Secret Asset

16

Wetherby was sitting at his desk gazing out of the window at the sun sparkling on the Thames, but his face showed no pleasure in the view. The restless tap-tapping of his pencil on a pile of paper was the only sign of his anger and frustration. He was waiting for Tom Dartmouth, whom he had summoned to his office. Wetherby was a man who managed his staff by consultation and advice rather than by diktat, but when things went wrong he took responsibility. It was then that he gave orders without discussion.

And things had gone very wrong indeed. The death of an agent was the worst nightmare for any intelligence service. Agents were recruited by persuasion, cajolery and sometimes by the promise of payment. Some agents, and Marzipan was one, offered their services out of loyalty to the country. In return they were promised protection. That was the deal. For the Service to break its side of the bargain, particularly with a young man like Marzipan, was a professional failure of the worst possible kind.

“Do we know when it happened?” Wetherby asked immediately when Dartmouth came in.

“Apparently it was sometime last night,” Dartmouth replied, sitting down cautiously.

“I see,” said Wetherby, standing up, and walking to the window. The spring sunshine had given way to a sudden heavy shower. River and sky merged, obliterating the barge in mid-river.

He turned back to Dartmouth, who was looking tired and ruffled, all of his usual spruceness gone. “So how did it happen?” asked Wetherby.

“At first glance, it looks like a racist attack,” said Dartmouth levelly.

“Combat 18?”

“Conceivably. We’ve got no intelligence at all and nor have the police.” He hesitated. “Could be a lunatic member of the BNP—they’re strong in that area. They almost won a seat in the last local council elections.”

“But?” asked Wetherby, noting Dartmouth’s pause.

“Well,” said Dartmouth with a hint of dryness, “slitting someone’s throat is an uncommon method of murder in this country.”

“So?”

Dartmouth paused. “I think we have to assume that this murder is tied to our investigation.”

“I want maximum effort put on this, Tom. We’ve got to find out what’s happened.” Tom nodded. “And keep me closely in touch,” said Wetherby. He paused, then asked, “Has anyone spoken to Liz Carlyle?”

“I gather she’s expected in just after lunch.”

Wetherby looked at Dartmouth. He was a clever man, that was obvious, and not just because of his first-class degree. He had come back from Pakistan by his own choice—who could blame him, after four tough post-9/11 years? Geoffrey Fane of MI6 had said his performance there had been outstanding. But he was also hard to read. Wetherby had yet to see him show any feelings.

Wetherby said, “Someone has to tell her Marzipan is dead. It should be me, but I’m due to see the Home Secretary in half an hour. I need to explain the background to Marzipan’s death. Where’s Dave Armstrong?”

Dartmouth gave a small sigh. “He’s gone with the police to talk to Marzipan’s parents.” He waited for a minute, then said quietly, “I’ll tell Liz, Charles. After all, it’s my operation.”

Wetherby nodded. He looked again out the window, seemingly lost in thought. Then the moment of contemplation passed and he turned to Dartmouth. “I suppose you’ll have to,” he said conclusively.

Dartmouth’s eyes narrowed slightly and Wetherby continued, speaking at a rapid clip, dictating orders. “This is now a police case: a murder has been committed. Get them to pull in the bookshop people. We need to talk to them. You’ll have to be careful. Maybe one of them will talk, though I doubt they know very much anyway. If Abu Sayed is driving this from Pakistan, they may have let him use the shop as a courtesy and not have a clue who the three others are. You said that Six were watching Abu Sayed over there. Let them know what’s happened. Any contact with the UK, however innocuous, should be reported to us. Get on to the Dutch and see if they’ve got anything from their operation.”

He stopped for a moment, thinking hard, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I want a meeting with you, Dave, and Judith Spratt before close of play.” He thought for a second, then added, “I think Liz Carlyle should be there as well.”

Dartmouth seemed surprised. “I thought she was on a different assignment.”

“She is,” said Wetherby shortly, “but she was Marzipan’s controller before Dave; she may have useful ideas to contribute.”

He sighed, and tugged at both shirt cuffs until each was aligned to an equal half-inch display. He checked the knot of his tie and stood up. “I’m going to walk around.” After news of Marzipan’s death, Wetherby knew the mood among the agent runners would be black. It was important for him to show his support.

“The problem remains,” he added as he walked towards the door, “that we have lost our link to the bookshop group.”

“I know,” said Dartmouth calmly, standing up to leave. For once, Wetherby found his cool imperturbability not entirely helpful.