Liz closed her eyes and suppressed a groan. Geoffrey Fane was the last person she wanted to hear from just now. It was only half-past seven and she’d come in early to catch up with all the paperwork that had accumulated while she’d been in Switzerland. How on earth did Fane know she was in her office? It was creepy.
She looked longingly at the cup of coffee and the croissant she’d bought as she left the Underground, and hoped she could get rid of him quickly. ‘They say the early bird catches the worm, Geoffrey. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. The Swiss say a charter plane from Moscow landed in Geneva on Saturday, return flight. It took off two hours later with one passenger – on a stretcher, apparently unconscious. The Russians claimed he was ill. But the Swiss are pretty sure it was Alexander Sorsky.’
‘Oh, God. No wonder he didn’t turn up at the café. He was perfectly OK when I saw him on Thursday.’
‘I’m sure he was. I’m afraid that somehow the Russians must have got on to him.’
Liz thought about her last meeting with Sorsky and her unease about what he was proposing to do. Could he have been spotted going through his colleague’s files? It didn’t seem likely – he’d been very confident there was no chance of his being caught. Even if he had been, he should have been able to come up with some reasonable explanation. But there was one other way he could have been rumbled. ‘Was there any surveillance on my last meeting with him in the park?’
‘Why do you ask?’ Fane said slowly.
He was hedging; he always hated direct questions. ‘I want to know if there was surveillance while I was waiting for Sorsky in the park on Thursday. Russell White promised me there wouldn’t be.’
‘Well, if he gave you his word, then there wasn’t. Not from us.’
‘That’s easy to say, but he told me the very first time I met Petrov that there wouldn’t be any surveillance and there was. So how do I know he was telling the truth this time?’
‘You don’t, Elizabeth. But you have my word for it.’
As if that meant anything, she thought. ‘Could it have been someone else then? I don’t mean the Russians – if they had been watching Sorsky, they would never have allowed him to come to the meeting on Thursday.’
Fane sighed. ‘It was the Swiss. Their DG, a man called Bech – competent fellow normally – admitted as much to White. They were there all right, though he said they are certain no one else was watching. Meaning, the Russians weren’t following Sorsky – they must have found out some other way.’
‘I’m glad you’re so sure the Swiss would have noticed if the Russians were there.’
‘Well. Perhaps. One can get overconfident on one’s own turf. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened – even here.’
Liz, ignoring this barb, went on, ‘I need to know who Sorsky’s colleagues are. I’ve asked Russell White to find out.’
‘What’s that got to do with his disappearance?’
But Liz wasn’t in the mood to continue the conversation. Fane could wait for her report on her meeting with the Russian. ‘Just believe me, it’s important.’
‘Well, the Station will have an ORBAT of the Russian Residency in Geneva but I don’t know how detailed it will be. Or whether it will show who works with whom’.
‘Then please ask Russell to get the Swiss to help find out. If Bech and his crew screwed up their surveillance, it’s the least they can do.’ And she put the phone down.
At 8.30 Peggy Kinsolving stuck her head round the door. ‘What’s up?’ she asked, seeing the look on Liz’s face.
‘The Russians have snatched Bravado – took him out on a stretcher. He’ll be somewhere awful by now.’
Peggy sat down. ‘What happened? It sounds like something out of the Cold War. Do you remember how Philby told the Russians about that man in Istanbul who wanted to defect? What was his name?’
‘Volkov.’
‘Yes, him. He was taken out all wrapped in bandages by a Russian plane. No one ever saw him again.’ Peggy was a keen student of Cold War cases. ‘Does that sort of thing still go on?’
‘Of course it does. Have you forgotten Alexander Litvinenko? Look what they did to him – and that was here in the heart of London. The Russian services have never tolerated traitors. They still don’t.’
‘Poor Bravado.’
