by Merle Nygate
Eli kept his own expression neutral by glancing at one of the mighty chandeliers in the middle of the room and then back to Milne. The muscles around Milne’s eyebrows contracted imperceptibly and Pen Hardy leaned forward in his chair to concentrate all the better on what Yuval had to say.
‘The situation is like this,’ Yuval said. ‘As you are of course aware we have significant coverage from our drones over Gaza and the Territories. Over the last month, we have seen increased chatter. And, from what we’ve picked up and analysed, we believe that a new Hamas group is planning an initiative.’
Interest in both the American and British eyes visibly dimmed. As far as Milne and Pen were concerned Hamas was regional, only good for motivating disaffected kids into knifing civilians far far away from British or American citizens. In other words, the mighty UK/USA didn’t give a damn.
‘Do go on,’ Milne said as he carved another shaving of cheese from the block on his plate.
‘That is it,’ Yuval said. ‘Chatter. So far. We think Al Qaeda may be collaborating with Hamas.’
‘Unlikely bedfellows,’ Milne said. ‘Well, we’d very much like you to keep us appraised of any future developments, wouldn’t we, Pen?’ The American wasn’t listening; he was checking his phone for messages. There was obviously something important because he stood up from the table and strode across the carpet towards the door.
‘Shall we get the bill?’ Milne wiggled a finger in the direction of an attentive waiter and only then glanced in the direction of Eli and Yuval. ‘Or would anyone like anything else?’
Yuval puffed out his chest, ‘As I said, we believe that there is a new initiative in the area but to be certain we need more raw data for our matrix. We’d like the product you’re collecting from the Qatar Embassy in both London and Washington.’
There was silence at the table.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Milne said.
‘The Qatar Embassy; Hamas works out of there.’
Milne’s expression was rigid, ‘Let me be absolutely clear about this, Her Majesty’s Government does not spy on accredited diplomats to the Court of St James’s.’
‘Really?’ Yuval said. ‘How about so-called second secretaries working under diplomatic cover? Do you spy on them? It’s common knowledge that Hamas’s European desk is run out of the Qatar Embassy in London. They’ve been there for thirty odd years; they even have their own parking space.’
‘Very well; let’s say, for the sake of an entirely hypothetical argument, that we would be so discourteous as to collect data from an ally who also happens to be a billion dollar investor in our infrastructure. In that implausible situation, our analysts would pick up on potential threats.’
‘This is where you are completely wrong,’ Yuval said, a finger poised on the white table cloth and he pressed down as he made his point. ‘You can do all the potential searches through the raw data for key words and combinations but your analysts simply don’t have the language skills that ours do. Arabic is a beautiful and complex language with huge variations in content across the regions. But if someone speaking Hassaniya Arabic can’t understand Najdi, how are your analysts going to pick up references?’
‘And your analysts can?’ Milne said.
‘We have a head start. Arabic is our second language and kids start learning at 10. Oliver, I don’t have to remind you that the CIA’s lack of language skills was a factor in 9/11. That’s history.’ Yuval went on, ‘It’s very simple; if you give us the raw data from the Qatar Embassy we can feed back the results to you. If you don’t, we can’t.’
Milne shook his head, ‘Even if we did have that raw data you’re talking about, it’s never going to happen and in the meantime you haven’t got anything concrete with which to tempt us – have you?’
Pen came back to the table at the same time as the waiter who presented the bill in a leather folder. Without missing a beat Milne said, ‘As I said, and I am sure Pen agrees, when you have something concrete, let us know. In the meantime, do not embarrass either Her Majesty’s Government or our allies.’
On the way back to Kensington Eli and Yuval didn’t discuss the lunch meeting – even in the most general terms. They kept their conversation strictly to London musicals, theatre, restaurants, the exchange rate and football. All the same, Eli could see Yuval struggling to restrain his body language, fighting to damp down the spring in his step and the smile on his face. But as soon as the door to the safe room at the embassy was shut behind them, Yuval ripped off the Westminster tie, tossed it on the table and fell back into the leather chair.
