistic urge to show off. His friend Graeme passed him the ball and he played "keepie-uppie", using his feet, his knees, his head to keep it in the air. He was keeping it up so long he impressed himself.
Graeme whistled. "Way tae go, there Johnnie. Ye're daein weel. Never thought ye had it in ye. Ye're normally shite at footba'."
Graeme's laughter caught the girls' attention. Karen was standing with Graeme's sister Margaret. Graeme was ignoring them both.
Karen piped up, "I'd be mair impressed if ye could recite the names of the kings and queens of England at the same time. After a', you do go to that George Heriot's school for poshies."
John took up the challenge and began chanting, trying to keep the names in rhythm with the ball. "Elizabeth the Second; George the Sixth, George the Fifth, Edward the Seventh."
Karen laughed. "You've failed. You left out Edward the Eighth. And, brief though his reign was, he was still king of England."
John didn't reply. He was still keeping the ball in the air and enjoying the attention. Graeme was bored. "C'mon. Let's go tae the Wimpy."
John ignored him. He stole a glance at Karen. She looked nice in her school uniform. He had taken his off to avoid getting a beating now he was home. Everyone knew he went to George Heriot's School but it was easier if he didn't rub it in their faces.
"Anyway," she said, "who cares about the kings and queens of England. I'm a Scot. I suppose they don't teach you about Scottish history at your fancy school. All they want you to do is be "North British" and kowtow to our English masters."
John laughed. "If you say so."
This irritated her. "Go on then. Recite the Kings of Scotland."
"Erm, MacBeth, Malcolm Big Head, William the Lion, several Alexanders, Robert the Bruce, and of course Mary Queen of Scots." He let the ball drop. "I'm tired."
"That's no them all," said Karen. "What about the Jameses?"
He said, "They don't count as they preferred to be English anyway in the end, and I'm not keen on kowtowing to my English masters."
Graeme and Margaret were both looking uninterested and had begun talking about what was for tea - mince and tatties, it seemed. It started to rain.
Without a word, Karen turned to go, but she did so slowly as if to give him a chance to say something. He hesitated and she got further away. Then he coughed. "Err, Karen."
She turned back, a big grin on her face. Her sea-blue eyes sparkling. "I didn't know you knew my name," she said.
He blushed and felt himself become tongue-tied.
"You wanted to say something?" she teased.
"Erm, I was just wondering, whether you would come out with me, one time. Maybe to get a burger or something at Wimpy? I'd pay." He spoke but felt it hadn't gone well.
"What me?" she looked hard at him. She paused for emphasis. "With you?"
His blush was incarnadine. "Aw forget it." He was angry at being humiliated. Margaret tittered.
Karen smiled again. "Maybe," she said.
He was foolishly pleased. "Ah, ok. Thanks."
"But only if you can recite the Scottish kings and queens. See how you do next time we meet."
And then she turned and walked off with Margaret who was still sniggering at him.
Graeme turned to him. "I do not believe what I just heard."
"Why? She's lucky to get an offer from me."
"Did ye ken she's goan oot wi big Dougie McLean. He'll bite yer heid af."
John said, "I'm no scared o' Dougie McLean."
"Do you ken him?"
"No."
"Well that's why you're no scared. He's a monster."
"I'll fight him for her," said John.
"You're an eejit. He'll gie ye laldie."
"The bigger they come, Graeme ma lad, the harder they fa'."
Graeme shook his head sadly. "I'll visit you in hospital. She didn't say yes anyway."
"I'll work on it. Do you think she's bonny by the way?" asked John.
"Nice tits," said Graeme, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
1963 - Edinburgh: George Heriot's School at Lauriston Place, Edinburgh was founded in 1628 by Heriot as a hospital - which in those days meant school - for the local puir faitherless bairns of Edinburgh and Lothian. John 's primary school teacher knew he was bright and suggested that his mother apply for a scholarship. This was in 1963. He did this tentatively as though he knew John was "faitherless", he knew his family pretended he was the son of William Gilroy. His mother was offended by the teacher's suggestion because it reminded her of her disgrace. So much so, that she spent the following few days weeping alone in her bedroom and then wiping her eyes and denying to her father and mother, and indeed her husband, that anything was the matter. John was oblivious. He was 11. By this time he knew the man everyone said was his father, was not. Who his father was, apart from him being a Catholic, he didn't know. One day he found the photograph of a handsome dark haired man tucked in a chest of drawer's in his grandmother's house. He suspected who he was, but couldn't work up the courage to ask.
His mother thought hard about the scholarship at George Heriot's School. The school had been founded for less fortunate children and John was certainly that. He was destined to go down Burghlee Colliery like his stepfather and grandfather and like them work in the cold and dark and be paid with illness and injury. What little money he would earn would hardly feed his family. But if he got a place at the Heriot's School he could join the golden ones and become a lawyer or a doctor, living in a world of foreign holidays, shiny motor cars and maybe even have a maid.
So, she rolled up her shame and put it away and went and saw the kind and understanding Bursar who explained that the scholarships were for the children of widows only. Without hesitation she told him that John's real father was dead. The Bursar said that in that case he would arrange for John to sit the Entrance Exam.
A few weeks later, John's mother took little boy to the distinguished and intimidating George Heriot's school where, just before he was handed into the care of the smiling teacher, to be taken to the exam room she said, "If anyone asks, remember your father's dead."
John, aware of what he was saying, and ready to flinch from the blow that might come said, "But faither's at work down the pit."
"You know he's not your real father."
Before he walked off with the teacher she said, "John. I'll be waiting here for you. I love you son."
"I love you too mammy," and as soon as he said it, he realised that the teacher had heard him and
there was something quietly disapproving in the man's manner - polite and half hidden - even forgiving - but there just the same. Much later he realised he should have said mother.
February 1985: London. John and Rob caught the Tube at Warren Street, their ties blowing in the dusty wind that always seemed to gust around the top of Tottenham Court Road. It put grit in their eyes and caused them to wipe away tears as they made their way down the escalators towards the Victoria Line. They were headed for Pimlico where MAGNIFICAT would be waiting for them with his SIS handler in a safe house.
On the tube they sat side by side in a meditative silence, John browsing The Guardian quietly until Rob asked to borrow the sports pages. Half reading, they then made companionable conversation as they proceeded on the Underground from station to station.
"Karen all right?" said Rob.
"Yes, gone with the babies to some kind of "Bruisers and Cruisers" meeting with the Natural Childhood Group or something. Mondays and Fridays. If you miss a meeting they punish you."
"They sound like fascists."
John nodded. "Not as bad as the La Leche League. I think Mussolini founded it. She goes there three times a week as well."
There was a pause. "I see Clive Ponting's got off," John commented on the article he was reading.
Rob snorted. "He was as guilty as sin. He broke the Official Secrets Act. Deserves to go to prison. He had no right to broadcast military secrets just because he thought it was 'in the public interest.' We could all do that and then where would we be?" Rob paused to tie his shoelace but continued speaking. "The country would be up the creek without a paddle. Public interest is what the government of the day says it is."
"That's what the Judge said," said John, "but the jury still acquitted him. Apparently he thought he was going to jail. Took his toothbrush and pajamas to court."
Rob laughed. "Changing the subject. The boys and I are going out on the lash tonight. Wondered if you'd come along?"