Liz propped her elbows on the desk and leaned her chin on her hands, looking out of the window. She felt sick. This was the second time in her career she had lost a source. After the young Muslim codenamed Marzipan had died a few years ago, she had hoped it would never happen again. That hadn’t been her fault – he’d been betrayed by a mole in the Service. But now she couldn’t help wondering whether this time she was somehow to blame. Had she been wrong to encourage Sorsky? Had she done enough to warn him how dangerous his self-appointed mission was? Should she have insisted he wait before trying to find out more? But she knew he wouldn’t have listened to her. After all, he knew more about the risks he was taking than she did.
She felt Peggy’s eyes on her, and told herself to snap out of it. So she looked at her younger colleague and said, ‘Without Bravado we’re on our own. We’ve got to find this mole in the MOD, if he exists.’
‘That’s what I came to see you about,’ said Peggy. ‘I think we’ve made some progress.’
‘Really?’ Liz’s tone lightened. ‘Tell me about it.’
She listened intently as Peggy told her about the unauthorised email Cowdray had sent to a female colleague.
‘Is she one of the foreigners?’
‘No. It’s an English woman. She’s been in the MOD for fifteen years.’
‘So what do you think’s going on?’
‘It could be nothing sinister, but according to Fielding even sending the thing has broken some sort of firewall.’
‘We’ll need to talk to them both.’
Peggy gave a small smile. ‘I’ve set it up. Cowdray’s on his way down to London. He’s been told there’s some sort of a mistake in the budget calculations for the programme he’s working on – he thinks he’s coming down for a three o’clock meeting with Fielding and the auditor. The woman’s name is Duggan. She’s expecting to talk to Pensions at two o’clock. I thought it would be best if you saw her first.’
‘I don’t think it will be me seeing either of them. I need to get back to Geneva, to find out what’s gone on and put a rocket behind the Swiss. You’ll have to deal with them.’
‘Me?’ said Peggy, her cheeks going red. ‘I can’t do it. They’ll never tell me anything.’
‘Come on, Peggy. Of course they will. You’ve got all the background and to them you’ll be the voice of authority. Don’t forget, they’ve done something wrong. They’ll be scared stiff of you.’
There was a pause, while Peggy’s expression changed from uncertain to determined. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said, sitting up straighter. ‘I suppose I’ll have to do it.’
‘Yes, and you’ll do it splendidly.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I’ve got another lead as well.’ Liz told Peggy about the mysterious trips to Marseilles which Sorsky’s colleague had been taking.
‘Has Geoffrey Fane got anyone in Marseilles?’ Peggy asked.
‘I doubt it. And I’m not sure what we’d be looking for there anyway. I think the first thing is to identify this colleague and then get the French to see if they can find out what he’s been doing there. That’s why I’ve got to go back to Geneva – to get things going before the trail goes cold.’
Chapter 24
The MOD HR Department had lent Peggy a room to use for the interview with Belinda Duggan. To call it a room flattered it; it wasn’t much more than a cubicle, windowless, lit by a strip light and furnished with two chairs and a small table. ‘But this interview is sensitive,’ Peggy had said on seeing the thin partition walls. ‘We’ll be overheard in here.’
‘We’re quite used to secrets in this department, Miss Kingly,�
� the severe middle-aged lady who presided over the HR Department said. ‘There will be no one within eavesdropping range. I’ll send Miss Duggan in when she arrives.’ And with that she’d shut the door firmly on Peggy, leaving her feeling as small as the cubicle.
Peggy sat down in the chair facing the door. She was going to be almost nose to nose with Belinda Duggan when she sat in the other chair, and that made Peggy even more nervous than she was already. How was she going to get this woman to tell her anything? She had nothing to go on but the trace of the email that Charlie Fielding had found. ‘The secret is to get them to start talking,’ had been Liz’s advice. ‘Then you’ve got something to build on, and there’s a good chance that what you want to know will emerge.’
So Peggy pushed her glasses higher on her nose, sat up straight in her char and waited.
‘Jane Falconer?’
A tall, striking blonde stood in the doorway. Peggy rose, but stayed on her side of the table, waving the visitor to the other chair.
‘I’m not Jane Falconer. She’s had to go away on urgent business. I’m Patricia Kingly.’
