Double Agent

by Tom Bradby

  Kate saw her chance and accelerated to fall into step naturally with her daughter. ‘I knew you were waiting to pounce,’ Fiona said.

  ‘That’s not kind.’

  ‘I had breakfast.’

  ‘Did you? I only saw coffee.’

  ‘I wasn’t hungry. I am eating.’

  At least she hadn’t said, It’s none of your business. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, changing tack.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Life. School. Jed. We don’t seem to discuss things as much as we used to.’

  ‘Jed’s lovely. I don’t deserve him.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh. He really loves you. And he’s right to.’

  ‘I don’t need a pep talk, Mum.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘What is it you want? Why don’t you just spit it out?’

  Kate felt unconscionably like bursting into tears. Was her daughter turning into her mother? ‘We haven’t really talked about how things were with your dad.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘Not in any meaningful detail.’

  ‘All right. What do you want to know? It was a bit shit. It was obviously a bit shit.’

  ‘Was it nice to see him?’

  ‘Of course. We still love him, even if you don’t.’

  ‘What did you chat about?’

  ‘School. Friends. Jed. How he was doing in Moscow. When we might see him again. Whether it would be possible to live with him . . .’

  Fiona had speeded up now, so that Kate had to jog a few steps to come back alongside her daughter. She could feel her throat constricting. ‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?’

  Fiona didn’t slacken her pace. Kate was forced to take hold of her arm and spin her around. She was confronted by five feet seven of pure teenage fury: a young woman who seemed unsure as to whether to spit at her mother or burst into tears. Or both. Kate knew exactly how she felt. ‘What do you mean, whether you could live with him?’

  ‘Exactly what I said.’

  Kate stared at her. She knew when Fiona was trying to provoke her and that she should not take the bait. ‘I’m going to forget you said that.’

  ‘Why? I meant it.’

  ‘I don’t think you did.’ Kate couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. ‘Not just because it’s grievously insulting, but because we both know it would be impossible.’

  ‘Why? I’m sixteen in two weeks’ time. Old enough to have sex. Officially. An adult. If I want to go and live with Dad in Russia, I don’t believe there’s anything you can legally do to stop me.’

  ‘That’s not true, as you should know. Anyway, what about your brother?’

  ‘He wants to come too. And he can, as soon as he’s old enough.’

  ‘And what about Jed?’

  Fiona’s face clouded. She didn’t have an answer to that one. Kate was tempted to press her advantage, but she held her tongue. You really didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to discern what was going on here. It was her job, as a mother, simply to suck it all up.

  Fiona hurried to join her boyfriend. When they returned to Simon and Rose’s house, Kate went upstairs to her bedroom and burst into tears. Again. Never in all her life had she felt so alone.

  9

  IF, FOR A contented mind, time is peace, then for a fevered one it’s precisely the opposite. The nearly five or so hours it took for Kate to return to London were close to torture. The worse she felt, the more she wondered what was wrong with her.

  C had promised a car would be waiting for her at Paddington. Kate got into it and closed her eyes for much of the journey down to Chevening, the foreign secretary’s country residence. She was only interrupted by a text from the education secretary, Imogen Conrad. Crazy times again, hon. You about?

  Kate had once enjoyed an artificial friendship with Imogen of the only kind one can with a husband’s boss. But the education secretary did not appear to think that being filmed having sex with Stuart and breaking up their marriage should be any kind of barrier to her future relationship with Kate. Using the pretext of having been appointed a governor at the children’s school, she had bombarded Kate with texts ever since the scandal broke.

  Kate mostly ignored her in what she hoped was a dignified way, but Imogen was insanely persistent and had a skin as thick as that of a rhinoceros. Can we chat? Imogen messaged, when she did not immediately reply. About bloody what? Kate was tempted to ask, but so far she’d held her tongue and was determined to continue to do so. Her dignity demanded she treat Imogen with the amoral vacuity she deserved.

