Authors: Alan Judd
But how? By intercepting his phone, or simply because Sarah had told Nigel? He hadn’t asked whether she had. It wouldn’t have been police surveillance – they’d have had
no reason to do it and it would have taken too long to set up if Nigel had requested it. Deploying the SIA’s usual resources would also have taken time to set up and justify. There were laws
these days about following people, laws Charles had disapproved of when they were introduced, but useful now. Most likely Nigel had rapidly called in part of Martin’s old Z organisation, if
it still existed.
But why, to what end? There was surely nothing Charles could do that Nigel couldn’t discover simply by asking Sarah, or the police, or Charles himself. Unless it was something that Nigel
badly wanted to know and couldn’t get any other way, something perhaps that Charles didn’t yet know himself.
A taxi disgorged a couple of drunks whom he presumed to be British bankers until hearing them arguing in Russian. Time was when they’d have been the quarry on a Chelsea street, not him. He
ambled on towards the Boltons while his surveillants presumably scurried around him. What Nigel most wanted, surely, was for Gladiator never to be found. Or, if found, to be found only by him,
Nigel. What he did not want was for Charles to find him. That was why he had had Charles arrested and taken off the case, and why his SIA pass hadn’t been returned with his possessions. The
reason for following him now must be that Nigel feared he would continue his search for Gladiator, perhaps all the more determinedly. And would perhaps even find him.
He was right, Charles concluded as he turned into Bolton Gardens. More right than he knew.
T
he SIA switchboard answered promptly the next morning. Nigel was not available and the operator couldn’t say when he would be. Charles asked
to be put through to Nigel’s secretary. This was not possible, either. He asked why. The operator, sounding more awkward as she became more formal, said: ‘I have to tell you, Mr
Thoroughgood, that that is all I am authorised to say.’
‘To anyone or just to me?’ He knew the answer.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t say any more.’
‘Could you put me through to Jeremy Wheeler instead, please?’
There was a pause. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Thoroughgood, but Mr Wheeler is not available.’
‘Could you pass him a message, please? Could you—’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not authorised—’
‘—tell him that if he doesn’t ring me in the next half an hour I’ll call at the front door of the office. That’s all. Thank you.’ He put the phone down.
He was fairly sure that Jeremy would not call his bluff. He had no intention of humiliating himself by trying to gain admittance without a pass, still less of creating a scene and risking
further arrest. But he thought he could reckon on Jeremy’s fear of fuss. Ten minutes later Jeremy rang, sounding his most pompous.
‘Charles, before you say anything I have to tell you that I am unable to discuss or comment on the situation in which you now find yourself and am authorised only to hear and if necessary
note anything you may say.’
It was important to remain polite, albeit easier with blameless switchboard operators than with Jeremy, whose features would be swollen with self-importance.
‘I quite understand, Jeremy. Thank you for ringing. I appreciate it. I was just wondering whether I’m expected to come into work and if so how I get my pass back.’
Jeremy couldn’t resist the bait. ‘Of course you can’t come to work, you’re suspended. Didn’t anyone tell you?’
‘No-one’s spoken to me apart from the police, and presumably they can’t suspend me as they’re not my employers.’
‘No-one’s sent you a letter? Someone should’ve. I’ll organise it.’
‘Bit late now.’
‘We have to. Employment law.’
‘For how long am I suspended?’
‘Until the police have completed their investigation and decided whether or not charges are to be brought.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for making that clear, Jeremy. It’s very kind of you. I appreciate it.’
‘You realise that I can’t comment on your case.’
He was weakening. Charles smiled to himself. ‘Of course, of course, I fully understand your position. You have wider responsibilities.’ Jeremy always responded to anyone using
phrases similar to his own. Flattery could not be overdone so long as it was shameless, which for Charles meant ignoring his own embarrassment. ‘A man in your position has to consider the
interests of the service as a whole, as well as important legal aspects. Not to mention the interests and well-being of individual members.’
‘Indeed. One has also to take into account actual or potential reputational damage.’
