The Geneva Trap

Chapter 7

‘And I never saw him or heard from him again,’ she finished.

Fane sat silent for a moment, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, fingertips meeting steeple-like. Liz had omitted any mention of her own feelings towards Sorsky at the time he was showing an interest in her. She knew only too well what Fane would make of that.

Lifting his head to look straight at her, he gave a sardonic smile. ‘So Sorsky’s the reason you joined MI5?’

‘Hardly,’ said Liz. ‘Apart from that one conversation, we didn’t discuss my future plans. And the Service was never mentioned at all.’

‘I don’t mean he recruited you.’ Fane gave a short laugh. ‘But he put the idea into your head. He obviously made an impact on you – and you on him. It explains things.’

‘Does it?’ It was true enough, she thought, that without Sorsky’s encouragement to look further afield, she would probably have ended up as a teacher or working in business; certainly something quite different from the intelligence world. But it was very difficult to see how Sorsky’s casual piece of advice of twenty years ago could have triggered this situation. His insistence that he would speak to Liz and only Liz was most likely a calculated move to ensure that his approach was taken seriously and was passed on by the Geneva Station. Though how he had learned not only that she’d joined MI5, but that she was still there, was a mystery.

Fane must have been asking himself the same question. ‘Did Sorsky know that you applied for MI5?’

‘No. I told you that the last time I saw him was before I’d even seen the advertisement in the Guardian.’

‘Could someone else have told him? Someone you’d confided in?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone else.’

‘Not even family?’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t tell the family, but even if I had, my family have never been in touch with Sorsky or any Russians.’ The truth was that with her father so ill at the time, the last thing she’d wanted to do was to worry him or her mother by telling them that she was applying for a job that they would have considered dangerous.

‘And you never saw Sorsky again?’

‘No, I didn’t. I’ve told you that already. I don’t have any idea why he’s mentioned my name.’

Fane nodded. ‘Well, you’ll find out why soon enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘He asked for you. No one else will do – he said so himself. I can hardly send Bruno Mackay, for example, to fly over and see the man when he’s made it quite clear that he’ll only talk to you.’

Liz knew that he had not picked Bruno Mackay’s name at random. Fane knew very well that she and Bruno were old rivals. They typified the different cultures of the Services they worked in and the different jobs they had to do. Liz was careful, analytical, with a direct, straightforward and very determined style. Bruno was the opposite – his flashy exterior covering a subtle and, in Liz’s view, devious approach; he was no less clever than she but reached his goals in a much more oblique manner. They were like chalk and cheese, and Geoffrey Fane knew that suggesting he might put Bruno in to do a job that Liz was balking at, was bound to wind her up.

‘Are you saying that you want me to go to Geneva and meet Sorsky?’

‘Yes. We can’t afford to ignore his approach and since Sorsky is hardly in a position to come over here to see you, you’ll have to go and see him. Don’t worry. The Geneva Station will look after you. Russell White is very sound.’

Liz nodded slowly. Fane was right of course. If Sorsky had asked specifically for her, it would be stupid to try and fob him off with someone else, at least not until they’d found out what he wanted to say. And Liz had to admit that she was intrigued by his unexpected reappearance in her life.

Fane stood up. ‘Good, that’s settled then. I’m seeing DG now, so I’ll mention it. Then I’ll get Russell White to contact you and fix all the details. Meanwhile,’ he added, ‘I’d give a little thought to how this Sorsky character might know that the girl he met at university is now an MI5 officer. We don’t want any nasty surprises, do we?’