  Hun? Imogen texted again. She had once been so annoyed with one of Stuart’s deputies in the Department of Education that she had suggested it would be easier to send around a message in a bottle. When he had been slow to respond to a subsequent text, Imogen had actually sent a message in a bottle. Stuart had thought that clever, sassy and really quite funny. Perhaps it was.

  Kate stared at her phone. Am in Cornwall with Rose and the kids, she lied.

  Assume you’ll be home tonight for school tomorrow. So can I pop around at 10 p.m., say?

  Kate didn’t answer. What was the point?

  She stared out of the window for the rest of the journey, trying to think about how she would manage the next two or three days. Rose could step in and look after the kids. She herself would take a sleeping pill tonight to make sure she finally got some rest. It was manageable. Of course it was.

  Before long, the car crunched across the smooth gravel and swept past a tinkling fountain to the front of the red-brick Palladian Inigo Jones mansion that was the weekend home of serving foreign secretaries.

  A uniformed member of staff ushered her into the grand hallway and showed her through to a small anteroom. She was surprised to find her new deputy waiting for her. ‘Suzy?’ she said.

  ‘The foreign secretary asked me to come along.’

  Kate was tempted to enquire as to how Meg Simpson had even known of Suzy’s existence, but she made a mental note instead to keep an even closer eye on her deputy. ‘Where is Sir Alan?’

  ‘I believe he’s in a meeting here already.’

  Kate sat down on a stiff-backed cream chair by the door. The Sunday newspapers were carefully laid out on a coffee-table in front of an empty fireplace. She picked up The Sunday Times and glanced over the front-page story. She’d intended to catch up on the train, but the tiny shop on Bodmin Parkway station had not yet stretched to newspapers. ‘Any read-out on the NATO summit beyond the headlines?’ she asked Suzy.

  ‘I only had a chance to speak to Sir Alan briefly on the way down here.’ Kate noted they had not offered to share a car with her and that Suzy appeared keen to underline the fact. ‘The read-out from the room is worse than the headlines. We’re looking at a total split in NATO. Germany, France, the Benelux countries, everyone on Europe’s eastern flank – in fact, pretty much everyone else – is keen to send reinforcements to Estonia, even if the crisis is receding. Washington and London insist that would be provocative.’

  Kate wondered if this fissure in NATO had been the true purpose of the entire episode. If the Russian president’s primary foreign-policy aim was to fatally divide his enemies, he was doing an exceptional job. He’d regained control in Syria, was busy attempting to hold the whip hand in Libya. Who knew where his ambitions really ended? ‘What does the foreign secretary have to say about it?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but I guess we’re about to find out.’

  The butler – if that was what he was – put his head around the door. ‘Mrs Henderson?’

  Suzy got up with Kate. The butler raised a hand and an eyebrow at her. ‘Just Mrs Henderson, please.’ He led Kate along the hallway to one of the drawing rooms, where the windows were open to the expansive gardens and a lake in the distance, illuminated now by a bright moon. Despite the chill breeze, there was a hint of spring in the smell of newly mown grass.

  Meg Simpson and Sir Alan sat opposite each other in stiff-backed c
hairs. There were gloomy old masters on the walls, an ornate white fireplace in front of them and a rich Afghani rug on the floor. As an image, Kate thought, it was every conspiracy theorist’s fantasy of how a British foreign secretary and the head of SIS might conduct their business.

  The foreign secretary, in particular, looked tired, as if the last few days had aged her considerably. ‘I’ve reviewed the files,’ she said, without introduction or small-talk. ‘And it’s my view that we should proceed to the next stage of this operation. You have the offer to meet Mr Borodin’s son in Berlin?’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am. I’ve suggested Tuesday at ten a.m.’

  ‘What would it involve?’

  ‘In terms of resources?’

  ‘If you could just give me an outline . . . I’m not familiar with how such operations work.’

  Kate glanced at Sir Alan as she tried to assess what was really being requested here. No minister she’d dealt with before had wanted to know the nuts and bolts of such a relatively simple operation. ‘I would go with one or both of my deputies as back-up. Then we’d have a team on the ground to conduct the requisite covert surveillance, just to ensure that neither side was being watched or followed and that the meeting would be able to take place in relative security and secrecy.’