‘That went well,’ Yuval grabbed one of the laptops on the table and flipped open the lid. ‘So, the situation is that I need to write this up before I go to the airport. And you need to see whether I missed anything, anything at all. What are your headlines?’
Eli ran through the sequence of events in chronological order – what was said, how it was said, the associated body language, psychological attitude – while Yuval made rapid notes on the laptop pecking at the keys with lightning speed. He interrupted Eli’s account every so often and double-checked a comment here and there.
At last the lid of the computer was down again, ‘I’ll send you my draft,’ Yuval said. ‘If anything’s not right let me know.’
‘Certainly,’ Eli said.
Yuval tidied the laptop away and was preparing to leave the room, but just before he did he picked up the discarded Westminster tie from the table. With mock solemnity he handed the black and pink fabric to Eli. ‘You’re in charge now – this is your badge of office. Keep Red Cap in line, monitor our watchers just in case he is at risk, and let me know if Trainer has got herself into the school. And if Rafi does fuck up, you can run Trainer.’
‘Shall I send Milne a note thanking him for lunch?’ Eli said. ‘It would be polite.’
‘No. Let him think we’re pissed. Let him think we’re licking our wounds. As Napoleon said, “Never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake”.’
‘Are they the enemy?’ Eli said.
‘No, not at all. We’re all in the same business, they just happen to have different interests to ours – at the moment.’
17
M25 Motorway – Two Days Later
Petra noted that Rafi was a bad driver. She also realised that when they were lovers, back in the day, she’d never been in a car when he was driving. If she had, she wouldn’t be in one now. Rafi’s lane changing, acceleration and braking bore scant relationship to the traffic flow. And when the torrent of cars on the M25 slowed down to a crawl around Heathrow, Rafi fiddled with the audio controls on the grey Ford Focus as if he had some sort of palsy. Finally he tapped his hands on the steering wheel and frowned.
‘Are we in a hurry?’ Petra said.
‘No.’
‘Then why the hell are you driving so fast and so badly?’
‘Sorry, I wasn't concentrating.’
‘Are you worrying about whether we’re clean? Did you see the guy in the blue suit at the hotel?’
Rafi frowned, ‘Guy in the blue suit?’
‘Five-foot-eight, dark, heavy fringe, blue suit, mid-40s, slightly overweight; he walked past, talked to the man outside the dining room, then sat down and ordered a coffee,’ Petra said.
Rafi appeared to be thinking and he spoke slowly, ‘Outside the dining room and ordered a coffee?’ And then he speeded up. ‘No, no, I didn’t see anyone or at least I didn’t notice anyone.’
Petra sighed. ‘Rafi, you’re lying. I saw Benny react when Blue Suit walked past. What’s more you shifted in your seat and then ignored him. One of ours, I presume, or are you going to keep denying it?’
Rafi shrugged. ‘Like I said, you’re a natural.’
‘If you’re not worrying about Blue Suit, you’re worrying about the job.’ Petra said. ‘Why?’
Rafi took one hand off of the steering wheel and massaged his beard, ‘I won’t deny it. I’ve got a lot of experience in other areas, but this
is the biggest operation I've done of this type, and... well, some people are putting me down. You know the politics.'
‘What, they’re saying you’re not good enough? Is that it?’
‘Not experienced enough. So I’ll be relying on you.’ He glanced over at her, taking his eyes off the windscreen.
‘If you’re relying on me try to concentrate on your driving,’ Petra said.
He slowed down and Petra stretched her long legs into the footwell, ‘Good,’ she said. ‘So, now that I’ve got an interview and submitted my accreditation what else do I need to know?’
‘You will be seeing Deanna Morgan, principal of the Clock Tower English Language School. She is in partnership with her husband who also works part-time in the PR business; mainly aeronautics and engineering. The language school has been running for five years. They are trying to specialise in secure, upmarket language courses. That's why it's located at the fancy private school during the holidays.’
‘Public school,’ Petra said.
‘No, it's a private school.’
‘That's what we call a public school,’ Petra said. Rafi frowned.
