Authors: Stella Rimington
54
C
harles Wetherby was sitting in Brian Ackers’ office. What an uncomfortable, soulless kind of room, he reflected, with its Cold War library, the war-room map and the desk with its back to the window. The situation was even worse than he’d feared, which made him feel less guilty about leaving Joanne and coming back to work. “They need you,” she’d said firmly after DG’s first phone call.
“So do you,” he’d said.
“Not just at the moment, Charles,” and he knew she was thinking of the doctor’s candid assessment after the latest round of treatment.
I can’t promise you more than a year but you should be stable now for at least a month or two.
She looked him in the eye then. “A little time by myself is what I need. Don’t worry—when I want you back with me, I’ll tell you.”
And so he’d returned, into this odd position—another man’s desk, another man’s job—trying to focus for the first time in many months on something other than his wife’s slow dying.
Brian’s secretary stuck her head round the door. She looked flustered, upset that her boss had gone off so suddenly. Charles wished she could explain why, having pressured Liz to remain in such a dangerous position, Brian had compounded his folly by sending Michael Fane to join her. From the little Charles knew of him, young Fane was inexperienced and headstrong—not the sort of officer to send into an unassessed situation on a rescue mission. Charles suspected it was this second mis-judgement that had led DG to remove Brian Ackers from his post and send him on gardening leave.
“Geoffrey Fane’s here,” the secretary announced flatly.
“Ask him to come in please.” He sighed inwardly at the prospect. He knew Geoffrey Fane; their paths had crossed over recent years in several counter-terrorist operations. Charles respected Fane for his intelligence and his skill at getting things done but he did not entirely trust him. The two men were products of the different cultures of their services. Fane came from a culture developed to train officers to be self-reliant, to work alone or in small groups, sometimes in hostile conditions, where the emphasis was on initiative and getting things done. Wetherby’s style came from working on complex investigations, in interdependent teams, where everything that was done might ultimately face scrutiny by parliamentary committee, official inquiry, the courts or even the press. To Charles’s mind Geoffrey Fane was devious and cut corners; to Fane’s, Charles was overcautious. Charles hoped Fane would be straightforward now; the last thing he needed in this situation was a game of cat and mouse.
“Charles,” said Fane coming into the room. He wore a dark pinstripe suit and a pale yellow shirt and spotted tie. They shook hands and sat down. “It’s good to see you back. I hope all is well at home?” said Fane. “Pity about the situation here.”
Charles ignored this; he wasn’t going to discuss Brian Ackers’ sudden departure with Fane, though he had no doubt it was all over Thames House and Vauxhall Cross by now. Instead he said, “I gather Liz Carlyle’s gone to Ireland with this man Brunovsky. Apparently they’re after some painting, but there seems good reason to believe something quite different is going on.” He paused. “You should know that your son Michael’s over there, too.”
“I did know that, actually. I was here to see Brian when Michael left.”
“I gather you know the background to why Liz was involved with this Brunovsky character. To save time I’ve asked Peggy Kinsolving to come in and brief us both on what she thinks the situation is, and you can fill me in on the background as we go along. The priority seems to me to get Liz and Michael out of there unharmed.”
Fane hesitated, then asked, “Is the situation dangerous?”
“It shouldn’t be for Michael. He’s with the Garda.”
Fane nodded, but his relief was momentary. “How about Liz?”
Charles shrugged. “I very much hope not.” He looked at Fane; it suddenly struck him that they were both equally worried about Liz. He’s fond of her too, thought Charles with a twinge of jealousy.
While they waited for Peggy, Fane got up and went to the window while Wetherby sat slowly tapping the end of a pencil on the desktop. Fane said, “I could never understand why Brian put the desk there. You’d think that having earned a river view, he’d want to enjoy it.”
The door opened and Peggy came in carrying a folder. She seemed surprised to find Fane there, and sat down carefully, looking apprehensive, as if she was walking into a trap. I sympathise, thought Wetherby.
Fane remained standing as Wetherby said, “Why don’t you give us an overview of where things stand, Peggy? Geoffrey probably knows most of it, but I don’t.”
She nodded and opened the folder, though she didn’t look at her notes. “Two months ago, we heard from MI6 that a trusted source had learnt about a possible plot against a dissident oligarch in London.”
Wetherby asked, “What was this plot supposed to consist of?”
“It was thought an assassination might take place here in London.”
“
Pour décourager les autres
,” said Fane lightly, still looking out the window.
“Really?” Wetherby could not conceal his scepticism. Surely after Litvinenko, the last thing the Russian authorities would want was blame for another murder of a disaffected expatriate.
