Breaking Cover

45

Even in her most radical left-wing phase, Jasminder had felt a strong loyalty to Britain, the country she was now trying to betray. Guilt had become her constant, nagging companion. She could not find any excuse for what she was about to do, except the threat to little Ali if she refused. That was enough, but it did not diminish the guilt. She was constantly asking herself if she shouldn’t tell someone what had happened. She could tell Peggy or she could even tell C himself. Surely they would be discreet and clever enough to solve the problem. Surely they could rescue Ali before Koslov and his friends got to her. But something held her back. She knew how close Koslov’s men must be to the school and to her brothers’ shop. They must be monitoring her family all the time. It would only take one false move on the part of the police and Ali would be dead or injured for life.

A couple of weeks ago she had looked for the photograph of Ali standing proudly beside a sandcastle on the beach where the family had gone for their last summer holiday. It had been in the back pocket of her purse for months, but suddenly it wasn’t there. She’d realised then that someone had been through her purse and taken it. Had it been done just to frighten her, or to help Koslov’s men recognise the little girl? She didn’t know, but its disappearance chilled Jasminder to the bone.

Then there was the painful personal side of things. She had totally misread Laurenz Hansen; the man she had fallen in love with didn’t exist – Laurenz was a different man altogether and he had never loved her. She was just a tool for him to use. It was utterly humiliating, as well as heart-breaking. To add to all that, she couldn’t work out how she was going to do what her new masters wanted. At their most recent meeting Laurenz had said that the list Koslov had shown her was just a pointer to the sort of information they wanted. Her personal top target was to find out what sources MI6 had in Moscow. She had told him that that sort of information was the most closely guarded of any and there was no way she was going to be told about individual sources. He’d said she was not using her imagination; she could certainly find out which of her colleagues ran secret sources in Russia and get alongside them. She could observe who travelled to Russia and when and how often. Then she could set about cultivating someone in the right area.

He’d tried to encourage her. No one, he’d said, was expecting instant results, but she needed to show she was cooperating. Her repeated protests that she had been recruited to liaise with the media and to present the outward face of Six to the world, not as an operational officer, were ignored by Laurenz. She’d told him that she was only briefed on operations when they became public, or when it was necessary for her to know about them for drafting C’s speeches or for other public presentations. As the face of a new, more open MI6, there was no need for her to have the most secret operational information, and if she tried to get it, it would seem odd and arouse suspicion. So how was she going to satisfy the unrealistic expectations of Laurenz and his employers?

She tried nonetheless. She suggested to C that part of the new ‘openness’ campaign should be internal, and not just directed at the media and general public. Employees of the Service should understand what Jasminder was there for, she argued, and proposed a series of briefings to the various departments at Vauxhall Cross. C readily agreed, so she gave a programme of talks, and was gratified that so many people came and seemed to listen – they asked her lots of questions at the end. But she soon realised that though talking about her mission raised her own work’s profile, it didn’t tell her anything about the work of her colleagues.

Then she tried the social side of things. She started eating in the canteen at lunchtime, hoping to meet people, though she felt awkward, even intrusive, joining tables where everyone already seemed to know each other. Lunch was in any case a rushed affair for most people. The public might picture James Bond feasting on lobster and chilled Chablis in a gentlemen’s club in St James’s, but the reality was that people in the Service worked too hard to waste time lunching – many just ate sandwiches at their desks.

A sense of futility threatened to overwhelm her. Though she was trying very hard, Laurenz gave her no points for that. There was no longer even a pretence of affection in the way he talked to her, and she dreaded their meetings since she had nothing to offer him to keep him from repeating his threats.

She felt utterly alone, and wished there were someone she could confide in. Not her brothers, who would not have understood the sort of people she was dealing with and might well rush off to the police demanding protection. Nor Emma, who wouldn’t be able to offer useful advice and might talk to colleagues about the situation. Perhaps after all she should speak to Peggy Kinsolving. Jasminder didn’t know her very well, but she liked her – she seemed level-headed and sympathetic. Unlike Emma, Peggy would understand the dangerous position Jasminder was in. Maybe she would ring her the next day and arrange to meet for a drink.

That evening she saw Laurenz at his flat. When she’d first gone there it had seemed smart in its minimalism, a hip bachelor pad that suited the lifestyle of a high-powered international banker. Now it seemed ghastly in its lack of human touches, soulless and grim.

