Illegal Action

9

Just before three the same day, as Peggy was waiting impatiently at Charles de Gaulle airport, Geoffrey Fane was stalking confidently along the corridors of the Foreign Office on his way to see Henry Pennington, head of Eastern Department.

Fane regarded Pennington with scorn. The two men had known each other for years and much earlier in their careers; when they were young men, they had served together in the British High Commission in New Delhi, Pennington as a second secretary and Fane undercover as a press attaché. They had never got on. Pennington thought Fane was deeply unreliable and Fane regarded Pennington as a panicker, with a tendency to paralysis in a crisis. Even if events hadn’t amply demonstrated this, it would, Fane secretly thought, have been evident enough from his peaked face with its large nose and his jerky hand movements. He would rather have been dealing with almost anyone else in the Foreign Office than Henry Pennington, but the man was responsible for relations with Russia, so it was with him Fane had to share what Victor Adler had related.

The nose hasn’t got any smaller, thought Fane, as Pennington rose from behind a massive mahogany desk. The room had a high ceiling with an elaborate white cornice, a marble fireplace and windows overlooking St. James’s Park. Propped upright beside the fireplace was a violin, its presence proclaiming that this was the office of a highly cultured man. Fane thought the conceit pathetic.

Without much more than the briefest of courtesies, Fane recounted his conversation with Victor Adler the night before. He watched as Pennington’s expression moved gradually from cautious curiosity to anxiety and his hands began to clutch each other jerkily, suggesting, to Fane’s experienced eye, the beginnings of panic.

“Didn’t Adler have any idea who they might target?” asked Pennington plaintively.

“No. He had the impression that there has been a decision, but who and how may not have been settled yet.”

“Why should we think they’ll do it in the UK?”

“Most of the oligarchs live here,” said Fane mildly, “so London seems rather more likely than, say, Peru.”

“Christ!” Pennington exclaimed. “This is the last thing we need. We’ve got the PM due to go to Moscow, the counter-terrorist liaison is rocky and the press will go mad if there’s another Litvinenko.”

“Quite,” said Fane, trying to look sympathetic.

“Well, what can we do to prevent it?”

“I’ve spoken to Head of Station in Moscow, and we’ll try and talk to Tarkov. But frankly, I think this was a bit of a fluke. Even if Tarkov’s willing to help, I’m not sure he’s well placed to find out anything more. We’ll try other contacts, of course, but I can’t promise anything. We’ll have to bring in MI5, but I thought I’d tell you about it first.”

“Bloody Brian Ackers,” said Pennington with undisguised bitterness. “That will only make things worse. And right before the PM’s trip to Moscow.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Fane easily. “Brian’s no fool. He’s been around. He knows a thing or two about the Russians.”

Pennington shook his head. “Cha! He’s just another spook who can’t accept the Cold War’s over and we have to get on with the Russians,” he declared, seeming to forget his listener’s own vocation. “He’s always wanting to take action.”

Fane decided not even to pretend to take offence. “I tell you what,” he said brightly. “I know the Thames House people pretty well, so why don’t I talk things over with some of them informally? We’re going to have to work in tandem on this one in any case. Let me have a word before you speak to Brian Ackers.”

“Would you?” asked Pennington, looking grateful.

“Happy to,” said Fane shortly, and stood up. “If the Russians are still in the planning stage, we’ve got a little time. Leave it to me for now.”