Peggy went on. “At roughly the same time, A4 saw a Russian intelligence officer, a man named Vladimir Rykov from the Trade Delegation, conducting a covert meeting on Hampstead Heath. When they followed his contact, they discovered he was an ex-SAS soldier now working as driver for Nikita Brunovsky. It was then decided to put Liz undercover into Brunovsky’s household.”
“I do not really understand that decision,” interrupted Wetherby.
Peggy said nothing. Fane took a step back and shrugged. “One of Henry Pennington’s dafter ideas, Charles,” he said.
Charles looked at him sceptically. “Brian didn’t have to agree, Geoffrey. It’s not the FCO’s call.” But Fane just shrugged again.
Wetherby, knowing Fane, thought it likely that he had played more of a part in the decision than he was admitting. “What evidence was there to link this supposed plot with Brunovsky?”
“None,” said Fane easily, glancing over before looking out the window again. “But the coincidence of hearing about a plot and Rykov’s pass at the bodyguard seemed…too much of a coincidence. In any case, even if there wasn’t a link, the fact that Rykov was suborning a Brunovsky retainer suggested Moscow had an interest in the man that couldn’t be entirely healthy.”
“That’s precisely my point: surely it was a job for Special Branch, not us.”
Fane kept his gaze firmly on the river, making it clear he wasn’t prepared to argue. Wetherby shook his head, then gestured for Peggy to continue.
“Liz entered the Brunovsky household, posing as a history of art student—she spent a week in Cambridge being intensively tutored on Russian modernists, including a painter called Pashko whom Brunovsky was especially interested in. Brunovsky recently bought a Pashko that had long been thought lost.” She looked studiedly at Wetherby. “It was rediscovered in Ireland, where Brunovsky is now, searching for another long-lost Pashko.”
“This is starting to sound preposterous,” said Wetherby acidly.
Fane laughed sharply enough for Peggy to look startled. Wetherby could see she too was worried about Liz. How differently we are each showing our concern, he thought: Peggy grows even more serious, Fane laughs and I get impatient with the mess I’ve inherited.
Peggy described what she and Liz had discovered about the people in Brunovsky’s circle—his girlfriend had been an upmarket prostitute, his decorator and his personal banker had been in cahoots smuggling antiquities out of Italy. Pretty squalid, thought Wetherby, but hardly surprising, and almost certainly unconnected to Moscow. He said as much, and for once Fane turned around. “I agree,” he said.
“Whatever you think,” said Peggy fiercely, and both Wetherby and Fane looked at her with surprise, “Tutti was found dead in his flat. It looked like suicide, but Liz has her doubts.”
“Well…,” said Fane, not without a note of condescension.
“And I agree with her,” said Peggy quickly. Good for her, thought Wetherby. She’s got nerve. “Tutti’s wrists were slit with a Stanley knife. Liz was mugged, outside the safe flat, and her attacker threatened her with a Stanley knife as well.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Fane sharply. He pulled over a chair and sat down next to Peggy, all languor gone.
“And then just to complicate things further, we were told that there might be an Illegal operating in the UK.”
“Is that relevant to all this?” asked Wetherby.
“We didn’t think so at first,” said Peggy. “But I do now. There’s a Danish woman who calls herself Greta Darnshof—she’s editor of a new art magazine and she knows Brunovsky well. We’ve just learnt from PET in Copenhagen that the real Greta Darnshof died nearly forty years ago.”
“Is this Darnshof in Ireland?” asked Fane.
“I don’t know for sure, but she may well be. Her office said she was ‘travelling.’”
“What’s her role in all this?”
“I don’t know exactly but I think she was the woman who tried to harm Liz. I can’t prove it, but it certainly looks that way.”
Fane broke the momentary silence: “I can’t believe they’d want to harm Brunovsky: killing him in Ireland wouldn’t be any better in PR terms than killing him here.”
“So why
do
they want him in Ireland?” asked Wetherby.
“Because I think they’ll abduct him and take him back to Russia. That’s a lot easier to do in Kilkenny than Eaton Square.”
“Killarney,” said Peggy pedantically.
“But couldn’t Brunovsky see the danger?” Wetherby broke in. “Why on earth did he agree to go to Ireland?”
Peggy spoke up. “Liz says he’s desperate to get this other painting. Apparently another oligarch, a man called Morozov, also wants the picture. He and Brunovsky have got some sort of long-standing rivalry. Liz said that once Brunovsky learnt that Morozov was also on the trail, there was no stopping him.”
“Morozov?” said Fane.
“Who is he?” asked Wetherby, almost resignedly. To him these people were like characters in a play. He wondered how many acts there were to be in this drama.
