Breaking Cover

36

‘I’m so sorry. Is the funeral in London?’ said C’s Private Secretary, Mrs Dwyer.

Jasminder was startled. She was prepared to answer all sorts of questions about her non-existent aunt, but it had not occurred to her that anyone would want to know where the poor lady was being buried. She hesitated, then said, ‘Leicester.’

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Dwyer, who had worked for five Controllers before taking on the new C; it was said she knew more about the Service than its official historian. C himself was not in his office – he was at meetings in Whitehall all morning, so Jasminder didn’t have to offer him her bogus excuse for the planned absence on Friday.

‘I grew up in Leicester,’ she explained, regaining her composure. ‘Most of my family still lives there.’

‘Well, I’m very sorry,’ said Mrs Dwyer. Her voice was sympathetic, and Jasminder felt bad for lying to her. She wished she’d simply decided to call in sick on Friday instead, or even take a day’s leave. But Laurenz had pointed out that one of the MI6 technical boffins who’d spent so much time rewiring her house might show up to check on some aspect of her new security system. Since she’d be halfway to Bermuda by then, it didn’t seem a good idea to pretend she was at home.

‘Thank you,’ said Jasminder. ‘Please tell C I’ll be back in on Monday.’

She went away feeling slightly troubled, but cheered by the prospect of her trip to Bermuda at the end of the week. And tonight Laurenz would be back, after spending the weekend with a client in Spain. In his absence she’d tried to see Emma, but she had been busy – there’d been a certain coolness in her voice on the phone, and Jasminder realised it had been several weeks since she’d been in touch with her closest friend. That would have to change, she decided, taking heart from Laurenz’s recent declaration that his divorce was finally coming through and soon he would be happy to meet all her friends, including Emma.

That evening when Jasminder went to his flat, she found Laurenz already back from Madrid. He was leaving before her for Bermuda, since he had the two conference days to sit through, and seemed preoccupied, almost harried, as if on some deadline she didn’t know about. For once Jasminder felt that she was more relaxed than he was. At dinner he ate quickly, and was unusually quiet. Finally, she asked him if something was wrong.

‘Wrong?’ He stared at her blankly, as though looking through her. ‘No, not at all. But these are important meetings in Bermuda, and I feel a bit exposed.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I told you,’ he said impatiently, ‘I’m not having the best of years.’ He sighed. ‘One of the less fun things about these annual conferences is that we’re all expected to bring something special to the table.’

Jasminder wasn’t sure she understood. But Laurenz was staring at her intently now, and she felt uncomfortable. She was obviously missing something, and the easy connection she had always felt with him was for some reason absent tonight. She said, ‘What sort of special thing do they want?’

‘Information of course,’ he snapped.

‘What are you going to bring them then?’

‘That’s the problem. I haven’t got anything special at all. Thanks to this wretched divorce, I haven’t kept my eye on the ball. At least, that’s what some of my clients seem to think. That’s why I asked you for help, if you remember. Now my own colleagues may reach the same conclusion.’ He leaned back, eyes fixed on the wall behind Jasminder’s head. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m seriously worried.’

‘I’m sure it will be all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s been a hard year for you; surely they can all understand that.’

He made a small scoffing noise that left Jasminder feeling foolish. ‘Sympathy is not much in evidence in the banking world. It’s strictly dog eat dog.’

He said this so cynically that Jasminder was taken aback. This wasn’t the easy-going, confident man she’d come to know. She wanted to do something for him but could only say feebly, ‘I wish I could help.’

‘Do you?’ said Laurenz, lowering his eyes until they were level with hers. She felt as if he were looking at her for the first time.

‘Of course,’ she said, wishing he would smile, or at the very least not sound quite so bitter and low. ‘You know I want to support you, Laurenz.’

He ignored this and said, ‘You could help me, you know. Help me quite a lot.’

‘Really?’ She said this innocently, but part of her sensed what was coming – and dreaded it.

‘You have access to all sorts of information. Even a few snippets would let me make a mark at the meetings.’ He seemed to notice she was stiffening. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘You act as if I’m committing a capital offence when I haven’t even asked you for anything.’

‘You know I’m not allowed to share information with people outside the Service.’

