Illegal Action

30

“Hello, Liz. Long time no see. I hear you’re in the arms of the Prince of Darkness. Why do you get all the best jobs?”

Dave Armstrong, Liz’s old friend from Counter-Terrorism, got into the lift as it opened on the fifth floor.

“Whatever you’ve heard, it’s disinformation,” said Liz with a grin. “And as for best jobs, you know you’d run a mile rather than work with Dracula. Believe me, you’re in the best place, Dave, and I’d stick your feet firmly under the desk, if I were you. By the way, is there any news of Charles coming back?” she enquired with a casual air that did not fool Dave for a moment.

“Sorry. Nothing firm on that front yet.” He grinned. “Are you coming to drink out old Slater?”

“I’d forgotten all about it,” replied Liz, “but I’ll come along if you’re going. I’ve always had rather a soft spot for the old boy.”

Colin Slater had spent almost thirty years in MI5, rising to assistant director. Most of his time had been spent in Protective Security, and until the last few years he must have thought he was on the last leg of a peaceful voyage towards his pension. His work, though not without its challenges, had never been especially stressful.

Then, like virtually everyone else in the room tonight, he had been drawn into the post-9/11 maelstrom. Shifted, with the whole Protective Security Branch, into Counter-Terrorism, he had spent the last two years doing what so many of Liz’s colleagues spent all their waking hours doing—working to stop the unthinkable from happening. Now, at his retirement party, there was an enervated air to the man as he stood, in the bright central atrium of Thames House, wine glass in hand, accepting the congratulations and goodbyes of his colleagues. He looks more like seventy-five than sixty, thought Liz. Is that how we’ll all end up?

There were rules in Thames House about retirement parties, as about everything else. When a director retired, DG made the speech. When it was an assistant director retiring, the speech was made by the director. So it was Michael Binding, acting director of Counter-Terrorism in Charles’s absence, who called for silence and began the ritual trawl through Colin’s career. Liz found herself joined at the back of the semicircle of listeners by Geoffrey Fane. He’d already spoken to her that evening, showing no embarrassment over their awkward conversation at the Savoy. If anything, he seemed to feel it had broken through some barrier and his manner was noticeably warm.

Slater’s reply to Michael Binding’s remarks was mercifully short and Liz was just preparing to slip quietly away when she heard someone say, “Good evening, Liz.”

The voice was so low that at first she didn’t recognise it. Turning, she found Charles Wetherby just behind her. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and flannels, and looked quite different from his usual formal self. Impulsively, she kissed him on the cheek, then stood back as he smiled at her.

“You look very well,” she announced. Which was only partly true—he looked fit, with a ruddy bloom to his cheeks that must have come from lots of long walks, but his face was drawn, his eyes colour-less and tired.

“So do you, Liz. New job suiting you?” he said.

She shrugged. “It’s not what I expected.” He raised an eyebrow, and she seized the unexpected opportunity to unburden herself. Once she had started, she found she couldn’t stop, even though she knew she was going on too long. She described her odd status in the Brunovsky household and the machinations of Henry Pennington of the FCO that had put her there. She couldn’t altogether disguise her frustration, though she tried to sound light-hearted—“I never thought when I was hunting the mole last year, that I’d end up as a mole myself.”

But Charles didn’t smile at this. “I hope you’re being very careful,” he said grimly.

She was a little taken aback. “Of course,” she said. “Though I don’t feel in any danger.”

He was staring at her intently, with the fixed gaze she had come to recognise. It was the “X-ray stare,” as Dave Armstrong had labelled it. When she first worked for Charles she had found this look unnerving but over the years she had grown to understand that it was a sign of concentration, a sign that he was taking something very seriously and thinking about it.

“You’re at risk, Liz. You’re there for a reason. Brunovsky knows what you really are; for all you know others in the household know too. If this plot exists, you are very exposed if anyone suspects you.”

“It’s a big ‘if,’ Charles, but I understand.” He seemed so serious that she wanted to change the subject. But the one thing she most wanted to ask—when he would be back at work—was the one topic she didn’t feel she could bring up. Dave Armstrong had told her that Joanne Wetherby was no better.

“Good,” he said. He smiled, as if aware of his own gravity. “You said you’d keep in touch. I’m holding you to that.”

“All right, Charles,” she said.

“Feel free to ring me at home until I’m back,” he said.

As she stood in line to shake Colin Slater’s hand before leaving, she saw Charles in earnest conversation with DG, who was frowning and looking worried.