The Righteous Spy

by Merle Nygate

  ‘So I hear.’ Milne didn’t look up from the menu.

  As far as Eli was concerned the purpose of the lunch was entirely conciliatory; he was there to make no point other than to assure Milne of his respect and commitment to working well together in the future.

  ‘It really has to be the grouse,’ Milne said. ‘There’s nothing like it.’

  ‘Great choice, I’ll have the same; we see a lot of different foods in Tel Aviv but not grouse.’

  Milne laid the menu down and glanced at the waiter who took their order with swiftness and efficiency.

  ‘I believe the grouse is shot on an estate in Scotland where the club has shooting rights,’ Milne said. ‘I never read the newsletters they send out, maybe I should start. Do you shoot?’

  ‘Not for fun,’ Eli said. ‘That’s for amateurs.’

  The comment cracked the ice; Milne looked up and smiled. His expression was surprisingly warm on his smoothly shaved face.

  ‘How’s your wife settling in?’ Milne said.

  ‘Quite well, thank you – there’s a lot to do with the move, getting things organised. We’re now waiting for our son to join us so she’ll be busy with him. Once that’s done, knowing her, she’ll be looking for something to do.’ Eli broke up the warm roll, careful to keep the crumbs on the plate.

  He went on, ‘Overseas postings have advantages and disadvantages for a family.’

  ‘I know all about that,’ Milne said. ‘I had three years in Singapore at the High Commission, then three in Basra which was dreadful, then two in Istanbul; the last posting with three children under the age of eight. That nearly ended my marriage. I was never there – always travelling.’

  ‘It happens,’ Eli said. ‘If my wife can work we’ll be fine but that’s not going to be so easy. She’s a child psychologist, very senior, a specialist in PTSD; she could teach or do research but that may not be possible... Of course, you already knew that, didn’t you?’ Eli smiled.

  ‘There’s so much product flying around at any one time, who’s got time to read the personal background of... friends.’

  The starters came; the asparagus gleamed under a coating of butter and to Eli, the atmosphere seemed promising. In spite of what must have been considered to be a serious intelligence failure, Milne was relaxed. Perhaps this was the famous British sangfroid that had stimulated Kipling to write If. Eli’s father loved to recite it when he was a child and talk about triumph and disaster as the same imposters.

  Talk at the table turned from social and sport to the CIA and Charlene, the American head of station.

  ‘I’ll invite her to join us next time,’ Milne said surveying with satisfaction his grouse carcass; he’d picked it bare with the efficiency of a vulture. Milne looked up. ‘By the way, I understand you’ve got their Qatar Embassy product as well as ours. Happy now?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m told the British raw data is the more valuable. Even though there’s certainly Hamas activity in Washington buying arms, and activity with drug cartels in South America, this is still the jumping-off point for operations. The UK is nearer to Switzerland for finance and offshore laundering, not to mention Africa. How is Charlene doing?’

  Eli was due to see the American for lunch the following week and an impression, even a skewed impression, would be helpful.

  ‘She’s an extremely clever woman,’ Milne said.

  ‘That’s the feeling I got.’

  ‘She does an absolutely magnificent imitation of a Deep South cheerleader; meanwhile she’s got a PhD in international affairs and intelligence studies; she literally wrote the book on covert operation efficacy analysis.’

  ‘I heard about that, Yuval said he’d send me a copy. How about in the field? Academic prowess doesn’t necessarily go with street smarts.’

  ‘She’s got that too,’ Milne said. ‘Iraq, Afghanistan. And she speaks Egyptian Arabic and Dari. She’s the new wave.’

  ‘Dari? That’s impressive. If she’s that smart she might not survive.’

  Like old colleagues from different companies in the same industry the two men gossiped over the port and stilton. Eli told Milne that Yuval was now station head in Washington. They speculated about the most recent changes at the Russian rezidentura and, after what Eli believed to be a most satisfactory, relationship-building lunch, Milne signalled for the bill.

