Illegal Action

12

By the standards of his earlier career, it was not an exotic view. On Geoffrey Fane’s first posting abroad, in Syria twenty years ago, his office had overlooked the souk, noisy with its milling crowds, quiet only at prayers. Later, in New Delhi, he had watched labourers arrive on bicycles, wearing flip-flops and shorts as they went to work in the liquid heat, erecting a flamboyant new Middle Eastern embassy building across the road.

Here in Vauxhall Cross, high in the office block that sat like a postmodernist Buddha on the south bank, there was nothing so dramatic. Just the heavy, comforting presence of the Thames as it swept from Vauxhall down to the Houses of Parliament. He liked to think its colour reflected the changing seasons—or was it just his mood? Today at low tide the water was steely grey, the colour of old flint.

There was a tap at the door and his secretary stuck her head in. “Liz Carlyle is downstairs. Shall I go and collect her?”

“Please,” he said. He checked the knot of his tie and brushed his jacket lapel automatically. He cared about his appearance; his ex-wife, Adele, had accused him of vanity, but that had been just before they separated, when she’d accused him of a lot of things. It was Adele who had insisted on his buying only Hermès ties. It was she who wanted people to think he was important, and she who had taken all too literally his offhand remark, made over a second Armagnac in a Burgundy restaurant many years before and subsequently much regretted, that if all went well one day she might be Lady Fane.

Adele had never accepted that in his line of work any success had to be private—fame for someone like Fane was an infallible indicator of failure. His reward came from knowing his work was important, rather than from public recognition.

When he’d left his meeting with Pennington at the Foreign Office, he had considered carefully who to approach at MI5. If he stuck to Service etiquette, Brian Ackers should be his first port of call, but the problem there was simple: Ackers instinctively distrusted MI6, considering its officers louche individuals who at best were soft on Communism, at worst were secret sympathisers to the Islamist cause. This meant he would view Fane’s approach with distrust and reject any suggestion about how to proceed in what Fane already thought of as the “Adler Plot.” And though Fane didn’t think he could entirely control the investigation, he was damn well going to keep a strong, guiding hand on it. The last thing he wanted was MI5 running amok, pursuing Brian Ackers’ anachronistic obsessions and creating the kind of diplomatic “incident” Henry Pennington was so scared of.

If only Charles Wetherby were the director in Counter-Espionage rather than Counter-Terrorism: they had worked together well enough in the past. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since Wetherby’s wife was reportedly terminally ill and he was on extended leave.

It was then he had thought of Elizabeth Carlyle, Wetherby’s talented junior, and remembered that she had been moved to Counter-Espionage after the mole affair. She had poached that young researcher, Peggy Something or Other, whom he had lent to them, but he could only muster a superficial resentment at this, since he knew that in her shoes he would have done the same.

Theirs was not an altogether happy history—there had been an episode in Norfolk Fane would sooner forget—but he determined now to enlist her in sorting out the truth of Victor Adler’s story. Whatever small resentment she might still be nursing, he was sure she could get over it. Elizabeth Carlyle had impressed him in the past with her professionalism. She was intelligent, without needing to demonstrate it, and decisive when it mattered. What’s more, she seemed tactful and discreet. Right now those were the qualities he needed most.

The door opened again and she came in, a woman in her mid-thirties, with light brown hair in a neat bob and a slim figure, which made her look taller than she was. There was a calm watchfulness about her, but her grey-green eyes were striking and alert. As always, Fane found her attractive, the more so because she didn’t make a show of it. She was dressed simply, in a blue skirt and pearl satin blouse. How unlike Adele, he thought, remembering his ex-wife’s weekly trips to that extremely expensive hairdresser in Knightsbridge, and its showy results. As well as her countless shopping expeditions to Harvey Nichols.

“Elizabeth,” he said, standing up and coming out from behind his large desk to shake her hand. He motioned her to sit on the sofa on the other side of the room and himself took the armchair opposite. “How very nice to see you.”

She declined tea or coffee while he made small talk. “Congratulations on your new position,” he said. “I hope you’re enjoying it.”

