The Geneva Trap

by Stella Rimington

  Susan had been helped to come to terms with reality by Edward Treglown, whom she had met at a friend’s house and to whom she was now very close. Liz and Edward got on well and, just as importantly for Liz, Edward and Martin Seurat got on well too. Both had been in the military, and they had discovered contacts in common from when they had served in Kosovo in the eighties.

  As she stop-started in the traffic on the M4, Liz thought about her meeting with Sorsky and wondered whether Fane and Bokus were right in their suspicion that there was something more behind Sorsky’s offer of information. It was not as if she could really assess the man. Despite the Russian’s easy familiarity with her in the Parc des Bastions, she hadn’t seen him before that for almost twenty years, and even then had barely known him at all.

  Yet it was hard to see his approach as anything other than what he claimed it to be. In particular, his lack of specifics seemed convincing to her. If for whatever reason he wanted to seduce her into believing something that wasn’t true, surely he would have had more information on offer.

  As she neared the Newbury exit, she felt herself gradually starting to relax. Martin was in Paris this weekend, helping his daughter move apartments, and though she’d rather be spending the time with him, his absence might make it easier to take her mind off work. She was looking forward to the weekend, to walking in the Wiltshire countryside, and seeing the hyacinths and the late tulips that would be colouring her mother’s cottage garden.

  When she arrived, Susan seemed unusually preoccupied. Normally she would have come out into the yard as Liz was parking her car and there would have been a freshly baked cake on the kitchen table. But Liz found her standing in the sitting room, listening tensely to a conversation Edward was having on the telephone.

  Liz frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered. Judging by the anxious tone of Edward’s voice, something was clearly upsetting him.

  Her mother sighed. ‘Come into the kitchen.’

  As she put the kettle on Susan explained: ‘Poor Edward. His daughter Cathy’s come back to live in England, but it’s all proving rather . . . difficult.’

  Liz’s mother was old school, trained to take troubles on the chin and just get on with it. So ‘difficult’ meant things were serious. Liz knew Edward’s daughter had been living in France; by all accounts she was a kind of latter-day hippie – Liz vaguely imagined her playing the guitar with flowers in her hair. She had a little boy, whom Edward adored but rarely got to see.

  Liz took three mugs down from the dresser, while her mother stood in the middle of the kitchen, tapping her foot nervously.

  A moment later Edward Treglown came in. Seeing Liz, he gave her a smile. ‘Hello, stranger, or should I say bonsoir?’

  Liz laughed, acknowledgment that she had been in Paris for many of the weekends she would formerly have spent here. She gave Edward a big hug. He was a tall, loose-limbed man with a lived-in face that could seem stern, until it creased into a warm smile. Despite Liz’s initial suspicions (she remembered how pompous she had been, asking her mother if Edward’s motives towards her were ‘honourable’), she had come to like him very much, a feeling enhanced by the obvious fact that he made Susan very happy.

  After leaving the Army, Edward had become chairman of a charity that provided operations to cure some of the simple diseases that caused blindness in the Third World. Now, having turned seventy, he claimed to be cutting back on his involvement, but his energy showed no signs of flagging.

  ‘Cuppa?’ Liz asked, but he shook his head.

  ‘Stiff whisky more like,’ said Susan sympathetically, and he nodded with a deep sigh.

  ‘Problems, I gather,’ said Liz. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  Edward smiled but there was sadness in his eyes. ‘It’s Cathy,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s probably told you that she’s moved back to England with my grandson. Teddy’s seven now and he’s a nice boy, if a little out of hand. I know single-parent families are nothing unusual these days, but I have to say, I do think there are times when a boy needs a father and Teddy’s hasn’t been seen for six years.’

  ‘But you’re a wonderful grandpa, Edward,’ said Liz’s mother loyally.

  He shook his head. ‘Not the same thing, I’m afraid. I do what I can, but I’m too old to play football for hours with the boy – a few minutes is the most I can manage. And besides, I’m not there most of the time.’

  ‘Why has Cathy come back to the UK?’ Liz asked.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Edward. ‘I’d hoped she was doing it to get away from those people she’s been involved with.’

  Susan said, ‘She’s been living in a commune in the South of France.’

  ‘How long has she been there?’

  Edward sighed. ‘Five years or more. Teddy’s father, Paul, introduced her to the place when they were living in Cahors; the commune’s not far from there in the Lot-et-Garonne. When Teddy was born and Paul took off, her mother and I urged Cathy to come home. But she wouldn’t – she’s always been very independent. Still, it couldn’t have been easy on her own with a baby in a foreign country, and eventually she went to live in the commune. I thought she might come back when her mother died, but she didn’t.’

  ‘When did she leave France?’

  ‘About three months ago. I have the feeling the commune leaders didn’t want her to go.’

  ‘Is it some kind of a cult?’ asked Liz, imagining a hippie-style enclave, with a charismatic, controlling guru at its head.

  ‘Not really. They style themselves anarchists: none of this love and peace stuff for them – their activities can be pretty violent. They’ve clashed with the police on several occasions, though thank God Cathy has never been arrested. They like to disrupt G8 summits – that sort of thing.’