  Yet... yet there was something in Eli’s peripheral awareness that niggled him. It was like a note in a piano concerto that was almost but not quite flat. Milne was looking over his glasses at the bill and signed with a flourish.

  ‘Next time I hope you’ll allow me to entertain you,’ Eli said.

  ‘That would be delightful,’ Milne said. ‘But this one really is on me.’ He replaced the fancy writing instrument in his inner pocket and looked up. ‘By the way, I didn’t ask you how your charming colleague Rafi was faring.’

  That’s what it was, the whole way through the damn lunch. Through the sherry, the grouse, the plate of English cheese, Rafi had been the miasma.

  ‘How is Rafi?’ Milne said. ‘Did he also get an overseas posting?’

  ‘No, not this time. He’s on attachment to a special unit,’ Eli said hoping the bland response didn’t seem like the curtness of a slammed door.

  Milne leaned across the table and made a steeple with his hands. He said, ‘I owe Rafi an apology; perhaps you’d be good enough to convey it to him.’

  ‘Apology?’

  ‘Rafi gave me some information about the location and timing of the terrorist attack at RAF Fairborough. I’m afraid we decided not to act on it in quite the way you expected.’

  Eli felt lunch churning in his gut. He reached for the crystal glass of water that was still on the table and sipped.

  ‘Why... why was that?’ Eli said.

  Milne lowered his voice and leaned a little closer, ‘The fact is we had a problem at GCHQ. One of our section deputy managers had been downloading data on to a chip at regular intervals. Poor chap had some personal problems too, drink and an alcoholic wife. You know the type of thing; absolutely tragic. Anyway, Five had surveillance on him on and off, and although we weren’t absolutely 100 per cent certain where the data was going, we needed to stop the flow. Happily you, via Rafi, gave us enough information so our people were able to, as it were, orchestrate events to our advantage. These remote administrative tools are quite remarkable.’

  Eli felt his heart pound against his ribs; he used all his strength to maintain a calm expression. Milne went on in the same collaborative tone, ‘Eli, I don’t have to tell you how much we’d have disliked having to go through an arrest, trial and conviction. When that happens we’re always the losers; haranguing press, the minister out to get us, questions in Parliament.’

  The mask dropped and Milne seemed genuinely uncomfortable. ‘Eli, given the prevailing instability where we really don’t know who our friends or who our enemies are going to be, we simply could not be seen to be have had such an egregious breach of our security. It was too good an opportunity to let slip. I’m afraid we had to think about what’s good for SIS and what’s good for the UK.’

  73

  Queen’s Park, London – A Week Later

  It was the least he could do.

  It was the night before Rosh Hashana and for the last few days Gal had been making lists, ordering food and cutlery, and getting the flat ready to host the entire security department of the embassy and their families. It was one of the duties of the head of station and his wife to host high days and holidays for the section; to suggest that they were one big family.

  ‘We don’t have enough chairs,’ Gal said. ‘And I’m not sure we have enough space for everyone. The kids are going to have to sit on the floor.’

  ‘I’m sure everything will be perfect.’ Eli picked up the keys from the hall table and went to work. He spent the morning doing paperwork in his office at the embassy and at midday he cleared his desk and told his bag girl that he was going home to help Gal prepare for the p
arty like the good husband he was. He noted the look of approval in the youngster’s eyes; the blonde twenty-year-old seemed like a nice girl with decent values.

  Clear of the embassy Eli caught the tube to the car hire company and signed out a silver Honda.

  The drive was easy. There wasn’t much traffic about and he was able to play some music and enjoy the smooth road and the newly tuned vehicle. After an hour he felt hungry and stopped at a service station where he ate a sandwich standing in the car park, listening to the roar of the motorway, watching the people around him, all on journeys, all going somewhere. No one was tailing him, not that it would matter that much if they did; as station manager, he was an accredited diplomat; a commercial attaché.

