Breaking Cover

19

Jasminder emerged from Green Park Underground station into a bright, warm spring day. She was early so she decided to walk to the interview even though, unusually for her, she was wearing a smart suit with a rather tight skirt, and shoes with heels. Carlton Gardens, the letter had said, and she’d had to look it up on Google Maps. Pall Mall, she knew, was lined with grand clubs but she had never even noticed the anonymous street running between it and The Mall, leading to Buckingham Palace. This was not a part of London she frequented.

When she had woken up that morning she had almost decided not to go to the interview. She would ring and tell them she had changed her mind, she thought. The job was not for her and she couldn’t understand how she had got herself into the position of applying for it and then agreeing to attend an interview. But after a cup of coffee and a bowl of porridge curiosity had begun to get the better of caution. She still wasn’t entirely sure which agency she was involved with, though the advertisement in the Guardian had made it fairly obvious it was MI6, and she found it totally bizarre that they should even be considering her.

The rather severe grey-haired lady in a raincoat who had called at the flat one evening to do what she described as Jasminder’s ‘security interview’ had not been at all forthcoming. ‘It’s an agency of Government,’ she had said. ‘If you are called for interview, you will learn more about the post then.’

As Jasminder headed away from Piccadilly and down Queen’s Walk she saw a few people sitting in deckchairs in St James’s Park, chatting and enjoying the first real sun of the year. She was jealous; the nearer she got to her assignation at Carlton Gardens, the more anxious she felt. What’s the matter with you? she asked herself. You don’t want this job so why are you worrying about it? But she knew the answer. She wasn’t used to failing and she didn’t want to fail at this. Even though she was mentally reserving the right to turn them down, she didn’t want them to reject her. She walked on, along The Mall and up the Duke of York’s Steps, where she turned left along the line of grand, anonymous buildings until at the end of the road she saw the number she was looking for, and the front door of the house.

The bell was answered by a middle-aged woman in a dark jacket and skirt, which looked like some sort of uniform. To Jasminder she appeared to be a carbon copy of the security-interview woman who had come to her flat, except that rather unexpectedly this one smiled warmly and invited her to sit down in a kind of waiting room, furnished with brown furniture and chairs with leather seats and button backs. The windows were obscured by heavy net curtains, making the whole room dark and gloomy after the bright sunshine outside. Jasminder’s spirits sank further; now she definitely wished she hadn’t come.

‘Help yourself to coffee,’ said the smiley woman, waving at a thermos jug on a table. But Jasminder didn’t feel like coffee; she sat down uneasily on one of the leather chairs.

She didn’t have to wait long. After no more than three or four minutes, the door opened and Catherine, the woman who had been with the head-hunter when Jasminder had first discussed the job, stood in the doorway. ‘Good morning, Jasminder. They’re ready for you now.’

The room they went into was very different from the waiting room. Jasminder’s first impression was that she had walked into the drawing room of a small stately home. Facing the door, set in a curved wall at the end, tall windows looked out over The Mall to St James’s Park. A blind was partly drawn down over one window where the sun was trying to glance in. To her left, as Jasminder followed Catherine into the room, chintz-covered armchairs were arranged round a marble fireplace, but in front of them were three men in dark suits, sitting in upright chairs on the far side of a polished mahogany table. Catherine indicated an empty chair facing them and sat down herself on a chair next to it.

‘Good morning, Miss Kapoor,’ said the man in the centre of the group. ‘It’s good of you to come and see us.’ He was thin-faced with a prominent nose. Even in her own nervous state, Jasminder could see that he looked anxious.

‘I’m Henry Pennington of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office,’ he continued, ‘and chairman of this selection board. Before we proceed further I should say, as I’m sure you are aware, that this post involves a high level of security clearance. We are not asking you to sign the Official Secrets Act at this stage as you may not be selected for the post. However, I must ask you to observe confidentiality about anything you may learn as a result of this interview. Do you agree to those terms?’ As he spoke, he was gently rubbing his hands together in a washing motion. The dry sandpapery sound was very audible in the quiet room.

‘Well, yes,’ replied Jasminder cautiously. ‘But what does that mean? That I can’t tell anyone I have been to this interview?’

Henry Pennington looked even more anxious and uncomfortable and his hand-washing intensified. There was a short silence then the man sitting to his left said, ‘No. Of course not. It means that if we reveal any of the nation’s secrets, you must keep them to yourself. If we do that, we’ll warn you.’ He smiled reassuringly at her and said, ‘Back to you, Henry.’

Pennington cleared his throat. ‘Before I introduce my colleagues on the board,’ he said, frowning, ‘I should tell you that we are interviewing a shortlist of people both from inside and outside the public service for the new post of Director of Communications in the Secret Intelligence Service. You have seen the outline description of the post and Sir Peter–’ he nodded to his left ‘–will tell you some more about how he sees it. But let me introduce the members of the selection board. This,’ indicating the man who had spoken to her, ‘is Sir Peter Treadwell, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. He is referred to as C.’

‘That’s MI6,’ said Sir Peter cheerfully. ‘Good morning, Miss Kapoor.’

‘And this,’ went on Pennington, indicating the man on his right, ‘is Mr Fane, also of the Secret Intelligence Service. Miss Catherine Palmer you have already met, I think.’

Jasminder nodded in response to the introductions and waited. She could feel the tension in the room and had an almost irresistible urge to laugh. This was clearly going to be like no other selection board she’d ever attended.