  He sighed, and Susan said, ‘Why don’t you two go next-door and sit down and I’ll see about supper.’

  They went into the sitting room and, equipped with a stiff whisky, Edward told Liz more. He had been pleased that his daughter had come back to England, happy that he could see her more often and get to know his grandson better. And at first things had seemed to pan out – Cathy had found work three days a week with a software company within walking distance of the flat she’d rented in Brighton; Teddy had adjusted to English school (and English) very well; and the upheavals of Cathy’s life in France seemed well behind her.

  ‘But then?’ asked Liz sympathetically.

  Edward shook his head. ‘These wretched anarchists contacted her again.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Money, I think. You see, my wife set up a trust for Cathy, and I’m one of the trustees.’ His face darkened. ‘But the trouble is she’s twenty-eight now and she’s entitled to the money.’

  Recently, she’d asked for some of it, to buy a house she’d found on the Hove side of Brighton. ‘The solicitor, who’s the other trustee, and I were happy with this – not that we could have done much if we weren’t. We told her to go ahead and make an offer, and we gave her enough for the down payment.

  ‘But then the French people she’d lived with got in touch, and since then nothing’s happened – Cathy’s still in her small flat with Teddy, and there’s no sign of her buying anything. Since she’s got some money now I’m worried she’s going to give it to these anarchists. It’s impossible to talk to her. She won’t explain anything or come here to tell us what’s going on.

  ‘If I push too hard, she just threatens to go back to France, and take Teddy with her. We’re barely on speaking terms, I’m afraid. When I rang last week and offered to take the boy out for the day, she said no and put the phone down.’

  His distress was obvious. Liz realised it must be made worse by his feeling of powerlessness. From the sound of it the boy could use a strong paternal figure like Edward in his life.

  ‘It does sound very difficult,’ she said. There didn’t seem to be any useful advice she could offer.

  ‘The thing is, if Cathy wants to go and l
ive with these people again, there’s nothing I can do to stop her. It’s her life after all. And ultimately the money’s hers . . . not just the ten thousand she’s already had, but the rest as well. I’m legally as well as morally obliged to give it to her.’

  He hesitated for a moment. ‘But . . .?’ prompted Liz.

  ‘Well, I may be kidding myself, but I don’t think this is one of those classic scenarios – you know, where someone’s daughter goes off and joins the Moonies and the parents say the child’s been brainwashed and the daughter says not at all, she’s doing what she wants to do.’

  ‘How is this different?’ asked Liz gently, since it didn’t sound very different to her.

  ‘I think something else is going on. When I last saw Cathy, I got the distinct impression that she’s scared of these people. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn they were threatening her.’

  ‘Threatening her?’

  ‘Edward’s already spoken to the police about it.’ Susan Carlyle had come into the room.

  ‘They were very sympathetic,’ he said, but gave a resigned shake of his head. ‘The problem is, I didn’t have any hard evidence, and these people are all in France. The police here said there wasn’t anything they could do.’ He sat back gloomily in his chair, looking despondent and uncharacteristically vulnerable.

  Liz thought for a moment, wondering if Edward was right about this. Or was it merely wishful thinking? Like any parent, he probably couldn’t bear the thought of his daughter choosing to get mixed up with a bunch like these French anarchists.

  She tried to sound encouraging, ‘Why don’t I have a word with Martin? He could probably find out a bit about these people. If they are as violent as you say, they are sure to be known to the police in France. Then at least you’ll know what you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Would you?’ said Edward, brightening up. ‘Then I’d feel I was doing something and not just sitting back helplessly.’

  ‘Well, if you’re feeling helpless,’ Susan said cheerily, ‘you can come and set the table. Supper’s ready.’

  Chapter 14

  Liz Carlyle disliked visiting the Ministry of Defence. Its building, white and cold, sat at an awkward angle between Whitehall and the Thames. All those stiff-backed men walking smartly up the steps to its grand door made her feel like an alien. And once inside, there was a certain disapproving hostility about its security arrangements, which made it the least welcoming of all the government departments.

  Now, having survived the first layer of security, and with her pass pinned to her lapel, she sat waiting to be collected by someone who would take her inside the Secretariat of Operation Clarity. Except that it wasn’t called that here. It had turned out that the codename itself was top-secret and she had been told to ask for Sy3A.

  She watched as a military officer, dressed in what looked to her like a musical-comedy uniform, was ushered through the security barrier by a young Major who had greeted the visitor in a language Liz didn’t recognise. Serbo-Croat perhaps? she wondered idly as they disappeared up a long escalator.

  Eventually, a voice at her elbow asked, ‘Miss Carlyle?’ and she got up to follow an attractive young woman, dressed surprisingly casually in trousers and a flowing top. She looked as though she might be pregnant. No uniform, Liz noted with relief.

  They rose up through the building via escalator and lift to a floor near the top where the corridors were long, narrow and silent. Her escort stopped at a windowless, unmarked door, which clicked open in response to some numbers she tapped into a keypad.

  The door gave directly on to a small foyer, containing a plain brown Government-issue table and four chairs.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll tell them you’re here.’