‘Never mind,’ Petra went on. ‘We know where this woman lives and we know where she works?’
‘Yes, the business is registered to the house.’
‘I’d like to do a drive-by this evening to get a sense of the place and the surroundings. See what we can gauge from the external factors.’
Rafi looked over at Petra and smiled. She ignored him and went on, ‘Say we check in to wherever we're staying, do a drive-by and then get something to eat? Do you need to liaise with anybody else?’
‘No back-up, no watchers,’ Rafi smiled once more but this time he kept his eyes on the road. ‘I like the dress by the way. You've got great legs.’
‘Fuck off,’ Petra said.
‘I was giving you a compliment. Why are you so sensitive?’
‘Because I’m here to do a job. Anyway, I want to ask you about something that Benny said. Why is this woman a threat to UK security? Is that true or is it bullshit?’
‘I can’t give you all the details. You know the rules as well as I do.’
‘Come on, we’re old friends, how can you expect me to be your point woman if I don’t know the details?’
Rafi was tight-lipped and for once seemed to be focusing on the road ahead. Petra went on, ‘For goodness sake Rafi, if you give me more information I’ll know what I’m supposed to be looking out for. For all I know the girl could be working with the Russians. Is she?’
‘The problem is the brother which is why you’re there – but it’s complicated, much more complicated than I can explain at the moment. I promise you, when I can, I’ll explain.’
‘Complicated and you’ll explain,’ Petra said. ‘Okay... So, tell me, how old is this Deanna Morgan?'
A white van hooted at Rafi who, having slowed down, was still hogging the centre lane. He put his foot down and veered right, into the fast lane and shot past a bunch of cars before cutting in front of a blue Clio and resuming his middle-lane location.
‘How old is she? Coming up to fifty,’ Rafi said. ‘Her husband is a few years older, second marriage for him, no kids. Like I said, he works in PR, high tech.’
Petra started to formulate a plan based on the information. Maybe she’d talk about the benefits of being child-free. Maybe talk about wanting to relocate to Oxford and the job would be a trial period. That could work. People feel validated if they think someone wants to be like them; live like them; live where they do. Deep in a reverie, Petra visualised operational information as directional arrows – all different ways into the target. Some were dead ends, some were circular; some made direct contact. It was just a question of choosing the right arrow. Petra wound a lock of dark hair around her fingers as she mulled over the best way to connect emotionally with the principal of the school.
‘You’re married aren’t you?’ she said absently. ‘Second wife, several children you dote on, and you’re probably still fooling around.’
‘How do you know?’
She ignored the question: ‘Okay, what if I tell Deanna Morgan that I’m thinking of moving to Oxford – but before I rent out my place I want to try it by taking a summer job. I quite like that. I think I’ll also say there’s a relationship in my life of some sort. Just so that she doesn’t feel threatened if her husband is actively involved in the language school business; also she’ll know that I’m not going to be dating while I’m there. Also, if I need to bring someone else into the operation at some stage we have that option. What do you think, Rafi? It’s pretty unoriginal in terms of cover stories but it’ll work.’
‘Yes,’ Rafi said. ‘I have three children and two wives. One current. You?’
‘Me? Oh, it’s complicated, but I promise you, Rafi, when I can, I’ll explain.’
18
Summertown, Oxford – The Next Day
In the morning, Petra went for a run before breakfast. Even at 7am it was hot, humid and cloudy – storm weather. Back at the hotel Petra showered, washed her hair and dressed in her costume. For that's what she thought of the blue and white print skirt she'd bought in a charity shop. It was a costume that she would don for the part she was about to play. The only difference in what she was about to do was that the audience of one, Deanna Morgan, would be on stage with her.
As soon as Deanna opened the door to the basement home office, Petra knew that her print skirt and pumps had been the right choice. It echoed Deanna Morgan’s style, a woman who on first sight would have passed for the leggy girl about town she'd probably once been.
‘Please excuse the chaos,’ Deanna said. ‘This is always the most difficult time of year. There's so much to do.’