  Sandwich and coffee consumed, Eli binned the packaging and before he resumed the journey he patted his pockets to check he’d got what was necessary.

  It started to rain just as he was parking the car. The afternoon was dank and the rain dripped off the tapestry coloured trees and pattered to the ground. Opposite where he’d parked there was a school and a clutch of parents, unfurling their umbrellas as they stood like sentries, waiting for their children to come out. For a moment Eli watched them at the school gate; chatting, sharing, living. It seemed odd that the end of life should be juxtaposed with the beginning of life, or maybe not, Eli thought as he walked through the gates into the municipal cemetery.

  Eli found the grave easily; there was a grave marker in lieu of the stone that would be erected once the ground had settled. As he walked along the path Eli considered that of all the subjects they’d discussed, they’d never talked about mortality. It would have been a lively discussion; Eli regretted that it was now too late to do so.

  With his feet slightly apart Eli closed his eyes and composed himself. He knew the words by heart; how could he not? He’d said them often enough; at the graveside of fallen friends, family and colleagues. Most recently he’d said them at Alon’s funeral in the high-rise cemetery that was like a car park. That had also been a dark day.

  But today Eli said kaddish for Red Cap; for Derek; for his friend.

  As Eli mouthed the words quietly in this English cemetery with trees dripping rain on to sodden leaves and the distant hush of a motorway in the distance, Eli pictured the agent as he’d last seen him: whole; strong and smiling. No doubt Derek would say that what Eli was doing was foolish sentimentality but just the same he’d still be happy Eli was there. He wished Derek would have been there; Eli wished he could have shared the information he’d got from Milne. Nobody but the dead agent, with his charm and humanity and devilish humour would have truly appreciated the ridiculous irony of his own death.

  Eli was tearful but he went on, nodding his head as he recited the ancient prayer. ‘Have mercy upon him; pardon all his transgressions... shelter his soul in the shadow of Thy wings. Make known to him the path of life. Oseh shalom bimrovav,’ Eli sang softly. ‘He who makes peace in high places, shall make peace upon us.’

  From his pocket Eli took out the stone he’d brought with him to place on the grave. He knelt and the scent of damp earth filled his nostrils. His eyes were moist and he brushed his sleeve across them. The stone was smooth and oval and using his left hand he placed it next to the grave marker.

  There was one final task for Eli to complete; reaching into his right-hand pocket, Eli took out a piece of yellow chalk and nicked the base of the grave marker with a tick: it was the signal to Red Cap that all was well.

  The End

  Author’s Notes

  Although I’ve written and script edited in different genres and media, I’ve never written a spy novel until now. I love reading them and I studied the genre as part of an MA in Crime Fiction at the University of East Anglia, but it wasn’t until I got stuck into the research that I found my story.

  None of the characters or events in the novel are based on real people or real events but the narrative is based on real types of people and the sorts of activities that the intelligence professions pursue.

  Whether they are British, Israeli, Russian, American, North Korean, Chinese or any other nationality, intelligence organisations have the same objectives: they collect intelligence about other countries; they try to identify other countries’ espionage activities. And, they try to influence other countries in a way that is beneficial to their own country’s interests.

  During the Cold War, the Soviet Union helped the CND movement and the Greenham Common Protest. On the other side, the CIA supported the church and religion in the Soviet bloc. Both these activities were aimed at undermining the opposing regimes as part of the respective governments’ foreign policies.

  It’s what intelligence organisations do: regime change; election fixing; blackmail; propaganda (aka fake news); kidnapping, targeted assassination (aka murder) – and so on.

  We can throw up our hands in despair about the immorality of these actions, the notion of the KGB manipulating well-meaning, peaceable people to support Soviet aims while the CIA uses religious beliefs to try to destabilise the Soviet bloc, but it’s the nature of the profession.

  What intrigues me, as a writer, is that these transgressive acts are being planned and carried out by mostly decent, intelligent people with the very best of intentions.

