Illegal Action

48

He had never, ever, had an interview like that in all his time in the Service. DG had spoken, not emotionally, not even overtly angrily—either would have been preferable to the icy coldness of the dressing-down he had just received. When Brian had been eight years old, he had been caught cheating on an exam at his boarding school and sent to the headmaster. That was how he felt now.

Barely noticing the river view, he stood resting his forehead on the window of his office, until it clouded up from the exhalation of his breath. Absent-mindedly he drew a grid for noughts and crosses, etched a large O and a smaller adjacent x, then forgot about the next move as he played back in his head DG’s accusatory tones.

You have placed an officer’s life in danger. And for what purpose? I want you to act at once to retrieve the situation. And the final terse warning: I must warn you that I shall be taking disciplinary action.

Was that how his career was going to end? Thirty years’ service abruptly terminated because someone got nervy. He didn’t doubt for a minute that Adler’s original story had been correct. The Russians were up to something—they were always up to something, that’s what people didn’t understand. But it was Brunovsky they wanted, not Liz Carlyle. Silly, panicky woman. It was his misfortune to have got stuck with her on this operation.

He sat down at his desk and stared at the green marble slab and its unused pen. He wondered where DG had got his information. Who had spoken to him? Who had gone around his—Brian’s—back? He’d find out in the end who’d undermined him. But that would have to wait—he had to act immediately, if only out of self-preservation, and do what DG had ordered.

He sighed, then dialled the mobile number, only to get a voicemail’s recorded announcement. Damn. It was bad enough having to eat humble pie, but worse having to postpone the meal. He put down the phone, then picked it up again, and dialled an internal number. “Could I see you please, right away?”

Peggy Kinsolving came in within sixty seconds. She seemed an efficient sort of lass, if a bit too close to that Carlyle woman for his liking. Very young, but a competent investigator. He did not ask her to sit down; this wouldn’t take long.

“I’m trying to reach Liz Carlyle but her mobile’s on voicemail.”

“I’ve been trying to reach her too. You know that we’ve been in touch with the Danes and the Germans to try to identify the Illegal that they thought might have come here. I’ve just had a message.”

Peggy took a piece of paper from the folder she was carrying and put it on the desk under Brian Ackers’ nose. He gazed abstractedly at its few terse sentences and at the name.

“Has this woman surfaced here in any way? Do we know anything about her whereabouts?”

“She is close to Brunovsky.”

“My God!” said Brian excitedly. “This could be our first sight of Victor Adler’s plot.”

Then suddenly the implications of Peggy’s statement struck him like a thunderbolt. Liz Carlyle could be in real danger after all. Trying not to look as shaken as he felt, he began issuing rapid-fire orders. “I want you to go to the Brunovsky house and find Liz. Pretend you’re an old friend, or her sister—I don’t care, just make sure you find her. Tell her I want her to get out of there at once—she can think up any excuse she likes but she must leave immediately. Is that understood?”

“I can’t, Brian,” Peggy said, looking at her feet.

Jesus, he thought angrily. What’s wrong with these women? “Nonsense,” he said harshly. “Do as you’re told.” If DG could talk to him like that, then he could act the same way with his subordinates. “This is your immediate priority. Is that clear?”

“I’m sorry, Brian,” said Peggy, but she was not apologising. “Liz isn’t there. She’s gone to Ireland with Brunovsky. She left a message for me about an hour ago from Northolt. They’re taking his private jet.”

“Oh God,” Brian groaned. “What is she doing there?”

“She said they’ve gone to try and buy this picture from some old lady west of Cork.”

“Will this… woman… be with them?”

“I don’t know.”

“All right,” said Brian. He knew now how wrong he had been, but he found himself almost eerily calm. There was no point in self-recrimination. “Get me Michael Fane,” he said to Peggy. “I’m going to send him over there as quick as we can manage. I want you to get on to the Garda right away. Tell them we’re urgently trying to find a colleague. Get them to meet Michael when he lands at Cork.”

“All right,” said Peggy. “Shall I tell them the whole story?”

“No, for goodness’ sake,” said Brian. “Just tell them what they need to know.” He waved a bony hand to indicate she’d better get a move on. So why wasn’t this girl going? She was looking at him in a way he found unsettling. It was a look he’d never seen before in one of his staff—contemptuous but pitying at the same time.

“Don’t you think, Brian, you’d better speak to Geoffrey Fane and the Foreign Office? We don’t know how this is going to turn out. And I think I’d better try and find out who’s gone to Ireland with Brunovsky and Liz.”