‘Indeed. And with the new SIA, all such considerations must have a more complex context requiring far more interpretation, inter-relation and inter-disciplinary awareness than before. But
if I can just step outside my own case for a moment, I’d like to say how beneficial it is for all concerned that you are where you are, Jeremy. People must be very grateful. A relief, too,
for Nigel to know he’s got a rock to lean on.’
‘Well, he’s – you know – one does one’s job.’
‘I was just wondering whether it’s okay for me to speak to one or two friends in the office. Purely socially, of course. Not about my case.’
‘Friends? In the office? Who?’ Jeremy sounded genuinely surprised.
‘One or two. It’s just that I wouldn’t want to put anyone in an awkward position.’
‘An instruction’s gone out that no-one is to speak to you. What friends have you got? Who are they?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s okay. As I say, I wouldn’t want to put anyone in an awkward position.’ He knew now what he needed to know. However, it was important to part on a
good note since he might need someone to take his calls later. ‘But I fully understand, Jeremy, thank you. I’m glad you’re there.’
‘As I said, I can’t discuss your case but you’re welcome to ring again and talk about anything else. Anything at all.’
‘Thanks, I shall.’
‘I can’t meet you, of course.’
‘Of course not.’ He put down the phone with a purifying surge of energy. With every door that closed, he felt more determined and more confident.
He next rang Matthew Abrahams at home. There was no answer and no answerphone. He assumed that calls from his own flat were being intercepted but this was one he made no attempt to conceal; they
would have expected him to contact Matthew. He put on a suit and took his umbrella, hoping for rain. He walked to South Kensington underground with
Jane Eyre
tight in his jacket pocket. If
he ever had another suit made he would specify larger pockets. Or buy a Kindle.
Nigel would lack resources for twenty-four hour cover without going through normal procedures, but Charles still could not afford to assume he was clear of surveillance. It was important to
appear unaware, to encourage them to relax. He took the tube to St James’s Park – imagining their urgent messages to the effect that he appeared to be making for Head Office with the
possible intention of forcing entry – then crossed Victoria Street and walked down Horseferry Road to Marsham Street, by the Home Office. He asked the porter in Matthew’s apartment
block if he could leave a message.
‘You’re very welcome, sir, but I’m afraid Sir Matthew was taken to hospital yesterday.’
‘Was he – did it appear that he might be there some time?’
‘Impossible to say, sir. St Thomas’s, over the river.’
Charles retraced his steps along Marsham Street, detouring through Dean’s Yard in Westminster Abbey because he liked it, then crossed St James’s Park to the Duke of York’s
steps. As he reached the top there were a few introductory drops of rain, which was perfect. He turned into Pall Mall and shortly after entered his club. That would set them a problem. They
wouldn’t be able to follow him in, wouldn’t see who he met there, wouldn’t know whether he made any calls on the club phones or whether he emailed anyone.
In fact, all he did was have a club lunch of fish and a glass of wine, catch up with the papers and sit by the fire to read a chapter of
Jane Eyre.
Rain was by then beating against the
tall windows giving onto Pall Mall. There was only one entrance, so they’d have to watch from somewhere along the street, since it would be hard to linger in a car in that area. They’d
be having a miserable time of it. He ordered tea.
When the wet November afternoon faded into dusk, he took his umbrella from the cloakroom to the corner behind the porter’s box where the club and any stray umbrellas were kept,
substituting it for a large green golfing one. Then he crossed the deserted dining room to the door opening onto the unlit gardens at the back of all three adjacent clubs. From the bottom of the
steps he headed for another set that led down to the basement of the Athenaeum, but the door was locked. Climbing onto the terrace and getting in that way was too risky, so he crossed to the plane
trees, bushes and shrubs at the rear of the garden. From there he could watch unseen any activity in Carlton Gardens Terrace. The parking places were fairly full, which would partly shield him.
Three men stood talking outside the Royal Society until a taxi drew up. As they were getting in Charles reached through the black iron railings to put his umbrella on the pavement, then set about
scaling them.