  ‘Will you be in a position to assess . . . to see the material?’

  ‘You mean the kompromat video, ma’am?’

  ‘The alleged kompromat, yes.’

  ‘That is essentially the purpose of the meeting. As I’m sure Sir Alan has outlined, the potential defection of the former head of one of Russia’s main intelligence agencies is highly unusual, not to say unheard-of, and down the line will require enormous effort, expenditure and a great many resources on our part. They will come to the meeting with the material. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘It’s the unusual-bordering-on-unheard-of bit that bothers me.’

  ‘But that is why it’s important I see the material firsthand. Once we’ve assessed it, we’ll be in a position to say whether the defection is a risk worth running. But if they’re prepared to bring us evidence that the Russians have been blackmailing our prime minister, I think it’s a chance we must take.’

  Simpson stared at the empty fireplace. The decisive air she’d cultivated at the start of the meeting seemed to have dissipated in Kate’s discussion of the detail. ‘You have my permission to go to the next stage,’ she said finally. ‘But no further. Assess the material, then let us speak again immediately.’

  Kate realized she was expected to answer. ‘Of course, ma’am. I’ll come in to brief you as soon as I’m off the plane, although . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mikhail will want to know for sure whether we’re prepared to offer his father and family sanctuary.’

  ‘That’s what we’ll decide once you’ve assessed it.’

  ‘He will almost certainly want an answer on the spot. And we may lose them if I can’t give him that assurance.’

  ‘Lose them to whom?’

  ‘Another foreign intelligence service. The French, the Germans. Perhaps even the Americans. And they will know we turned Mikhail and his father down.’

  The foreign secretary evidently didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Very well. Say what you need to say. We can always change our minds at a later date.’

  ‘That isn’t how we do business.’

  Simpson looked up sharply. ‘These people are sharks. I won’t be lectured on morality by them, thank you very much.’ That wasn’t what Kate meant and both women knew it, but she let it go. ‘If the material is legitimate, we will almost certainly go ahead with the exchange, repugnant as it may be. But we will take one step at a time.’ She rang the bell and waited for the butler. Rather like the Queen, Kate thought, but didn’t say. ‘Could you bring Suzy in?’ Simpson asked.

  Suzy, Kate noted. Not Miss Spencer, or even Suzy Spencer. Just Suzy. They were clearly better acquainted than she’d imagined, but the question was how and why? Kate tried to catch Sir Alan’s eye, but he was staring out of the window at the moonlight.

  Suzy walked crisply in. ‘Foreign Secretary, Sir Alan,’ she said, nodding at each in turn. She sat. She was dressed in a tailored dark suit and a white shirt: a model of cool professionalism. Kate glanced down at her weathered trousers and scuffed brown suede flats. Perhaps she should have made more of an effort.

  Suzy took a folder from her shoulder bag and placed it on the walnut coffee-table. It sat there like an unspoken accusation.

  ‘Tea, coffee, a drink?’ Simpson asked.

  ‘No, thank you, Foreign Secretary.’

  They waited. Suzy was enjoying her moment in the ministerial limelight. ‘Get on with it, Miss Spencer,’ Sir Alan said.

  Suzy glanced at Kate nervously. Whatever she was doing, perhaps she was having second thoughts. ‘I’ve been looking at the Operation Sigma file. It was extraordinarily well conceived and carried through, so none of this is meant to be a criticism in any way, but rather a reflection of the fact that we all know some things are bound to be overlooked in the heat of the moment.’ Kate kept her eyes on her new deputy. ‘I agree with Kate’s analysis that many of the facts do fit the idea that her husband, Stuart, was Viper. While he did not know the details of the original operation in Istanbul, he was aware that it was a significant success and he clearly had some general idea of what it was about.’

  Kate could feel her face reddening. In reality, Suzy was protecting her here, since she had clearly worked out her boss had been somewhat economical in the file as to how much she had shared with Stuart.

  ‘So, assuming Stuart passed on to his controllers the fact that Kate was returning to Greece to continue with the operation, that might well have been enough for Moscow to swing into action and put a team on her tail. Until this point, Stuart as Viper adds up.’