Turning, Deanna led the way through the small hall into a sunlit room at the back of the house. French windows looked out on to a courtyard garden and Deanna sat at a desk with her back to the view.
The small basement room was a mess. Walls were covered with shelves of files and year planners with coloured marks that had been smudged and then amended. On the desk, besides a bulging box file, there were dog biscuits, a single shoelace, a tape measure, and a buff paper file with ‘applicants’ scrawled in bold black letters.
It was hard to say whether the woman was inefficient or whether the mess indicated money issues; in other words, she couldn’t afford to hire a secretary to deal with the administration.
Petra studied Deanna as she pulled the buff file towards her with her manicured sun-spotted hands. The manicure was professional, indicated by the regularity of the nail shapes; glancing down Petra recognised that Deanna’s dirndl skirt was from an upmarket high street chain and the pumps on her feet were new. If the school was running at a loss, if finances were tight, the principal wasn’t taking the hit.
Deanna extracted Petra’s application form and looked up, smiling, ‘You have an impressive CV,’ she said.
‘Thank you, it’s very kind of you to see me.’
‘I’m sorry this is such short notice but the teacher who has been with me for the last five years suddenly decided she didn’t want to do it this year.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Petra said.
‘I think it’s for the best.’ Deanna returned her attention to Petra’s CV. ‘I see you coach young people on a voluntary athletics programme.’
‘I enjoy it and it’s a chance to give back something. Some of the kids need to do something away from home and computer screens.’
‘I’m sure,’ Deanna looked up and fixed Petra with her pale eyes. ‘Now, much of what you might be doing is in the area of pastoral care.’
‘You mean making sure the students are comfortable in their environment?’
‘Exactly. But it can be a little more complicated. To be frank, last year we had more than our fair share of students with acute homesickness and in one particular case, well... let’s call them behavioural issues.’ Deanna grimaced. ‘Sex and drugs.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Petra frowned in sympathy and crossed her ankles. The action was also an attempt to ease the weight of the Spaniel lying across her feet.
‘They’re young people away from home. It’s par for the course.’ Deanna noticed the dog, ‘Please push him off, Freddie can be insistent.’
‘He’s lovely,’ Petra leaned down and tickled the dog behind his ears.
Dogs and children – bitter enemies of the actor were beloved friends of the spy. On stage or in front of a camera, animals and children sucked the attention of the audience. Yet in the shadow world, where the fourth wall became a mirror, an animal or child was a bonus. Petra remembered exploiting it because being seen to be attentive to an animal or child would make her seem like a nice person, a kind person and an honest person. Would it work on Deanna; would cooing over her dog appeal to her?
Petra said, ‘We had a dog like Freddie when I was young. Great character and so intelligent.’
‘I’m biased but I do agree,’ Deanna said without warmth. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘The pastoral care and behavioural issues.’
‘Thank you, Petra; my brain is a sieve at the moment. I’ve got so much to do before we go away for the weekend.’
‘Lovely, I just had a weekend with my boyfriend in Wales. It’s so refreshing to get away.’
‘Yes, but I’ve got so much to do. Now let's see,’ Deanna placed a pair of reading glasses on her nose and peered at Petra’s form. ‘As I said, your qualifications are most impressive. And you write articles for the business press which will be good for some of the students who might go on to study here.’
‘Thank you.’
Petra, I think you'd be absolutely perfect. In fact, I think your experience with younger children would be a positive advantage.’
Petra smiled, waiting for the inevitable job offer and preparing her gracious words of thanks.
Still seated in her chair, Deanna dived into the folder again. She tugged at another piece of paper and looked at Petra over her reading glasses. 'Now, I'm going to be absolutely frank with you. There's another good candidate: a man. He has a strong sports background which might work well with the young men, because it's the young men who... who were the problem last year.’ Deanna took her glasses off and sucked on one of the arms as if there was jam on the end. Withdrawing her plastic dummy she said, ‘You are both strong candidates so what I propose doing is making the decision after the weekend and when I receive your references. Is that acceptable, Petra?’