Illegal Action

38

Brian Ackers’ office, like Charles Wetherby’s, faced the Thames, but unlike Charles, or anyone else with an office on that side of the building, Brian had positioned his desk so he had his back to the view. What sort of a person would do that? thought Liz, as she walked into his office. Sitting in the chair in front of his desk she could see over his shoulder that the bright sun had turned the river lapis blue. A speedboat slowly puttered through the light chop, towing a wetsuited man on a surfboard with a charity banner floating out behind him. Look, Brian, she almost said, but seeing his expression, she changed her mind.

His desk was preternaturally tidy, with a clean pad of A4 centred on the blotter and a neat stack of files to one side. The only adornment was a green marble pen holder he never used; it had been given to him, he’d explained with ironic appreciation, by the KGB on their first visit to Thames House at the end of the Cold War. On the wall he’d pinned an enormous map of the former Soviet Union, so vast it must have come from a military operations room; facing him against the far wall were floor-to-ceiling shelves, crammed with a lifetime’s collection of Sovietology.

Liz gave a brief account of Michael Fane’s home-made surveillance operation. From Brian’s pursed lips as she talked, she could tell that he was not inclined to go easy on the young man. Her own initial anger had subsided—Michael had been foolish and impulsive, his mistake was serious rather than fatal. She wanted to keep Brian from overreacting.

“What Fane’s done is grounds for dismissal,” he said when she’d finished.

“I know,” she agreed. “But I do think there are mitigating circumstances.”

“Really? What could conceivably excuse his running off halfcocked this way?”

“Nothing could excuse it,” she agreed, “but he thought he was doing the right thing.” She added quickly, “Obviously he wasn’t. Believe me, he knows that now. I’m confident he won’t do anything so foolish again. Frankly, I think the problem is he’s just so young and inexperienced, and he takes too much responsibility on himself.”

“Well, we can soon change that,” said Brian, returning to disgruntled mode. “A transfer back to a support role in Protective Security where he came from might just do the trick for our Mr. Fane.”

“Of course,” Liz said placatingly. “But there’s no guarantee he’d be replaced, is there? Not with the current situation.”

Brian nodded grudgingly. “That’s true. And I suppose even Fane is better than no one. Do we think he’s done any real damage?”

“I hope not,” said Liz, whose concern had been just that—that the Englishman in the restaurant might have mentioned Geoffrey Fane’s MI6 connection to Rykov and Ivanov; that the Russians would immediately fear that whatever they were up to had been blown. “What’s really bothering me,” she went on, “is that Rykov has suddenly been sent home. We’ve had a report from one of his contacts that he’s rung him up to say goodbye. He sounded almost hysterical. Apparently he’s going back under a cloud. I can’t help wondering whether all this is connected.”

Brian sat forward in his chair, an owlish look on his face, his hands clasped primly on the desk. “I don’t suppose so. But even the fact that you’re having to wonder about it, shows how stupid young Fane has been. What are we going to do about him?”

“I’d leave it to be honest, Brian. It will come up at his next review, and I’ll certainly let him know that he’s on thin ice. Hopefully he’ll learn from this.”

Brian considered, and for a moment Liz feared he would overrule her. Finally he said, “He’d better,” and reached for the stack of files on his desk to show the meeting was over.

As she left Brian’s office, somewhat relieved, Liz was turning over in her mind what this chain of events could possibly mean. Brian was prepared to accept the proximity of Rykov’s departure and Michael’s impetuous mistake as coincidence, but Liz wasn’t so sure.