Illegal Action

42

“I’ll have to take this,” said Brian Ackers, picking up his purring phone. Liz had just finished relating the news of Marco Tutti’s background and his “discovery” that a second Pashko painting was available. Brian had seemed preoccupied, and listening to his end of the conversation now Liz realised there was an operation going on that she didn’t know anything about. The time she was spending at the Brunovsky house was putting her out of touch with developments in Counter-Espionage.

And for what? For all the anxiety about Victor Adler’s so-called plot, Brian didn’t seem particularly interested in what she had to tell him. She seemed to have been sent off down a sidetrack. Maybe it was a sidetrack leading to something important, but so far she’d seen no sign of it. Rykov’s recruitment of Jerry Simmons didn’t seem to disguise anything more than a clumsy attempt to keep tabs on an oligarch—if there’d been more to it, surely Simmons would have had more to tell Michael Fane. There was no indication that Rykov’s lunch with Ivanov, or indeed Ivanov’s visit to London, had anything to do with Brunovsky. It was true that Rykov’s sudden recall to Moscow, apparently under a cloud, was an unusual overreaction to Michael Fane’s clumsy surveillance operation. But maybe there was something else behind it.

Certainly the people surrounding Brunovsky were what her father would have called a “rum bunch,” but they were probably no rummer than any other billionaire’s entourage. There seemed nothing particularly threatening about them. All kings had their courts; all magnates had their sycophants and freeloaders. The only remarkable thing about the Belgravia household and its hangers-on was that Brunovsky himself couldn’t see that he was being exploited. Or maybe he could and didn’t care, thought Liz. After all, he had to have a life.

“Sorry about that,” said Brian, putting down the phone. “There’s been another approach to a government scientist by the Russians.”

“Someone from the embassy?”

He shook his head, and she noticed his eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep. “No. This time it’s a Russian scientist over here on an exchange. Always something new from our Moscow friends. Anyway, is there anything else you wanted to tell me? I need to get on to the Home Office.”

“Well,” she said, “what Tutti’s up to, as far as I can tell, is just a good old-fashioned scam. Why Brunovsky’s falling for it is beyond me—I’d have thought he’d spot it a mile away.”

“Yes, yes,” said Brian impatiently. “We all have our weaknesses. But your point is?”

“My point is, this is one for the police—don’t they have an Art and Antiquities Squad? It’s certainly not for us. Frankly, the only danger I can detect for Brunovsky is losing his shirt buying this fake picture.”

“Right then, let’s contact the Met and have them investigate this Tutti chap. Can I leave that to you?” He looked down with obvious impatience at some notes he’d made during his call.

“Of course,” she said, suppressing growing irritation. “I also think we should seriously consider pulling me out of there now. My job’s done. The only plot I’ve discovered is to bilk Brunovsky of his money, not that he can’t afford it. But there’s nothing I can see along the lines of Victor Adler’s story.”

“Yes, well let’s talk about this when I have a bit more time. I know Geoffrey Fane is keen for you to stay on there for the time being. If we do pull you out, I’ll need to discuss it with him and Pennington first.”

Really? Liz was aching to ask why. Since when did the FCO or Geoffrey Fane’s views determine what an MI5 officer should do? Yet from Brian’s peremptory manner it was clear he wasn’t going to spare the time for questions—in fact, he stood up, to show he didn’t want to talk about anything with Liz right now. She got the message.