Illegal Action

34

I wish they’d just get on with it, thought Peggy Kinsolving, turning to her phone and willing it to ring. It didn’t.

She was feeling stymied. She’d done her bit; now all she could do was wait until other people did theirs. She stared at the hydrangea in a pot on her desk. It was brown and wilted. I suppose it would help if I watered it, thought Peggy. Her father, who’d had a small greenhouse tacked on to the back of the house where she grew up, used to say that she had a black thumb.

Peggy was experienced enough to know that everyone had something to hide. After all, her own claustrophobia was something she kept to herself. What was troubling her as the days passed and she did her best to act on the snippets of information Liz produced, was that none of the members of Brunovsky’s circle appeared to have a hidden past.

Yes, Mrs. Warburton’s ex-husband had once done six months in prison for GBH, and the new maid, a Slovakian girl named Emilia, had lied to the immigration authorities at Heathrow about how long she planned to stay in the country. But it was inconceivable that these offences were part of a plot against Nikita Brunovsky. As for the others, Peggy simply didn’t believe they had nothing to hide. It was just that she hadn’t found it.

She looked idly at the first two issues of Private Collection, the new art magazine which Greta Darnshof had founded. It was produced on thick glossy paper, full of colour illustrations—and singularly free of ads. Unless its circulation was remarkably large, the publication must be subsidised. By whom? Peggy wondered. A philanthropic art-loving millionaire? Russian perhaps? Or was Greta wealthy enough to fund it with her own money? She had asked the Danish authorities to check out Greta Darnshof. So far there had been no reply.

Similarly, she had contacted the FBI in Washington about Harry Forbes. They had taken their time, but eventually, after she’d sent several chasers, they had come back with nothing recorded against him. Forbes was apparently just what he purported to be: a private banker, ex–Goldman Sachs, with a strong network of clients and contacts in the art world.

Then, in this extraordinary game of Cluedo, there was Marco Tutti, the decorator–cum–art dealer. Remembering young Signor Scusi from the conference in Paris, Peggy had called him in Rome. His English had not improved but he’d been charm itself over the phone, immediately agreeing to run a check on Tutti. When he’d rung back it was with some embarrassment—not only had he found nothing criminal in Tutti’s past, he had been unable to locate Tutti at all. Could she please confirm the spelling of the man’s names? She promptly did, but had heard nothing since—and that was ten days ago.

Peggy hated waiting for other people. She was at her happiest doing her own research—like a bloodhound pursuing the scent, going where her nose took her. Now her frustration was increasing by the hour. For the first time she was beginning to feel that her enquiries were urgent. Two days before when she’d seen Liz, walking with a slight limp with a large bruise on her forehead, Peggy felt the first chill of anxiety. She’d been mugged, Liz had explained. She’d said it was pretty common in those streets just south of the river. Then Peggy had heard the report that Rykov had been seen by A4 snooping round the safe flat in Battersea that Liz was using. Yet Liz had not said a word to suggest that all this could be connected. Surely there must be some link; could it be to Brunovsky? Peggy had a gut feeling there was; and wasn’t it Liz who always urged her to follow her instincts?

A message came on to her desk. From Beckendorf, the veteran intelligence officer of the German BfV, it told her that Igor Ivanov, the economic attaché at the Russian Embassy in Berlin and suspected Illegal support officer, was planning to travel to London in the next few days with a trade delegation. Peggy grabbed the sheet of paper and walked quickly along the corridor to Liz’s office, where she found Michael Fane in mid-flow. “Anything interesting?” he asked, as Peggy gave the paper to Liz.

Peggy ignored him as Liz read the message then pushed it across the desk to him to read.

“What’s he really coming for?” asked Michael, frowning.

“If we knew that,” said Peggy sharply, “we wouldn’t be sitting here chatting, would we?”

“Michael,” said Liz “find out where Ivanov’s staying and let’s see if we can get a telephone intercept on his room. Also, let’s try to get A4 to cover him while he’s here. This might be our chance to get a sight of this Illegal, if there is one.”

Later, after Michael left, Peggy looked at Liz. “You’ve had your hair cut. I like the fringe, but I can still see the bruise.”

“Thank you, Peggy,” said Liz sardonically.

“I’m worried about you. You could have been badly hurt.” When Liz merely shrugged, Peggy said, “Did you tell Brian about it?”

“Of course. He says street muggings happen all the time, and they do, you know.”

“I suppose so,” said Peggy, but she was not convinced.