“He made his fortune in industrial diamonds,” said Peggy. “Before that he was KGB, postings in New York and East Germany. We thought he might be planning something against Brunovsky on personal grounds—there’s history between them. But we just don’t know.”
Wetherby turned to Fane, who was looking as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t quite get out. I’ll wait, thought Wetherby, and said nothing until the silence became strained. At last Fane broke it. “Liz asked us to find out about Morozov and I gave her a fairly detailed report from our station in Moscow. I told her he was posted in East Germany where he had a heart attack in 1989 and was sent home. But there was something else I didn’t tell her. I didn’t think it was relevant and the information wasn’t mine to give. But I think I should tell you now.”
He paused, weighing his words with care. “During his last few years in the KGB, Morozov was recruited by the West Germans. He was an agent-in-place for the BND all the time he was in East Germany. He was in the KGB station in Dresden. One of his KGB colleagues there was Vladimir Putin.”
Wetherby lifted both arms in disbelief. “I would have said the plot thickens, if it weren’t like treacle already. So where does that put Morozov in all this?”
“Not in Ireland, I hope,” said Fane. “But it may be relevant that he’s not altogether what he seems.”
“I’m not sure Brunovsky is either,” said Peggy quietly.
None of these people are, thought Wetherby. I just hope Liz realises that. It would have been nice if Fane had let us know this earlier. As if reading his thoughts Fane said quietly, “Sorry about that, Charles. Third-party information, you know, and it didn’t seem relevant at the time.”
Wetherby sighed. He was thinking that things had to be dire indeed when Geoffrey Fane apologised.
55
W
e’d better be going,” Brunovsky announced, looking at his watch anxiously. “Jerry, get the car round. We’ll be with you in a moment.”
But before Jerry could get up, the door opened. Liz found herself staring at what, at first sight, could have been an apparition. It was an old lady, with flowing hair the colour of snow. She wore a long embroidered cotton nightdress and slippers that scuffed the floor as she walked into the drawing room with slow regal steps. Her grey-blue eyes were blank, her lips set in a rigid smile. She’s mad, thought Liz.
In a pure high voice, more English than Irish, the apparition spoke. “Welcome to Ballymurtagh. We do not often see visitors nowadays, but please make yourselves at home.”
Liz noticed Brunovsky looking at Greta with astonishment. “Tonight,” the old lady was saying, “we shall have music. There will be dancing for those who like…” A girlish coyness crept across her face.
Greta signalled to Dimitri, who went over to close the door, just as Svetlana ran in, her handsome Slavic face drawn and frightened. “I am sorry—she got away from me,” she said, and started towards the old lady, reaching for her arm. But her target skipped forward out of reach. “Ha ha,” she cried with delight, and Liz realised she was back in the nursery.
Greta moved quickly as if to grab the old lady, but it was Svetlana she was aiming for. The Danish woman approached the girl with her hands by her sides, then suddenly her right arm swung up and
crack,
with her open hand she struck Svetlana on the face. The noise was like a pistol shot. And Svetlana reeled back. In the utter silence that followed, the only movement came from the old lady, twirling her index finger into her hair.
Greta shouted something in Russian to Svetlana, pointing to Miss Cottingham. She was visibly struggling, but failing, to control her anger. “Go on,
move
!” she hissed. “Move.” To Liz there was something oddly familiar about her intonation.
Svetlana was terrified, paralysed, crouching on the floor, and Greta moved again. She seized her roughly by the shoulder, trying to lift her to her feet. Dimitri came across the room to her side, and Miss Cottingham took the opportunity to scamper behind a chair, as if she were enjoying herself. For an old lady she was remarkably agile.
Dimitri and Greta approached her from opposite sides, trying to corner her, but the old lady had played this game before and she darted nimbly behind one of the sofas. Safe for an instant, she began to sing, in a high quavering voice, “You can’t catch me, you can’t catch me.”
With everyone’s eyes focused on Miss Cottingham, Liz saw her opportunity. She moved sideways to Jerry Simmons’ chair. “Jerry,” she whispered urgently, “give me your phone.” Evidently mesmerised by the spectacle, he turned to her with an expression of disbelief, and she had to jab him hard with her finger to focus his attention. “I work with Magnusson,” she said, relieved to have remembered Michael Fane’s alias. “You know…MI5. I need your phone.”
Meanwhile, Dimitri and Greta had with difficulty seized hold of Miss Cottingham. She was resisting with surprising strength, and singing at the top of her voice. Jerry’s eyes, widening, were fixed on the old lady, but cautiously he reached into his jacket pocket, and the next thing Liz knew the phone was lying in the palm of her hand. As she closed her fingers on it, Dimitri picked Miss Cottingham up with both arms and carried her to the door and out of the room.