Duggan sat down at the table ‘Oh,’ she said, without interest, and crossed her leg casually. ‘They said this was something about my pension.’
‘Ah, I’m afraid that was not entirely accurate. In fact it’s a security interview. We don’t like people to be unnecessarily alarmed, which is why you were told it was about pensions. I’m from the Security Service. As I’m sure you know, from time to time we interview people with access to particularly sensitive material.’
‘What, you mean this is a vetting review?’ asked Duggan. There was a hint of caution in her voice.
‘Not exactly. Your vetting doesn’t come up for review until next year. But it is connected. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your current security.’
‘My security? I see,’ she said in a bored voice. ‘At least it’s not Health and Safety.’ Her face took on an expression of amusement, mixed with a trace of contempt.
What an arrogant, patronising woman, thought Peggy. She doesn’t give a damn what I think.
Duggan was wearing a short black wrapover skirt, which had opened as she sat down to show a good stretch of thigh. She was forty-five and the skirt would have been daring on a woman half her age. Peggy herself was twenty years younger and would have hesitated before buying such a garment. If she had bought it, she would never have dreamed of wearing it to the office – perhaps to a party, and not just any party. But Belinda Duggan looked as though she did exactly as she pleased, with no hesitation or doubts.
‘I’d like to start with the job you’re doing now,’ said Peggy, with a new note of authority in her voice. ‘Just tell me what you are currently working on. Don’t worry. I am cleared for codeword material.’
Belinda Duggan plunged into an elaborate description of her current job, which involved overseeing half a dozen teams of programmers, working on software projects. Most of the applications they were developing had to do with logistics – moving men and equipment and arms as efficiently as possible – and as far as Peggy could tell none involved any kind of encryption. When Duggan came to a natural pause, Peggy broke in.
‘Thank you. You know, I was interested to see on looking at your CV – it’s very impressive, by the way – that your work now doesn’t seem related to your earlier interests. Your D. Phil. thesis, for example, was about decryption.’
‘Interests change, Ms Kingly,’ said Duggan. ‘At least, mine did.’
‘So you don’t miss encryption, decryption, that sort of thing?’
‘Not one bit. And it’s moved on. Everything mathematical does, you know. Just as fast as all sciences. I couldn’t go back into it if I wanted to.’
Peggy enquired about the management side of her job. Duggan explained that as a Project Director, she managed a team of project leaders.
‘Do you keep in contact with the other Project Directors in the Department?’ asked Peggy.
‘Oh. There are a lot of firewalls,’ she said. ‘Codeword work, you know.’
Peggy was beginning to get fed up with Ms Duggan. She was just too breezy and pleased with herself. It was time to stop beating about the bush.
‘Do you meet Charlie Fielding and his team?’
Duggan looked at her and paused for thought. This had gone home but Peggy didn’t know why. ‘Charlie’s away at the moment – he’s been seconded to a project outside London. It’s very sensitive.’
‘Do you know much about that project?’
Duggan shook her head. The trace of an amused smile was back on her lips. ‘Very hush-hush. That’s all I know. Is that a test question, Ms Kingly?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Peggy firmly. This woman had a veneer as hard as varnish – there was only one chance to get through it, and she was going to take it. She’d go straight in and shock her. So she picked up a file from the table, made a show of flicking through it, tossed it down and asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Hugo Cowdray?’
Duggan started, but quickly reasserted control. You had to hand it to her, thought Peggy. ‘Hugo Cowdray?’ Duggan asked, with bewilderment in her tone of voice. ‘What about him? What’s he got to do with security?’
‘I asked, when was the last time you saw him?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Weeks ago – he hasn’t been in the office lately. Why?’
‘Do you know where he’s been?’
‘I assume he’s with Charlie. There’s a whole team gone with him. Somewhere in Norfolk, I think they are. It’s an open secret – there’s a safe house up there. I don’t know where it is. You’ll have to use your own access to find that out.’
‘Have you seen Hugo since he went there?’
‘I’ve seen Charlie – he’s often down for meetings with the finance chaps. But not Hugo.’