  Liz waited again. She had been told that access to the Clarity Secretariat was extremely restricted, and she didn’t even know the name of the person she’d come to see. But at least they seemed to be expecting her, which was a step in the right direction.

  After a few minutes, another, much more formally dressed woman appeared, carrying a folder.

  ‘Good morning. I’m Miranda Braithwaite,’ she said.

  I bet you are, thought Liz. Just like I’m Jane Falconer when I choose to be.

  ‘I’m to take you through the indoctrination. When I’ve done that, you’ll sign this form and then you’ll be Clarity Blue, which is the first level of clearance. We’ll decide later if we need to up your clearance to Silver or Purple. But Purple is only for the top brass – and all of us, of course.’

  You may be in for a surprise, thought Liz, but she didn’t say anything.

  Miranda Braithwaite then told her rather less about the Clarity project than she had learned from Sorsky, and when she had finished, Liz solemnly signed ‘Liz Carlyle’ on a sheet headed ‘CLARITY INDOCTRINATION LIST. BLUE’.

  Miranda nodded, looking satisfied, and got up. ‘Henry Pennington will see you now,’ she said, and motioned Liz to follow her.

  Not Henry Pennington, thought Liz. What on earth was he doing here? She had last come across Pennington several years ago in the Foreign Office. It was at his instigation that she had gone undercover in the household of the Russian oligarch and almost been shot for her pains.

  The figure sitting at the desk didn’t look up as Miranda and Liz came into the room, but went on reading a document on his desk.

  ‘Liz Carlyle is here,’ said Miranda. There was no reaction, and she left the room.

  Liz looked round her. This was nothing like as grand as the room Pennington had inhabited in the Foreign Office on the last occasion she’d encountered him. She remembered a high corniced ceiling, marble fireplace and a large antique desk with chairs to match. Now he was sitting at a desk, large but much more ordinary, in an office with unadorned walls and no fireplace.

  She wondered if he’d been demoted – probably not. The carpet was thick, the meeting table against the wall large, and the window wide. It was probably just that the MOD building was nothing like as grand as the Foreign Office. As she looked round her eyes fell on something she recognised. Propped up against the wall under the window, where a visitor couldn’t miss it, was a violin, the symbol that this was the office of a truly cultured man.

  Liz did not like Henry Pennington. He was patronising but, worse, he was a panicker. When unexpected events occurred to disturb his vision of how things ought to be, he could be relied on to flap and do something unhelpful, as when he had suddenly offered Liz’s services to the Russian oligarch. So she was wary of anything that Henry Pennington was involved in.

  Having established how very busy and important he was, Pennington looked up at last from his desk and acknowledged Liz’s presence.

  ‘I have a conference call in fifteen minutes,’ he said, by way of opening the conversation. ‘I hope this won’t take long.’

  Same Henry, thought Liz as she looked at his thin, bony face with its prominent nose. You’re in for a shock, Mr P, she thought to herself.

  ‘I think you’ll find that what I have to say is just as important as your conference call.’

  He frowned as Liz went on. ‘What I have to tell you is very much “need to know” so I must ask you to sign this indoctrination list for Operation Bravado.’

  Henry flushed and tutted irritably. She was playing him at his own game and he knew it. He signed reluctantly on the form Liz presented and said rudely, ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘We have learned from a well-placed source,’ Liz began, ‘that the existence of Operation Clarity is known to the Russians and also to another foreign power.’

  Henry flopped back in his chair and started to rub his hands together in a washing motion. He said, ‘What do you mean? It can’t be true. Our security is top-notch.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is true. I didn’t know anything about Clarity until I was told by this source, who is himself foreign. What’s more important is that it’s possible that Clarity itself may have been infiltrated.’

&nbs
p; The hand-washing accelerated. ‘That’s impossible. Everyone is vetted to the highest level. I just don’t believe it.’

  ‘For the moment we have to assume it’s true. My job is to follow this lead, and to find out what if anything is going on in Clarity. What I need from you is a list of those employed on this project.’

  ‘They are all either American or British,’ he broke in. ‘There are no foreign powers, as you put it, involved.’

  She ploughed on. ‘As I understand it, this is the Secretariat. The development work is being done elsewhere. Where is that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ said Pennington desperately. ‘You’re only cleared to Level Blue.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get me cleared to Level God. Because I not only need to know where the project is, but I or one of my colleagues will need to visit it and talk to whoever is in charge.’

  ‘You can’t. Access is totally denied to outsiders.’

  ‘Look, Henry, you can try to block me if you like, but you’re just wasting your time – and holding up an important investigation. This is already at DG/PUS level and may shortly go up to Ministers. So let’s stop all this and give me the information I need so I can get on with the job. ’

  Pennington slumped in his chair. His thin face had gone very pale and his large nose seemed even more prominent. He said nothing for a second or two, then muttered in a broken-sounding voice, ‘Our security can’t have been breached.’ Liz could see that visions of his shattered career were floating before his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, Henry,’ she said soothingly. ‘It may not have been. We don’t know for sure that Clarity itself has been infiltrated. Only that there’s someone working for a foreign government who has some sort of access to Clarity material. ’