Svetlana was still sobbing. Greta, leaning down to the crouching girl, told her sharply to get out and see to her charge. Brunovsky, who had not moved a muscle since the beginning of the drama, rose to his feet and looked at his watch, for all the world like the chairman of a meeting declaring it closed. “Okay,” he said. “Time to go. He won’t be long now.”
Greta hissed a word and it came sharply to Liz just where she’d heard that voice before.
Move!
Greta had shouted at Svetlana.
Don’t move!
the mugger had ordered Liz on the darkened Battersea street. There was no mistaking that voice, with its menacing hiss. It was Greta who had attacked her, Greta who had wielded the Stanley knife. Greta, therefore, who had killed Marco Tutti.
And it was Greta who was in charge here, not Brunovsky. Whatever she was, she was no Danish art expert. She was a Russian. No wonder the Danes had found oddities in her background, no wonder Peggy couldn’t trace the ownership of her magazine. Greta must be the Illegal, a Russian intelligence officer. That was why Brunovsky was deferring to her. But what was she doing here? Who were they waiting for? And why did Brunovsky want to leave before the visitor appeared?
Liz looked at Brunovsky. “I need the ladies’ room before we go. I’ll be quick. I’ll meet you out front.”
Brunovsky nodded impatiently, reluctantly, and ignoring Greta, Liz left the room. From the rear of the house she heard snatches of song from the old lady, then Svetlana pleading with her to be quiet.
But she had no time to reflect on the bizarre aspects of the scene. Off the main hall she found an ancient bathroom and, going in, she carefully closed its tall door behind her. There was no lock. In the dim light she saw a cracked washbasin on a stand, a lavatory with a cistern high on the wall, its long chain ending in a porcelain handle. She turned on one of the taps and water gushed loudly. She must be quick. Brunovsky was impatient to be gone, and so was she. She needed to get out of the house quickly before Greta began to suspect that her cover had been cracked.
She looked down at the phone. Would she get a signal here? The display lit up, then showed
SEARCHING
for what seemed an eternity, until at last to her relief it registered. She dialled Peggy’s Thames House extension, but almost immediately heard “The person at this extension is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.” She hesitated, but this wasn’t a time for messages. She needed urgent action. But who to call? Not Brian Ackers. Even if he were there, he’d tell her to calm down and report back later. Dave Armstrong, her friend and former colleague in Counter-Terrorism? He’d do something sensible but she might have no better luck reaching him.
She had no time at all, and her mind raced. Who could she count on to be there, to understand the urgency and to be able to act? Yes, there was someone.
The Kingston number rang twice and then a woman’s voice answered. Liz spoke as loudly as she dared. “Hello, Mrs. Wetherby? It’s Liz Carlyle. Is Charles there? It’s urgent.”
There was a pause. “Oh, Liz. He’s at the office. I thought you’d know. He’s gone back.”
“I didn’t know. I’m in Ireland.” She thought of ringing off, then realised this was her one chance. “Please listen: I’m in trouble and I can’t get through to the office. Please get hold of Charles and tell him Greta is here—
G-R-E-T-A
. Tell him she’s Russian and I’m sure she’s the Illegal. Brian Ackers can tell him what it all means.”
“But it’s Brian Charles is standing in for,” said Joanne. “Didn’t you know? Brian’s gone on leave.”
Thank God, thought Liz. But there was no time to rejoice—she had to go. “Okay. Tell him that I am at a house called Ballymurtagh,
B-A-L
…oh, you’ve got it? I’m leaving soon for Shillington airport. Yes, that’s right—Shillington. We need the Garda here and at the airport, and they need to be armed. Can you tell him right away?” She tried to sound calm and decisive. “It’s urgent.”
“I’ll call him now,” Joanne said. “Take care.” It was then that Liz remembered that Joanne had been a member of the Service herself. Twenty years ago; she’d been a secretary. That was how she and Charles had met.
But would she get through to her husband? Liz could hear nothing from the hall. It occurred to her that she might have time to text a message to Peggy and laboriously she began to compose one. She had entered
BALLYM
with her thumb when suddenly the bathroom door flew open and in the doorway stood Greta. She was holding a short-barrelled handgun, and it was pointing at Liz.
“Give me that,” Greta demanded. Her voice was terse, emotionless. Liz held the phone out immediately.
Greta reached for it without taking her eyes off Liz or moving the gun from its focus just above her left eye. Keeping her foot in the door, she stepped back slightly and glanced at the mobile. “Have you sent this?”
“No,” said Liz, “I’d just started. I need to let my boyfriend know where I am and that I’ll probably be late for dinner,” she added, trying to smile credibly.