  These are some of the books I read:-

  Gideon’s Spies, Gordon Thomas

  The Mitrokhin Archive, Christopher Andrew and Vasili Mitrokhin

  Memoirs of a Spymaster, Markus Wolf with Anne McElvoy

  Spycatcher, Peter Wright

  The Oxford Handbook of National Security Intelligence, Ed. Loch K Johnson

  National Security Intelligence, Loch K Johnson

  Intercept, Gordon Corera

  By Way of Deception, Victor Ostrovsky and Claire Hoy

  GCHQ, Richard J Aldrich

  Spy Handler, Victor Cherkashin with Gregory Peter

  On Intelligence, John Hughes-Wilson

  Disrupt and Deny, Rory Cormac

  Book Club Questions

  Who do you think is the Righteous Spy? In other words, which character is morally right?

  What does the book say about the world of espionage?

  Which other writers would you compare Merle Nygate to and would you read another book by her?

  Which parts of the book stood out for you? What did you think of Nygate’s writing style?

  Did you learn anything that you weren’t aware of before?

  Who was the character that you identified with the most?

  Were you satisfied with the ending? What feeling did you take away?

  Acknowledgements

  There may only be one person’s name on the front of the book and one person tapping away at the keyboard but many people have helped me.

  I’d like to thank everybody who talked to me, read drafts and gave me feedback. As well as reading, Isabelle Grey has been a great friend and a constant support. Also, Martin Fletcher, John Corry, Theresa Boden, Tika Cope, Joe Millis and a special big thank you and hug to Loni Arditi. I’d also like to thank those people who don’t want to be name checked. Your input has made it a stronger and more convincing book.

  As well as those who helped for love, I’d also like to thank the professionals. Arzu Tahsin for her thoughtful and incisive notes; Jon Elek and Rosa Schierenberg at United Agents for representing me; and the tutors and my cohort on the MA Crime Fiction at UEA, especially Suzanne Mustacich. Thank you also to Clare Smith at Little Brown for giving me the UEA/Little Brown prize. And Clare Quinlivan and Katherine Sunderland at Verve for publishing the novel.

  Finally, I’d like to thank my beloved husband, James, for listening to my endless conversations about the book. I know it’s been hell, but it’ll be worth it. I think.

  If you enjoyed The Righteous Spy, you might enjoy Nicola Monaghan's Dead Flowers...

  She doesn’t trust the police. She used to be one of them.

  Hardened by ten years on the murder squad, DNA analyst Doctor Sian Love has seen it all.
So when she finds human remains in the basement of her new home, she knows the drill.

  Except this time it’s different. This time, it’s personal...

  Available now from Verve Books!

  Why not try Sherryl Clark's Trust Me, I'm Dead?

  She hasn't seen her brother in years. Now, he's dead.

  When Judi Westerholme finds out her estranged brother has been murdered, she assumes it's connected to his long term drug addiction. Returning home, she is shocked to discover he had been clean for years, had a wife – now missing –, a child and led a respectable life. But if he had turned his life around, why was he killed in a drug deal shooting? And where is his wife?

  Desperate to know what really happened, Judi sets out to uncover the truth, even though it means confronting her own traumatic past. But she's not the only one looking for answers…

  She turned her back on her brother in the past. Should she trust him now?

  With a gutsy, unapologetic protagonist, Trust Me, I'm Dead is a gritty and bold crime thriller that explores the sacrifices people will make for their families.

  Available now from Verve Books!

  About the Author

  Merle Nygate is a screenwriter, script editor, screenwriting lecturer and novelist; she’s worked on BAFTA winning TV, New York Festival audio drama and written original sitcoms; previously she worked for BBC Comedy Commissioning as well as writing and script editing across multiple genres. Most recently, Merle completed her first espionage novel which won the Little Brown/UEA Crime Fiction Award. It was described by the judge as ‘outstanding’.