To her consternation Laurenz seemed to sense quite uncannily what she had been thinking. As she sat down on the sofa, he took a seat in a straight-backed metal chair in front of her. ‘Keep your nerve, Jasminder,’ he said. ‘You’re at a stage I recognise all too well. You’re having difficulties procuring the information we need, and you’re starting to despair. You feel trapped, and very sorry for yourself. You’re even contemplating confiding in someone, to try and share the burden. But don’t worry – it’s just a phase, I promise. You all go through it.’

‘Who is “you all”?’ Jasminder demanded to know.

Laurenz looked at her coolly. ‘Our agents, of course.’

She stared at him dumbly. Was that what she was then, an agent of Laurenz and his pals? It seemed inconceivable but she had to face facts. She was employed by MI6, but she’d been recruited by the enemy.

Then, the following day, out of the blue, her luck changed.

She had gone, as she did most days now, to the canteen for lunch, but she was rather later than usual and found no one to eat with. In a way this was a relief, and she was actually enjoying her solitary salad when a man’s voice, speaking from behind her shoulder, announced, ‘Lady Thatcher said a man my age sitting alone on a bus represented failure, but I reckon having lunch on one’s own is just as bad. Would you mind if I joined you?’

By now he had come into sight. Tallish, lean, with sandy-coloured hair and blue eyes surrounded by a network of fine lines, he looked as if he had seen more than his share of trouble. He didn’t wait for Jasminder’s reply but sat down across the table from her, offering his hand. ‘I’m Bruno.’

She shook it and said, ‘Jasminder.’

‘Yes, I know. I went to one of your talks,’ he said, reaching for the jug of water on the table between them. ‘Will you have a little more?’ he asked. ‘It’s an excellent vintage.’

Jasminder laughed, something she hadn’t done for days.

‘I enjoyed your talk very much,’ Bruno went on. ‘I don’t know if you realise it but you’re something of a sensation around here. First we publish our history and now we have a PR person – and a very charming one at that, if I may say so without being accused of sexism. Tell me your story. Were you a Fane find?’ he asked, his eyes smiling.

‘Hardly,’ said Jasminder.

‘Ah, I get it. He tried to blackball you? The bastard,’ added Bruno, but he was grinning and his tone was light-hearted.

‘Well, he didn’t actually blackball me. I got the impression that he didn’t approve of the job at all. It was C who was pushing it. Geoffrey Fane didn’t want anyone to be appointed – it wasn’t just me.’

‘Take heart. Fane’s reaction to anything new is invariably hostile, but it never lasts. You should view his opposition to your appointment as a merit badge.’ Bruno added in a stage whisper, ‘Between you and me, the last C before this one was opposed by Geoffrey Fane when he first applied to join the Service years ago. But when he became C, Geoffrey thought he was fantastic.’

‘Really?’ asked Jasminder, not sure which surprised her more – Fane’s negative reaction to a future C, or Bruno himself. She wasn’t at all sure how to take him. He seemed a bit of a clown, and rather indiscreet, which was definitely not a type she’d encountered in the Service before.

‘Absolutely. But as I say, Geoffrey always comes round in the end – if the person’s any good. And from what I hear, you’ve made a splendid start.’

‘Really? Do people think so?’

‘Yes, they do. Even Fane says so. And word of your arrival has reached all the Stations. I was in Moscow last week, and then went to some of those ghastly ex-Soviet republics. You were mentioned several times – and very approvingly. You ought to do a tour out there. They’d love to see you.’

Bruno glanced at his watch and gave an exaggerated look of horror. ‘Golly, I know time flies when you’re having fun, but this is ridiculous. Jasminder, it’s been a pleasure meeting you in the flesh but I must dash or I’ll have my head chopped off by You Know Who.’

‘Who is You Know Who?’

‘Geoffrey Fane, of course. But let’s meet up some time. Perhaps some evening after work – and we could find somewhere even nicer than this luxurious canteen.’

Jasminder laughed. ‘That would be great,’ she said.

Bruno stood and picked up his tray. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Speak to you soon.’

Jasminder suddenly realised she didn’t know his surname, but he was halfway across the room before she could ask. Damn. It would be the first thing Laurenz would want to know. Still, at least she had met someone who seemed senior and well placed; he had even been in Moscow recently. Best of all, it was someone who seemed wildly indiscreet.