Illegal Action

36

Michael Fane was excited. This was his first real involvement in operational work and he could hardly sit still. Igor Ivanov had arrived the night before and was staying at a small hotel in Bloomsbury. Four teams of A4 were in place to follow him wherever he went. “Any news?” he asked, sticking his head round the door of the Ops Room for the third time that morning.

“No,” said Reggie Purvis crossly. “And there’s not going to be. Your operation’s off. Counter-Terrorism has taken all the teams.”

“What?” said Michael angrily. “I’m going to complain.”

“Do what you like, sonny,” replied Reggie, as his radio sprang into life with a burst of static, “but push off, will you? I’m busy.”

Back in the open-plan office, Michael asked Peggy, “Why have they pulled A4 off Ivanov?”

“There’s been an alert. A suspected Al Qaeda operative has flown in from Turkey; they think he may be meeting with a cell in North London.”

“So no one’s watching Ivanov while he’s here?”

“Nope. And he’s flying back to Germany tomorrow.”

“But he could go anywhere in the meantime,” Michael protested.

“You’ll see, if you look at the transcript of his calls, he’s having lunch with Rykov. Rykov phoned him to confirm this morning. They’re being very English—Wiltons on Jermyn Street.”

“Where else is he going?”

“I’ve no idea. And without A4 we’re not going to know.”

“That’s outrageous,” Michael said. “What about the Illegal? How are we going to identify him if we don’t follow Ivanov? I’m going to complain to Liz.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Peggy, but Michael was already out the door.

“No,” said Liz firmly when Michael made his complaint. “It’s unfortunate, but not outrageous. It’s a matter of matching resources to priorities. That’s always the problem.”

She was not willing to argue the point. When Michael tried, she cut him off, making it clear he shouldn’t raise it again.

He went away dissatisfied, certain that a mistake was being made. He supposed he shouldn’t care—after all, he was just an underling, new to the game. But there was an opportunity here being carelessly thrown away. He was surprised Liz didn’t seem to realise this.

Show some initiative. Wasn’t that what his father used to say when Michael was at a loose end, bored, with nothing to do? Especially that last fateful summer before his parents’ divorce, when post-A levels, pre-gap year, Michael had nothing to occupy himself. His father had said it repeatedly then, to Michael’s intense annoyance.

But maybe his father had a point. All right, Michael decided, initiative here we come. And he went back to his desk with an idea starting to take root. When Peggy Kinsolving came into sight he hailed her like a taxi. “What are you doing for lunch?” he asked.

“I’m going to the Public Records Office,” she said firmly and kept walking.

Be like that, thought Michael. Who else might better appreciate his offer? He thought suddenly of Anna, his ex-girlfriend—she couldn’t very well call him immature now. He picked up the phone, and five minutes later found himself explaining, “No, not sandwiches. Quite the contrary, I assure you,” he added as suavely as he could.

He listened for a moment. “Oh come on,” he said finally. “Do it as a favour. Weren’t you the one who said you wanted to stay friends?”

Roland Phipps was bored. Really, he thought, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Tony Caldecott had warned him that though the lunch would be top-notch, the conversation might not be scintillating. Too true, but this one really was the pits. You had to hand it to Russian officials—only they could bore you until lobster and Puligny-Montrachet tasted like cardboard and cold pee—and this at Wiltons.

He and Tony went way back together—to the second rowing eight at Winchester to be precise, which was enough to keep them twice-a-year friends. He’d gone into Lloyd’s after Winchester and Tony into the military. They’d never quite lost touch and then Tony had resurfaced in the City, with an investment bank, channelling venture capital into Russian gas exploration.

“It won’t be too bad, old man. Strictly social,” Tony had said. “My friend Vladimir at the Trade Delegation’s got some bigwig in tow that he needs to impress. I need you for local colour.”

Well, Tony was a pal, but my God, Roland had earned this expensive blowout. He didn’t mind Russia in principle, even though his partnership had taken a bit of a bath after Chernobyl. He didn’t even mind bores—there were plenty at Lloyd’s. But Tony hadn’t prepared him for just how boring these two chaps were going to be.

One—Rakov? Rykov? Who knew? Who cared?—spoke English well, so well in fact that he never seemed to shut up. But the other fellow was a nasty piece of work—a sinister-looking Slavic bastard, straight out of a James Bond film, barely said a word. It didn’t make for a lively exchange of views.

Another thirty minutes maybe, thought Roland, sneaking a look at his watch. Would Tony’s hospitality stretch to a largish brandy with the coffee? Now, there was a pretty girl at the table just behind the Russians—pity she’s not with us, thought Roland. He wondered if it would be rude to go for a pee, then thought the hell with it and offering his excuses made his way rearward to the gents.

It was on his way back to the table—he’d taken his time—that he noticed the young fellow sitting with the really splendid girl. There was something familiar about him, and then it clicked.

“Excuse me,” he’d said, leaning over the table, emboldened by several glasses of Wilton’s best and a strong desire to delay his return to his deadly luncheon companions. “Aren’t you Geoffrey Fane’s boy?”

The boy blushed and the girl looked surprised at the figure leaning over their table.

“I’m Michael Fane,” said the boy quietly. He seems shy, thought Roland, not at all like his father. Geoffrey had always been smoothly self-assured, polished, even at school.

“Roland Phipps,” he said amiably. “Sorry to interrupt. All well with your father?” The boy just nodded. “Well, give him my best then,” said Roland, and nodding benignly at the pretty girl, clapped the boy on his shoulder and went back to his table.

“Remember Geoffrey Fane?” he asked, as Tony came to the end of some lengthy remark about bond issues. “That’s his boy over there. I met him at Lord’s with his papa, years ago.” He nodded. “Pretty girl he’s got there. Chip off the old block.”

He turned to the voluble Russian. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve seen the son of an old acquaintance.” He paused, wondering if he was about to be indiscreet. No, not these days. “We’ve always thought his father was a spook.”

When Rykov looked at him blankly, Roland explained. “You know, the Secret Service.” He gave the stolid Ivanov a glance. “James Bond. That sort of thing.”

And for the first time Ivanov’s eyes lit up. Yes, he understood. How amusing, his smile seemed to suggest.

Jesus, thought Roland, another half-hour to go.