‘And you haven’t heard from him?’
Duggan began to look incredulous. ‘What are you implying? Why this obsession with Hugo? He’s a colleague but a distant one – we’ve never worked together. I know his name; presumably he knows mine. But that’s the end of it.’
‘Why did he send you an email then?’
‘What email? When is he supposed to have sent that?’
‘Recently.’ Peggy said nothing more.
‘I haven’t had an email from him. Though the filters here are so ferocious that half the time you’d never know who has sent what.’ She gave a little laugh.
‘You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Yes. If you are suggesting otherwise, then I’d like to see this email.’
She knows quite well I can’t show it to her, thought Peggy. But the way Duggan had moved so quickly on to the defensive made Peggy feel certain that she had been the recipient of Hugo Cowdray’s message.
Duggan was shifting in her seat as she said, ‘Is there anything else you want to discuss, Miss Kingly? I’ll have to leave in a second as I have a briefing for Directors. Three-line whip for me, I’m afraid – even the Security Service has to make way.’
Peggy resisted the urge to say, ‘No, we don’t. So just stay where you are, Ms Duggan.’ Instead she replied, ‘That’s all, Ms Duggan. For now.’
Chapter 25
Bern, a quietly pretty city, determined not to draw attention to itself, was a fitting home for the country’s Security Service. In the nondescript, modern building, Doctor Otto Bech’s office was no larger than her own, but through the window Liz had a view that could not be matched anywhere in Thames House. In a park, a line of poplars bent like bows in the breeze, and further off, across the wide river valley, a range of snow-capped mountains glittered in the morning sun.
Otto Bech’s appearance matched his low-key office. With his tweed jacket and flannels, ruffled grey hair and thick spectacles, he could have been an academic. Indeed before he joined the police he had spent several years at Lausanne University, his doctorate awarded for a dissertation on the historical development of international financial pr
otocols. Russell White had asked for Bech’s help in identifying the person Sorsky had referred to as ‘a colleague’ – the man who had told him of the third-country penetration of the British Ministry of Defence. The previous day Bech had responded, saying the Swiss had some information which might be useful. Liz had come in person to hear what it was, with White accompanying her.
In Bech’s office a dour-looking youngish man, standing by a small conference table, was introduced as Henri Leplan. Bech explained that Leplan had been at the airport when the stretchered Russian had been flown out of Geneva. He motioned for the younger man to continue.
‘We have made some progress,’ Leplan announced as he pushed across the table a pile of photographic stills for Liz and White to look at. The top one showed a small private jet parked near a terminal building. It had Russian markings. In the second, the door of the plane was open and a short ladder had been dropped down. In the third an ambulance had drawn up beside the plane. As Liz and Russell White leafed through the sheaf of photographs the drama unfolded: two attendants were carrying a stretcher up the steps into the plane; then they had disappeared. The only other figure in the photo was a man in a dark suit, medium height and broad-shouldered, watching from the tarmac, his back to the camera. In the final photograph he had turned towards the terminal and his face was clearly visible.
Seen full on, the man had dark short hair, fleshy, slab-like cheeks covered with a five o’clock shadow, and a wide jutting chin. His eyes were so deep-set that in the photograph they looked black.
Leplan continued: ‘The man in the suit is Anatole Kubiak. Officially he’s a Commercial Counsellor in the Russian Trade Delegation in Geneva.’
White said, ‘But he’s actually the senior SVR officer here – Head of Security for the whole Russian mission.’
Bech smiled grimly. ‘An unpleasant character, we gather.’
‘Then he would have had the authority to send Sorsky back to Moscow,’ said Liz.
Bech nodded. ‘Kubiak must have given Moscow enough evidence to justify forcibly repatriating the man, though what happens to Sorsky now will be out of Kubiak’s hands. He’ll probably be recalled to give evidence if there’s a trial, but I expect the outcome is already fixed. Even in these “democratic days”, the Russian Special Services don’t tolerate traitors.’
The Geneva Trap Page 11