The effort proved another unwelcome reminder of age. He used a diagonal as a foothold but the railings were high and when he heaved himself up to the spikes he found them too close to get his
foot comfortably between them. It was a struggle to get both legs up and swing them over while turning and jumping. He landed heavily but, so far as he could see, unnoticed. Opening the umbrella
and holding it so that he was shielded from the left, he walked rapidly towards Trafalgar Square. At what appeared to be the dead end of Carlton House Terrace were steps down to Spring Gardens and
the Mall, which formed a useful surveillance trap. Unless a team was already deployed ahead covering every option, anyone following would have to come down the steps to see which way he went, while
he watched unobserved from the underground car park. No-one came and so, still shielded by his borrowed umbrella, he headed for Charing Cross underground.
At Euston he bought a return ticket to Milton Keynes, the stop beyond Tring, Sonia’s station. She normally reached it at about seven, he remembered her saying. He got off at Tring at
six-thirty. It was easy enough to wait in the dark as if for his lift home, while watching who came and went in the car park. At least he could be sure that everyone who got off with him had left
the station.
She drove a Toyota Landcruiser, used for transporting children and the generations of rescued dogs she and her husband collected. When Charles had worked with her on the Russian desk, after
their operational outing to Paris and following their postings to Geneva, he used to confuse the names of dogs and children, but now the children had left home. He had called on her shortly after
starting with the SIA but couldn’t remember what she’d said they were doing. Something professional, both of them; she had steered them away from the re-shaped intelligence
profession.
There were two Landcruisers in the car park, one of them new. He stood behind the other and watched the next train disgorge its hunched figures, picking her out as, head down, she hurried
through the rain towards him. When she unlocked the car he jumped in the back, crouching on the floor by the seat.
She gasped.
‘It’s okay, it’s me,’ he said. ‘Just drive on. ‘I’ll explain when we’re out of the car park.’
Once they were clear and the interior lights had gone out he sat up.
‘God, you made me jump’, she said. ‘I’m getting too old for this sort of thing and you’ll be covered in dog hairs. What’s going on, what are you doing?
Where’ve you been the past two days? I tried ringing your flat and then a notice came round saying that anyone who had contact with you was to report it.’
‘Nigel Measures had me arrested.’
‘What for?’
‘Allegedly for leaking to the press. In fact, to stop me finding Gladiator.’
They drove to a pub where, over her mineral water and his Guinness, he explained.
‘Measures must be off his head,’ she said. ‘Manic. Getting Gladiator to go back was a death sentence. But if he is here now – regardless of whether he’s al-Samit or
not – why would Nigel want to find him? I can see why he’d want you off the scene but better let sleeping dogs lie, surely? If Gladiator’s never heard of again, so much the better
for Nigel.’
‘Of course. But his removal of me only half worked, and now I’m out of his control and with more reason than ever to want to find Gladiator. That must be why he put me under
surveillance, and it’s why I didn’t ring you. Also, he might suspect that I suspect he’s the source of the James Wytham leaks. As I do.’
She glanced round the near-empty bar. ‘You’re sure you’re clean now?’
‘Sure as I can be.’
‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘Have another drink.’
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. Stephen’s away and I’ve got hungry dogs to feed.’
‘I want you to find things out for me. But it could cost you your job.’
‘Maybe I will have that drink.’
He described what he wanted. She was silent for a while, then shrugged and said, ‘Well, early retirement beckons and if there’s a chance of nailing Measures after all these years
it’s worth it. Anyway,’ – she toyed with her empty glass – ‘I want to help.’
He was surprised by the depth of his own relief. He wouldn’t have been able to do it without her. ‘I don’t know that I can ever adequately thank you. You do appreciate the
risk? It’s more than just your job, if Nigel’s behaviour so far is anything to go by.’
‘Of course I do. Just thank me. That’ll be enough. Come on, I haven’t much time. What do you want and how should we communicate? This is fun. Like real spying again.’
T
hey communicated during the following fortnight mostly by dead letter box, meeting only once in the flesh. Both knew enough of intercept
capabilities not even to consider electronic means. Despite her defiant willingness, Charles was as keen to spare her the taint of friendship with him as to hear what she could find out.