  She flipped open the file and handed around some sheets stapled together. ‘I’ve run a precise spot check on Rav’s phone for the last twenty-four hours of his life, including the time he was in Geneva investigating the lawyer with close links to the Kremlin. As you can see from this timeline, there was virtually no activity. He was entirely off the grid. There is the call to the Guardian journalist, which Kate reported. I have spoken to the journalist in question directly. He seems a pretty straight guy and insists Rav just wanted the lawyer’s name and told him nothing of what he was up to. He insists he spoke to no one about it and I’m inclined to believe him. Then there is the incoming call from Kate while Rav was in Geneva. After that, there are no calls and no spikes in any kind of electronic activity, save for here, at around six p.m. I think that’s the message that Kate also logged in the file.’

  Kate handed her sheets back to Suzy. The others followed suit, as they contemplated their contents in silence.

  ‘I’d also say Rav strikes me as much too experienced and talented an officer to have breached operational security in any significant way,’ Suzy added.

  ‘Perhaps he was followed,’ Simpson said.

  Kate glanced at Suzy, who waited for her to answer. ‘That kind of surveillance requires a great deal of manpower, ma’am. And, as Suzy says, Rav was experienced enough to have taken anti-surveillance measures and to have reported any activity back to us in London.’

  ‘So someone knew what he was up to in Geneva and tipped off the Russians?’ Simpson said. She was looking directly at Kate.

  ‘It looks that way, yes.’

  ‘And it could not have been your husband?’

  ‘That’s correct, ma’am.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m surprised these questions were not asked before,’ Suzy said. They all turned towards her. Even Simpson was frowning at what felt like a gratuitous twist of the knife. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ Now it was her turn to redden.

  ‘Who knew enough of what Rav was doing to tip off the Russians?’ Simpson asked.

  ‘Chiefly me,’ Kate said.

  ‘I knew,’ Sir Alan added. ‘So did Ian and Julie.’


  ‘Just the four of you?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  Kate stared at the floor. My God, she wished Operation Sigma had never darkened her door. Nothing good had come of it, nothing at all. Kate wondered if Sir Alan would mention that the Russians seemed to have been tipped off about Estonia as well, but he must have decided that discretion was the better part of valour and she was not about to argue with him.

  ‘Well, we can’t pretend this is anything but uncomfortable,’ Simpson said.

  ‘My colleagues in Five will certainly want to know why these questions weren’t asked before,’ Suzy said.

  Sir Alan looked at her. ‘You are a very clever and ambitious woman, Miss Spencer, but you are in danger of overplaying your hand here, if I may say so.’ Sir Alan’s voice was at its most acid. ‘We did not involve our colleagues at Five because we wanted to protect our operational integrity and the security of its ultimate source, Lena Sabic, the au pair we recruited to bug Igor’s super-yacht. Once the operation was complete, we had no reason to believe anyone other than Stuart was Viper.’ He glanced at Meg Simpson, before turning to Suzy and leaning forward to emphasize his point. ‘Your logic makes several fairly enormous leaps. We have never determined who killed Rav or why. Perhaps it was the Russians, but it may have been someone else entirely, for motives we have not yet uncovered.’

  ‘The file makes it clear you thought it was the Russians,’ Suzy said tartly. She did not look as if she was enjoying her ticking off.

  ‘Supposition and fact are two entirely different things. We don’t know what Rav was up to. He was off the grid and not following orders from anyone here. Perhaps he met someone we are not aware of, or made a call using a landline. Or it may just be that the Russians had the lawyer or his assistant under surveillance.’

  ‘I acknowledge all those possibilities, but I still think we should—’

  ‘Close this down now.’ Sir Alan smiled at her again. ‘We have bigger fish to fry. We are potentially being offered evidence that our prime minister is a traitor, who seeks to undermine our response to Russian aggression. Nothing is more serious than that, and we cannot allow anyone to stand in the way of pursuing this matter to its logical conclusion in Berlin over the next few days.’