“I am, thank you,” she replied, “though it’s only a lateral move.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he protested, then stopped. He’d always sensed the resolute independence that accompanied her unflappable, professional façade. The last thing to do was to patronise her. “I was sorry to hear about Charles’s situation,” he said, changing the subject. “It must be grim for him.”

“Yes,” she said simply, gazing back at him with a level expression.

He changed tack. “How’s that young woman getting on?” he asked. “I wasn’t very happy to lose her, you know.”

Liz acknowledged this with the faintest hint of a smile. “Peggy’s been transferred to Counter-Espionage as well.”

“Ah. I’m sure she’ll prosper there.” He paused a beat, then said casually, “You’ve got my boy working for you too now, haven’t you?”

“That’s right,” she said.

He waited, toying with a cufflink, but she said nothing beyond this, and something in her expression made him feel unable to ask anything else. He wished for once she could let down her guard. She’s wary of me, he thought, and decided to move to business. He leant forward in his chair. “Well, let me explain why I wanted to see you. Does the name Victor Adler mean anything to you?”

“Only vaguely,” she said. “Banking?”

“Among many other things,” said Fane, rubbing his palms together gently.

As he talked, he sensed that Liz was watching him intently. His own eyes strayed occasionally towards the window as he gave a précis of Adler’s story. From time to time he looked straight at her but it was impossible to gauge the effect his account was having. He found her inscrutability intriguing. And slightly irritating.

When he finished he sat back again. “I hope that makes sense.”

“I think so. But why are the Russians so worried about a bunch of London émigrés, however rich they are? Surely there’s not much harm they can do from here. Why would they risk killing one of them in London? Not after the Litvinenko business. The press would have a field day and if it was known to be an official operation, the political fallout would be immense.”

“Yes,” agreed Fane, “you’re right. But they’ve done it so often before. They regard assassination as an acceptable form of defence.” He thought of Markov, the Bulgarian exile, stabbed by a stranger’s umbrella on Waterloo Bridge in 1978. Even at the time, the height of the Cold War, his claim he’d been attacked had seemed fantastic. But then Markov had died from ricin poisoning and it had emerged that the umbrella had injected him with a poisoned pellet. All because he was criticising the Bulgarian president.

“I can’t see it myself,” said Liz. “The criticism would be worldwide, worse than Litvinenko. At least he was an ex-KGB officer, so he was seen as, in a sense, all part of the murky world. But as far as I know these oligarchs aren’t. They’re just men who got very rich in rather dubious ways.”

“And yet…,” said Fane, looking out his window thoughtfully, “don’t forget they recently introduced a new law allowing their security services to kill Russia’s enemies abroad without court authorisation.”

Earlier in the morning, mist had hung over the Thames like bonfire smoke, then it had suddenly cleared, though dense cloud still covered the sky. In the distance Vauxhall Bridge Road stretched monotonously north towards the office blocks of Victoria. “And now we have this story of Adler’s. His information has always been A1 in the past.”

“Maybe. But from what you say his source admitted he didn’t know the full facts. He may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Or maybe there isn’t a stick at all and the Russians are just using him for some purpose of their own.”

“Of course,” agreed Fane. “Even Adler would admit the story was vague. But why spread it around? What’s the object? All it’s done so far is cause alarm.”

To his surprise, Liz gave a light spontaneous laugh. “Are you alarmed?” she asked.

“I’m never alarmed,” he said with false gravity, then laughed too. “But I can’t say the same of the Foreign Office. Do you know Henry Pennington?”

“Only by name,” she said.

He nodded, amused by the rare pleasure which lay in store for her. “Well, Henry is alarmed. In fact,” he went on, thinking of Pennington’s anxious twittering, “I would say he’s absolutely panicked.”

“Really,” said Liz noncommittally.

He admired her calm. Brian Ackers would be pacing the room by now, he thought. He was pleased that he’d decided to approach Liz first. If he could interest her in this, he was confident Ackers would let her take the case. “I’m tempted to say that as a rule the Foreign Office opposes anything happening at all, but in fairness, I think they’re worried that an incident would damage our joint efforts to combat terrorism.”

