Secret Asset

30

Dave got up extra early at his small flat in Balham, to give himself plenty of time to get to Thames House by eight for his meeting with Wetherby. He was shattered. Dressing, he had thought of putting on a jacket and tie, but decided that instead of impressing Wetherby with his seriousness, it would simply seem out of character. But he was determined to convey his concern.

Now in Wetherby’s office he was on edge. Wetherby wore a light grey summer suit and was standing by the window, watching the antics of a large heron on a mudflat below. He seemed preoccupied. As Dave briefed him on the events in Wokingham, including the discovery of traces of fertiliser, he listened without comment. When Dave finished he stood silent for a moment. “So we almost had them,” he said suddenly, then sighed morosely. “What bad luck.”

Dave took a deep breath. “That’s just it, Charles. I’m not convinced luck had anything to do with it.”

Wetherby turned around. “What are you trying to say?” he asked Dave sharply, looking at him with the fixed gaze Dave called the “X-ray stare”—Liz never seemed to mind Wetherby’s scrutinising look, but Dave found it disconcerting. It made him feel guilty, like a little boy caught out by his father telling a lie.

Dave tried to speak calmly. “According to the neighbours, the suspects left very suddenly. They seemed to be in a big hurry. As if they’d had advance warning we were coming.”

“You mean they’d been tipped off? Who would have done that?”

“That’s the problem. I’m confident it wasn’t the agent who let the house, and I very much doubt the neighbours did. The woman next door said she and her husband had barely spoken to the men.”

“Who else?”

“The local Special Branch, which doesn’t seem likely.” He paused, hesitant to continue, then reminded himself that’s why he was here. “And Thames House,” he said quietly.

Wetherby’s gaze did not shift. “Someone inside the Service?” he asked. Dave found it impossible to tell how he was reacting to the suggestion.

“I realise it may sound bizarre,” said Dave, trying to make it clear he wasn’t happy to broach the idea, “but the fact is, our suspects seem to have known we were coming—twice. It’s too much of a coincidence. After all, there was no good reason for them not to show at the bookshop.”

“That could have been a lot of things,” Wetherby declared. “They might have been put off by the number of people who would see them visiting again. Or they may not have entirely trusted the Imam. Who knows? I don’t really see how that and their departure from Wokingham are related.”

“Because in both cases they didn’t do what one would expect,” said Dave. Wetherby waved a dismissive hand, but Dave stuck to his guns. “If you assume, for argument’s sake, that the no-show and their flight from Wokingham were connected, then of all the people involved, there’s only one group who knew about both. The neighbours weren’t the same, the police weren’t the same. It’s only us—those involved here in Thames House—who knew about both operations.”

“Ah,” said Wetherby, returning to sit behind his desk. He was all business now. “That’s precisely where I don’t follow you—your assumption that these two situations are linked. It seems to me far more likely that something inside the bookshop alarmed them. And they may have left Wokingham when they did because that’s when they’d always planned to leave.

“If these suspects know what they’re doing—and so far they’ve only made one mistake—then they’ll have another safe house to go to. Probably more than one. It would be normal for them to keep on the move, right until the day of their action. I imagine they’re travelling light so they can leave quickly. That doesn’t mean they think we’re on to them.”

What had seemed an airtight argument to Dave, shaving in Balham two hours before, now seemed flimsy, unsubstantial. “Charles, I’m not trying to make a legal case,” he said, floundering for words. “I just wanted to say my piece. I thought you should know.”

Know what? Dave’s words sounded lame even to himself. “I don’t want to get involved in a wild-goose chase,” Wetherby said forcefully. “It would only distract us from the real task, which is to catch these suspects before they do anything.”

Dave nodded unhappily. Wetherby sat back in his chair, easing off slightly. “Does the name James Angleton mean anything to you?” he asked.

It rang a bell, but only a faint one, so Dave shook his head.

Wetherby got up and walked slowly back to the window. His voice was calmer now, almost reflective. “Angleton was an American, a senior CIA officer, head of Counter-Intelligence for many years. A very bright man, much respected. But he believed what a series of defectors told him and became convinced that the KGB had penetrated Western Intelligence at the highest level. It became his obsession, to the exclusion of everything else. It was the classic ‘wilderness of mirrors.’ Everything he saw had something behind it. No action was straightforward, no decision had anything but a hidden, ulterior motive; nothing was what it seemed to be.”

Dave gave a hollow laugh. “Yes, I know. And we had Peter Wright.”

Wetherby picked up a pencil and thumped its end on the desk. “Yes, Peter Wright caught the same bug. He and his cronies even investigated the Director General, Roger Hollis, for years. On no hard evidence at all. Sheer pernicious nonsense, and it did a huge amount of damage.”

Dave was mortified that Wetherby seemed to be putting him in the same category as a deluded American spymaster and Peter Wright. “I don’t think I’m being paranoid, Charles,” he said, aggrieved.

“Nor do I actually,” replied Wetherby, absentmindedly running a finger down his tie. “But without any hard facts, I can’t afford to worry about your hunch. I’m glad you shared your concerns with me, but it’s evidence we need.” He smiled benevolently, which only made Dave feel worse as their meeting ended.

Yet sitting over a coffee in the cafeteria downstairs, Dave was unconvinced. He understood Wetherby’s reluctance to think anyone in the Service could be helping the suspects, but he was troubled by the vehemence of his reaction. It was as if Wetherby had had the same idea himself, then rejected it. He isn’t going to follow it up at all, Dave thought sourly, cheering up a bit when he realised that Wetherby had not actually forbidden him from doing so.