The Geneva Trap

Chapter 3

Geoffrey Fane knew exactly who Liz Carlyle was, and sitting in his third-floor office in Vauxhall Cross, he could look out of his window across the river to the building where she worked. Thames House, headquarters of MI5.

Elizabeth Carlyle – what a pity she insisted on being called ‘Liz’. He had known her for almost ten years and had worked with her on many operations. She was intelligent, incisive, direct – and also, Fane acknowledged, very attractive. He respected her, admired her, and might have felt even more warmly towards her if she had shown any sign of admiring him.

But then women were inscrutable to Fane, and right now deeply annoying. Just that morning a letter had arrived at his flat in Fulham from the solicitors of his ex-wife, Adele. It seemed they wanted to reopen the financial settlement that had already drained his coffers irreparably. In particular, they were making noises about his family house in the Dorset countryside, the house which he and his brother had inherited. Its value, the lawyers were arguing, was appreciably higher than that declared by Fane during the divorce negotiations. It seemed Adele felt she had been cheated.

Bloody women, thought Fane. They always wanted to have it both ways. Some insisted on having careers – Vauxhall Cross now positively swarmed with women, many alarmingly competent, and some nearly as senior as Fane himself. They wanted equal pay and equal consideration, even if half the time they were off on maternity leave. They wanted to be part of things but on their own terms: if you tried to treat them as one of the chaps, they laughed at you. If you treated them like ladies, in the way he’d been brought up to do, complimenting them on their appearance, their clothes or their hair, you risked being accused of sexual harassment.

Not that Adele was like that. In fact, Fane wished she were more of a modern woman with a career of her own. Instead, Adele enjoyed playing the role of a high-born lady in a nineteenth-century novel, content to lie on a chaise-longue all day, nibbling chocolates at someone else’s expense. Fane’s expense for years, until a rich French banker had come along to take her off his hands. After the divorce, Fane thought the problem had gone away for good. But now here she was again, Oliver Twist-like, saying I want some more.

As if that weren’t enough for one day, now there was another woman disturbing his life. Fane looked with irritation at the communication from Geneva that had arrived on his desk a few minutes earlier. It seemed mildly amusing that a woman he knew so well was unknown to the Geneva Station. But he was not amused at all to read that the Russian who had approached Russell White had said he would talk only to her. Fane was always reluctant to hand over a potentially interesting case to the people across the river, but the Russian’s request had been unequivocal – he would only speak to Liz Carlyle. And not even Fane could pretend that Liz Carlyle didn’t know what she was doing.

But why was this Sorsky approaching the British now, and in such a covert way? How did he know Liz Carlyle’s name? He must have been posted in the UK at some stage – but even so how had he come across Elizabeth, and under her real name too? Let’s hope she can provide some answers, thought Fane. Because whatever lay behind the approach, it couldn’t be ignored. After the Cold War ended, relations with the Russian Intelligence Services had thawed momentarily but various events had turned the temperature frosty again. The Russians had reverted to their old tricks: it would be useful to know more about their operations, not least in Geneva.

Fane buzzed his Secretary. ‘Could you do an urgent look up for me on Alexander Sorsky, Second Secretary at the Russian Trade Delegation in Geneva?’

‘Yes, Geoffrey,’ replied a youthful, female voice. Fane knew he could have retrieved the information he needed himself from the database on the terminal on his desk but he was set in his ways, and preferred hard copy on his desk, printed paper rather than a screen. He also liked having young Molly Plum bring the files in. She was sweet and very pretty, and young enough to be his daughter. Better still, she seemed slightly in awe of him, which was not an attitude he was inclined to try and change.

As he waited, he stood at the window, looking out at the Thames, sparkling in a flash of spring sunshine, and thinking about the Cold War; recalling the efforts each side had made to infiltrate the other, and the deep satisfaction he and his colleagues had felt when the Soviet Union had collapsed and the game had seemed over.

Molly came into the room, carrying the cup of tea he always had at this time of the afternoon. ‘The Swiss have reported Alexander Sorsky as suspected SVR, but they haven’t confirmed it. We have no other traces,’ she said as she handed him the cup and saucer.

That was odd. It meant that not only had Sorsky never served in the UK but he also hadn’t crossed MI6’s radar anywhere else in the world. So how did the man know Liz Carlyle? Geneva had sent over a photograph, which Fane now examined. It was a low-resolution snap of a group of people; someone had drawn an arrow over the figure of Sorsky. He had unprepossessing features, was losing his hair, and in general looked more like a junior bureaucrat than an intelligence officer. Well, it took all sorts, as Fane knew. At least he’s not another bloody female, he thought grumpily, as he buzzed his intercom again and asked Molly to tell Liz Carlyle he wanted to come and see her.