‘But you already have.’ He was staring at her, without any of the sympathy he usually showed. She wanted to explain that her help that time had been a one-off, and he shouldn’t be asking her again. But she knew he would just get angry if she said that. Jasminder felt cornered by his unblinking gaze, and found herself growing upset. She wished it were the weekend already, with the bankers’ meetings over and Laurenz back to his usual self. She tried to buy time while she thought of the best way to steer him off this topic. ‘What were you wanting in particular?’

He leaned forward across the kitchen counter, resting on his elbows with both hands under his chin. ‘I’ll tell you what would really knock their socks off… Russian strategy.’

‘What do you mean – Russian strategy?’

‘Everyone wants to know whether Russia is planning on moving into another border country – say Latvia or Azerbaijan. Think about it: nobody pays much attention to those countries normally, but if the Russians were to go into either of them, it would have a global impact. People would run for safety – buy dollars, buy gold, get out of the stock market.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it already. Can’t you just talk about that?’

‘Bah!’ he said, and his voice was even more scathing. ‘What I think about what Putin might do doesn’t matter. What my “sources” think about it, and what they think NATO would do in response, would grip everyone’s attention.’

‘What sources?’ asked Jasminder, and as soon as she’d said it, realised that she was the source.

He waited for the penny to drop, then said, ‘You’ve got access to JIC reports, I bet. They have to have assessed Putin’s strategy and considered NATO’s possible responses – if there’s a Russian move into the Baltic States, for example. If I could get up and say: “Here is the Western governmental view of what might happen, and how the West would respond,” then I bet even the Chairman would forget about his golf game for a minute.’ Laurenz laughed, but he didn’t sound amused.

Jasminder was rocked back by this speech and stared at him in shock. How did he know about the JIC? The average man in the street was highly unlikely to have the abbreviation for the Joint Intelligence Committee on the tip of his tongue, but then she supposed no one would ever confuse Laurenz with the man in the street.

After a moment she said, ‘I don’t see JIC reports.’

‘Maybe you don’t, normally, but I’m sure you could if you wanted to.’

‘No, honestly, I couldn’t,’ she said, frustrated by the sceptical expression that spread across Laurenz’s face. ‘It’s all done on a need-to-know basis. And I don’t have any need to know.’ She realised she was sounding plaintive now, but couldn’t help it. She had been completely knocked off balance by his demand. ‘I can’t exactly say, “Hello, I need to see the JIC assessments on Putin’s strategy, to help my boyfriend.”’

‘You’re high-profile, Jasminder. You can ask for anything you want. They wouldn’t dare say no. If you were to leave now, MI6 would look very foolish. Your boss C in particular.’

He spoke with such assurance that she wondered momentarily if he was right. Did she really have that kind of power? Could she simply crook a finger and have all the innermost secrets of the British intelligence services laid out for her scrutiny? For a moment she found the prospect exciting, then she realised its fundamental absurdity. What she’d told Laurenz was correct: information in MI6 was handled on the strict basis of need to know – even the closest of colleagues didn’t discuss their cases with each other unless they were actually working together. If she started asking for highly classified material – like the minutes of JIC meetings, or copies of the papers sent to the Cabinet – alarm bells would go off and she would be questioned right away about why she had made the request. She couldn’t think of any plausible reason at all.

She said now, ‘I’m sorry. There just isn’t any way I can get that kind of information. Not for you, not even for myself. No way at all.’

She wanted to look away from Laurenz’s relentless gaze; she knew that what she was saying was true and wanted him to understand it too. But she forced herself to lock eyes with him until finally he shrugged. ‘I thought you wanted to help,’ he said.

‘I do,’ she protested earnestly. ‘Just not that way – I can’t do it. You must understand that.’ When he didn’t reply, she added, ‘I would if I could.’

‘So you say, but the thing is, I’m sure you could. It just takes a little imagination.’ He saw her mouth tighten, and he sighed again. ‘Let’s leave it for now. We can talk some more about it when we’re in Bermuda.’

Jasminder wondered how that would help, since she thought he wanted the information in time for his meetings. But she said nothing, just hoping the tension between them would pass. Laurenz said, ‘You’ll meet my colleagues then. They can explain the kind of pressure we’re under.’

‘Oh,’ said Jasminder, a little disappointed. The last thing she wanted to talk about in Bermuda was the pressure of work. She had thought she was going there to be with Laurenz and to relax.

‘Yes,’ he said, nodding at her, ‘my friends are very keen to meet you. You’ll find you have lots to talk about with them.’