Secret Asset

7

Peggy Kinsolving had met Geoffrey Fane only once before, when he had spoken at her induction course when she first joined MI6 a year or so ago. She couldn’t recall much of what he’d said that day but she remembered the tall, heron-like figure and the chilly handshake.

The second meeting was briefer but what he said was more memorable. He was seconding Peggy to MI5 for a month or two, he announced, on a very important assignment that was so confidential she would have to sign a special indoctrination form. She would learn more when she got to Thames House. The one thing Fane wanted to stress was that she should not forget where her loyalties lay. “Don’t go native on us,” said Fane sternly. “We wouldn’t look kindly on that.”

This had taken some of the gloss off the excitement of her new posting, though Henry Boswell, her direct boss—a nice, well-meaning man, looking forward to his retirement—had tried his best to cheer her up. “It’s a marvellous opportunity,” he said, about her temporary move to the other side of the river, but she sensed he had no idea what it was all about.

Peggy couldn’t help wondering why, if it were such an important job, Fane himself hadn’t briefed her on it. And why (Peggy was being honest with herself) they were lending MI5 someone so junior. Part of her wondered whether MI6 had already decided they did not need her particular skills and whether she was just a pawn in some personnel deal between the two services.

But no, there was a real enough job to do. The following day at Thames House, Charles Wetherby had talked to her for over half an hour. He’d been friendly, and had answered all her questions seemingly very frankly. Wetherby had the rare ability to talk to someone as junior as Peggy as if she were his equal. After her session with him, she was no longer in any doubt about the importance, in Wetherby’s eyes, of what she was going to be doing.

He had explained that Peggy would be working with Liz Carlyle, an experienced and extremely talented investigator, he said, who had particular skills in assessing people. Liz would be leading their two-man team and they would be working direct to him. He would be keeping Geoffrey Fane informed of what they were doing. As Wetherby explained the situation, Peggy began to understand why she had been chosen. She would be following the paper trail and supporting Liz as she made her investigations. This made perfect sense to Peggy. She knew and loved the world of print, fact, data, information—pick your own word, thought Peggy—that was what brought out her skills. It was her métier. She could disinter information which might seem meaningless and sterile to others, then, like a primitive fire maker blowing on a spark, bring it to life. Peggy saw drama where others saw dust.

Peggy Kinsolving had been a shy, serious child, with freckles and round spectacles. A cheerful aunt had once called her Bobbity Bookworm and this had stuck in the family, so that from the age of seven, everybody called her Bobby. She had taken her nickname with her to her school, one of the few remaining Midlands grammar schools, and on to Oxford. At the end of three years’ hard work she had a good 2:1 in English and vague scholarly ambitions. There was not enough money in the family to support her through a DPhil so she left Oxford with no very clear idea of what to do next. At that stage of her life Peggy was certain of only two things: if you did your best and stuck at it, things would turn out well, and you should not put up with anything you didn’t like. Accordingly she had reverted firmly to the name Peggy.

For want of any better idea Peggy had taken a post with a private library in Manchester. The understanding was that she would assist the readers half the time and the rest of the time was hers. But since only an average of five people a day made use of her services, she had been largely free to pursue her own research into the life and writings of a nineteenth-century Lancashire social reformer and novelist. Why had it palled so fast? For one thing, her topic turned out to be rather drier than she had expected, with not enough facts to satisfy her voracious appetite for detail. For another her days were overwhelmingly solitary, and she had found no way of peopling her evenings. The Miss Haversham–like librarian rarely exchanged a word with her and scuttled off home as soon as the library closed. From this solitude came a growing conviction that however vivid a world she found in books and manuscripts, the world she saw when she lifted her head from the pages was tantalisingly more promising if only she could find a way into it.

She knew she had to leave, and the obvious alternative was London, where her manifest skills earned her an interview, and then an offer of a job, as a research assistant in the British Library. But the clinical, subdued atmosphere of the modern reading rooms struck her as even less acceptable than the tensions of a working day with Miss Haversham and she never knew what she would have done if an old acquaintance from college had not come into the library one day and told her of a specialised government department that was looking for researchers.