Liz nodded. So far, so good, thought Fane, but here comes the tricky bit. There was no point trying to disguise it. “And that, Elizabeth, is where you come in.”

“Me?”

Her surprise seemed entirely genuine. “Yes,” he said firmly, “the FCO wants to be certain that this plot never gets off the ground. They want us to find out what is being planned, and then to make sure it doesn’t happen. I already have half our Moscow Station trying to find out more.”

He spoke with assurance, keen to make it all seem obvious. But he saw that Liz was having none of it. “Wait a second, please,” she said, and he groaned inwardly. “Why isn’t the FCO talking to us directly, since we’re talking about an incident that’s supposed to take place on British soil?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” said Fane. “I offered to be the intermediary in the first instance as I was the one who received the information.” Which was partly the truth, he reassured himself.

“All right,” she said, her tone making it clear she wasn’t sure it was. He sensed she was digging her heels in. “But why are you talking to me? Shouldn’t you first be talking with someone more senior? Brian Ackers, if not DG?”

Fane shrugged. “Think of this as a strictly unofficial chat.” He continued confidently, “You and I have worked together in the past. You see, I need somebody who can get things done discreetly.”

He paused, wondering how indiscreet he could afford to be. To hell with it, he thought; this Carlyle woman played such a straight bat that he might as well level with her. If she baulked, he could always revert to the orthodox channels. There seemed nothing to lose. “Look,” he said, though not aggressively, “if I brief Brian Ackers first, chances are he’ll go charging in and try and get someone arrested or expelled. And then all hell will break loose. That’s exactly the kind of diplomatic fiasco the FCO wants to avoid.” He looked at her almost beseechingly. “You do see that, don’t you?” he said.

And watching her, he could tell that she did—no flies on her. But he also sensed that she was never going to criticise her own boss in front of him. So he waved what he hoped was an understanding hand. “I know, I know. You can’t possibly comment. I’ll speak with Brian, of course. So will Pennington. But I wanted to forewarn you that we’re both going to ask that you be the one to deal with this.”

“How thoughtful of you,” she said expressionlessly. He shrugged, controlling his annoyance. Didn’t she appreciate the opportunity she was being offered? If she sorted this out, she would have the eternal gratitude of the FCO and MI6. Well, not perhaps eternal. She thinks she’s being set up, Fane decided, but then conceded to himself that in one sense she was absolutely right. For it was not normal practice for an MI6 officer to choose which MI5 officer was going to work with him. Or to try (and this he fervently hoped wasn’t so obvious) to control what should be, at the very least, a joint operation.

“I wish we had a little more to go on,” said Liz finally. “There are at least thirty oligarchs in London who could be targets.” She thought for a moment. “If they’re focusing on someone politically active, that helps to narrow things down. But we still have at least half a dozen possibles. Matrayev—he says they’ve already tried—Obukhov, Morozov, Rostrokov, Brunovsky, Meltzer, Pertsev… I’m sure there’re several others who could be eligible.”

Fane nodded sagely, but inwardly he was pleased to see her already at work on the problem they faced. She can’t help herself, he thought, and he knew he was just the same. What had Adele said the first time she’d left him? “When your job takes you over, I might as well not be here. So I won’t be.”

“Anyway,” said Liz, “I’ll wait to hear from Brian about this.” She glanced at her watch. “If that’s all, please excuse me. I should get back.”

Fane was slightly irked by the suggestion she had more pressing things to do, but realised that this was all he could expect at this stage. He stood up to shake her hand, saying, “You and I will need to work together on this.”

She nodded—was it reluctantly? He hoped not. “I’ll ring you,” she said. “That is, if Brian gives me the case.”

“Never fear, Elizabeth,” he said lightly, hoping to end the meeting on a friendly note. But he suddenly realised she was cross.

“It’s Liz,” she said sharply. “People call me Liz.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, annoyed that he felt it necessary to apologise. God, he thought as she went out of the door, she is prickly.

But at least she had a sense of humour, unlike so many of her po-faced colleagues in Thames House. And Fane found himself looking forward to her phone call, and to working with her. When he glanced out the window, he saw that the sun was shining, the tide was coming in and the river held a hint—just a hint—of blue.