Greta ignored her. She motioned to Liz to follow her into the corridor and with a grim “Move or I’ll shoot,” she backed off a couple of paces.
Liz had no choice. They walked back down the corridor, Liz leading. Once she tried to speak but “Shut up,” was the terse response. In the drawing room they found only Brunovsky, standing impatiently. When he saw the gun in Greta’s hand his face whitened with shock.
“What is going on?” he said. “We should have been gone ten minutes ago. Jerry is waiting with the car.”
Greta moved away from Liz towards Brunovsky, keeping him out of her line of fire. “It’s too late,” she said. “I found her trying to text someone. She’s already made a call.”
Brunovsky was clearly agitated, looking to Greta for direction. Gone was the confident air of the tycoon used to having his own way, gone the boyish swagger.
Liz tried to stay calm, her mind racing to take in this new situation. So Brunovsky was part of the plot, not its intended victim. But their plan, whatever it was, had come off its hinges.
Greta spoke in Russian, gesturing towards Liz. Brunovsky replied in short staccato sentences. Clearly they were discussing what to do with her now the scheme for Liz to leave with him had gone awry. Brunovsky was asking questions and from the look on his face, he was not liking the answers he was getting. Liz noticed that he didn’t look at her.
Would they kill her? She considered the possibility as dispassionately as she could, and rejected it. It would be impossible to cover it up, even if they put her corpse in a brick-filled trunk and dumped it in the lake.
Victor Adler had been right. There was a plot, but it had nothing to do with harming Nikita Brunovsky. There was some other target—presumably the person they were waiting for. But why on earth had Brunovsky wanted her with him in this remote part of Ireland, to see a painting that he surely already knew was a fake?
Then she understood. Brunovsky was a decoy to attract someone else. The plan was that he’d show up here, with Liz, reject the painting and then fly back to England. Whatever happened after that could not be blamed on him. Liz was to be his witness—who better than an MI5 officer, with him through the whole of his brief stay in Ireland?
Liz watched as the full scale of the disaster struck Brunovsky. Serves you right you bastard, she thought. It’s goodbye London, goodbye the high life. Even goodbye Monica, though probably he wouldn’t miss her much. You clever, clever bastard—only you don’t look so clever now.
When first she heard the sound, it was so dim she wondered if she were imagining it. Then she thought it was just the pipes rumbling somewhere in the walls of this crumbling mansion.
Phut-phut-phut.
It was becoming more distinct, a noise from outside that was coming closer.
Phut-phut-phut
. Something up above, something in the air. Then the noise was so clear that of course it was a helicopter.
Greta said something abruptly to Brunovsky and without a word he left the room. Greta looked at Liz coolly. “We have a visitor.”
“So I gather,” said Liz, lifting an eyebrow skywards. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s Harry Forbes. Have you killed him as well as Tutti?”
“Tutti panicked,” Greta said, then seemed to regret her words.
“Was it the same Stanley knife you held on me?” Greta did not reply, so Liz went on. “I couldn’t understand how you got on to me. Only Simmons knew where I lived, but he didn’t know anything else about me. Perhaps he told Rykov my address, but why did you suspect me?”
“Rykov is a fool,” said Greta, spitting the words. “He got in the way. I already knew about you.”
“Yes, you did,” said Liz, starting to understand how early her identity had been betrayed. “It was you at the hotel in Cambridge, wasn’t it? Trying to frighten me off. I suppose it wasn’t hard to engineer a meeting between me and Dimitri.”
Greta gave a small hard smile. “You didn’t seem to mind,” she sneered.
“So Brunovsky told you about me from the start.”
“Brunovsky is a child,” she said, and Liz realised the full arrogance of the woman. I suppose an Illegal needs that kind of self-confidence, thought Liz—how else could you put up with years of isolation, not even knowing for sure your long-term deception will get put to use? Hadn’t Greta been tempted, after the fall of the Soviet Union, to pack it all in and get herself a life?
Liz was trying to keep Greta talking, anything to delay the moment when she and Simmons would be dealt with, in whatever way had been decided. She wanted desperately to know who they were waiting for and why. Clearly she had not been supposed to know anything about it—by this time she and Brunovsky were meant to be back at the airport.
“I can’t hear the helicopter now,” said Liz.
“It’s landed,” Greta said sharply as if Liz were another simpleton. “Keep quiet. Understand?”
Liz nodded. Greta’s gun was still trained on her.
“Remember,” said Greta. “Whatever happens, you say no word and you do not move. Afterwards we shall see.”
She returned her pistol to her shoulder bag, keeping her hand on it.