Which was how, at the age of twenty-five, still with round spectacles and freckles, Peggy came to be sitting in the conference room in Thames House next to Liz Carlyle, with half-drunk cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits on the table before them, along with several stacks of file folders, which Peggy had already accumulated after only six days in the job.

Though initially Peggy had approached her with some caution, she had liked Liz from the start. Peggy’s previous boss in the library, although herself female, had seemed to resent her on grounds both of age and gender. But Liz was younger, Liz was polite; best of all, Liz was straightforward. Peggy felt from the start they were a team, and the division of labour was clear. Liz would focus on interviews, while Peggy would do the research.

She had spent her first days with B Branch, the personnel department, reading files, taking notes, organising a hunt, which her unfamiliarity with the records system made more difficult than she expected. Liz was going to Rotterdam the next day, and had asked Peggy to brief her on her progress before she went. She handed Liz the first of what she knew were going to be many, many documents. This is the beginning, Peggy thought to herself. But what if there is no needle in the haystack?

Liz was surprised. There were only five employees of MI5 who had attended Oxford during the first half of the nineties, and she knew three of them. Perhaps not so remarkable as they were broadly the same age as she was. She looked again at the list Peggy had handed her:

Peggy had done well, thought Liz. She had taken very little time to get used to what must seem a very alien environment.

“I know Michael Binding,” Liz announced. “And Judith Spratt.” A friend, she almost said, but didn’t. “Tom Dartmouth I’ve only just met—he’s recently come back from Pakistan. He was seconded to MI6 there for a while. Like you in reverse. And Patrick Dobson was at a meeting I went to yesterday.” She handed back the list to Peggy. “What’s Dobson’s job exactly?”

Peggy found his file. “His job is special liaison with the Home Office on operational matters. Degree from Pembroke College in Theology.” Liz groaned and Peggy gave an unexpectedly lively laugh. Thank God she’s got a sense of humour, thought Liz. Peggy continued: “He’s married. Two children. Very active in his local church.”

Liz suppressed another groan and tried not to roll her eyes. “Right. And Stephen Ogasawara. What have you got on him?”

Peggy found another file. “He read History at Wadham. Then—unusual this—he joined the Army. Six years in the Royal Signals. Served in Northern Ireland,” she said, pausing meaningfully. “As the name suggests, he’s got a Japanese father. But he was born in Bath.”

“What’s his job now?”

“He’s not here any more.”

“Oh?”

“No, he left three years ago.”

“What did he go into? A private security firm?” With that mix of military and MI5 experience, Ogasawara was probably making a small fortune as a consultant in Iraq, thought Liz. Though he might not live long enough to enjoy it.

“Not quite,” said Peggy. “It says here that he now manages a dance troupe in King’s Lynn.”

“How exotic,” said Liz, suppressing a smile.

Peggy asked, “Can I take him off the list?”

“Yes,” said Liz, then thought again. “Actually, better not. But you can certainly put him low down.” She glanced at her watch. “You should have plenty to do while I’m in Rotterdam.” Liz gestured towards the files.

“I thought I’d double-check their original applications to join MI5. And check the facts in the updates too.”

“Yes, you might as well go through the basics. And read their references.” Liz looked again a little anxiously at her watch. “I think we should probably see as many of the referees as we can. Look out for anything on the personal front that looks unusual. And obviously, any kind of Irish connection.”

As Liz got up from the table to go, Peggy said, “Do you mind if I ask who you’re seeing in Rotterdam?”

“Not at all,” Liz said. She had already decided that if they were going to work closely together, she would need to be able to tell Peggy everything. “I’m seeing a man called James Maguire. He was our source for the story that the IRA had put a secret asset into the security services. The officer he gave that information to is dead, so Maguire is the one person in the world, apart from us and the mole himself, who knows about it.”

“Do you think he can help us?”

Liz thought for a moment. “Possibly. The question is whether he will. He didn’t want to meet me.”

“Well good luck then,” said Peggy.

“Thanks,” said Liz, her lips pursed. “I have a feeling I’ll need it.”