‘I will ask C to start by telling you some more about the post, which will be on his staff.’ Pennington leaned back in his chair, clearly relieved to be passing the baton.

‘Thank you, Henry.’ Sir Peter sat forward and smiled at her. ‘You must be wondering why you are being interviewed for a post in SIS, Miss Kapoor. Well, I envisage the role as serving as the day-to-day interface between SIS and the public and media. That’s why we are describing it as Director of Communications.

‘From time to time I make public speeches with input from various parts of the Service; the Director of Communications will be responsible for pulling this material together and drafting what I say. But more important, and arguably more influential, will be contact with the media and through them the public. I want that to be a lot more open than it has been in the past and I want it to be done by a person who is not seen as a faceless spook or anonymous propagandist. I’d like someone already known outside the covert intelligence world, someone seen as open-minded and honest. They need as well to grasp the complex balance that has to be struck today between civil liberties and security.’

He paused briefly, then said, ‘I should add that not everyone in the Government, the Foreign Office or SIS itself agrees with me that this should be the way we do it.’ A little snort, just audible, came from the direction of the man called Fane.

Jasminder said, ‘Thank you for the explanation. It does sound an interesting position but I don’t understand why you think I might be suitable. I feel sure that you and I would differ very much on the balance you talk about – and where the line should be drawn. I think both of us might be accused of hypocrisy if I were to join you. People would say I’d sold out to the establishment, and that you were just trying to curry favour with your critics.’

‘Thank you for being so frank, but that’s not how I see it.’ Sir Peter was no longer smiling; his elbows were on the table and his expression was intense. ‘I know your reputation is for supporting civil liberties of all kinds against what you see as incursion by the state. You’re also concerned that, using the excuse of terrorist threats, governments will intrude unnecessarily on private lives.’ Jasminder was about to reply, but he went on: ‘Believe it or not, so am I. But what impresses me about your position is that you also acknowledge there is a real threat from extremism, and that the Government does have a duty to protect its citizens – even if that involves some surrender of civil liberties. Have I got that right?’

Jasminder nodded and began to relax a little. The chairman, Pennington, had made her want to laugh with his mix of pomposity and nerves, but she liked Sir Peter, who seemed straightforward. As they continued their discussion, she sensed she might enjoy working with (and for) this man, and could feel a growing fascination at the prospect of being involved in this mysterious world.

It was only when it was the turn of the third member of the panel, Mr Fane, to ask the questions that she again began to feel that she was in the wrong place. This languid-seeming gentleman in pinstripes, lounging comfortably in his chair in this elegant room, was exactly what she’d been expecting from the interview and just the sort of person guaranteed to make her feel uncomfortable. His questions took a completely different line from Sir Peter’s and were aggressively posed. How could she possibly move from the untrammelled freedoms of academe to the restrictions of a closely controlled environment? Was she used to knowing secrets? More important, was she good at keeping them? Did she realise how intrusive the media could be? Could she work with colleagues who didn’t share her political views? Could she get along with people who thought her naïve, and despised her brand of liberalism?

As each question was posed, with elaborate old-school courtesy, Jasminder felt her temper rising, but she managed to control herself and reply politely, if increasingly curtly, until he prefaced a question with ‘My dear Miss Kapoor’, when she finally snapped. ‘I’m not your “dear”, Mr Fane. And if that’s how you address women you barely know, then I hope you’re not typical of the men in MI6. If you are, I would feel quite uncomfortable about being closely associated with them, let alone representing them to the public.’

There was a short silence. Fane looked slightly stunned, and then Sir Peter intervened. ‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ he said firmly. To Jasminder he said, ‘As I mentioned, there are different views in the Service about how our interface with the public should be managed, and you have just heard one of them from Geoffrey. However, you have also heard the route I intend to pursue and I hope you think it’s the right one.’

Geoffrey Fane said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, a look of supercilious distaste on his face. Henry Pennington suddenly roused himself as though he had just remembered that he was the chairman of the selection board. Looking (and sounding) more anxious than ever, he turned to Sir Peter.

‘Have you any more questions for Miss Kapoor, C?’

‘No further questions, thank you. Is there anything more you would like to ask us, Miss Kapoor?’

Jasminder, who had been more shaken by Geoffrey Fane’s attitude than she was prepared to show, asked whether there was a great deal of opposition within the Service to the creation of the post. ‘I would not wish to find myself caught between a hostile media and hostile colleagues, attacked from both front and rear as it were.’

‘I can assure you, Miss Kapoor,’ replied Sir Peter, ‘that I attach a great deal of importance to the creation and success of this post. There will be no attacks from the rear, as you put it. I will be responsible for ensuring that.’

Jasminder nodded. ‘Thank you. That’s my only question.’

After this, Henry Pennington wound up the interview and Catherine stood up and escorted Jasminder out of the room to the front door.

‘Don’t be put off by Geoffrey Fane,’ she said. ‘He’s a traditionalist and suspicious of any change. But he’s not a bad old stick really, and he’s very good at his job. If something new seems to be working, he’ll get behind it. And anyway it’s Sir Peter who will be calling the shots, as you saw for yourself. Do ring me if you have any queries, and I hope we meet again.’ With that, she shut the door, leaving Jasminder to walk back down Carlton Gardens, her head in a whirl.