by Tom Bradby
15
IF IAN GENUINELY saw himself as the next C, Kate thought he was going a strange way about getting there. Even by his own standards, his outfit for the breakfast meeting at the foreign secretary’s grand stucco residence on Carlton House Terrace was eccentric. He’d grown his hair long so that his blond curls tumbled over the collar of a shirt that might have been appropriate for an evening in the Caribbean. His black jeans were ripped above the knee, his ubiquitous suede Chelsea boots scuffed and dirty, as if he had walked there across a field. He wore a black cardigan, half done up to lend his cry for attention – or possibly help – an air of vague respectability.
Perhaps he thought he was James Bond. This certainly appeared to be the message he was conveying to the foreign secretary, of a man too busy, important and, frankly, dangerous to bother with the conventional Whitehall dress code.
What was more surprising was the way Suzy was watching him. Even while he warmed them up, as they waited for the foreign secretary, with the story of his last Ironman event – he had done many and could talk about them at vast length – she barely took her eyes off him. My God, Kate thought, there really is no accounting for taste.
Sir Alan stood with his back to them, looking out over the Mall. Kate thought he held his emotional pain in his upper body as if it were a physical affliction, which she supposed in the end it was. She tried to think of something that might comfort or distract him, but he seemed far removed from everything around him, as if he was preparing to make the journey to the other side with his wife.
As a superior, she reflected, he had always been broadly supportive: encouraging when she got it right, steely when she screwed up. She was far from beyond wanting to please him. For a moment, she thought of how it would be if Ian managed to claw his way into Sir Alan’s chair. Intolerable, really. Unimaginable. She’d have to quit. But now that her family was supported by her salary alone, what, exactly, would she do?
Their ‘breakfast’, which consisted of croissants and other pastries, fruit salad, orange juice and two large pots of coffee, lay untouched in the centre of the table and as Ian droned on and wretchedly on about his training regime – ‘You have to cycle for two hours before dawn or you never get enough in’ – Kate had to restrain herself from getting stuck in. It was hardly a scientific revelation that chronic sleep deprivation left one absolutely ravenous.
Meg Simpson stormed in like a thundercloud. She didn’t bother to wish any of them good morning. And more pressingly, from Kate’s point of view, she did not show any inclination to reach for the pastries or even the coffee. Kate weighed the social acceptability of opening the score.
C hadn’t bothered to join them at the table. ‘Would you care to join us, Sir Alan?’ Simpson asked, with more edge than the situation appeared to demand. Kate wondered if she knew of his wife’s illness. He did as he was asked, looked at Kate and, as if reading her mind, reached for the coffee and a pastry. She mouthed her thanks and he allowed himself a smile.
‘Sir Alan has briefed me,’ Simpson said.
‘It was an excellent operation, conducted with the utmost professionalism,’ Ian offered, ‘but I hold to my initial view that—’
‘I am well aware of your views,’ Simpson shot back. Ian’s face reddened. It occurred to Kate that if Ian was Viper, or some other agent working for the SVR or the GRU or any other arm of the Russian state, he was not subtle in covering his tracks. Simpson shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. She stared at the coffee pot in front of her. ‘I do not find myself willing as yet to write the letter you say you need, or to set in train the actions it would instigate, or deal with the consequences that might arise.’
They waited for her to elaborate.
‘You may be inclined to view that as political cowardice. I would prefer to see it as caution.’
‘The difference is academic,’ Sir Alan said. ‘We are not interested in motive, only conclusion.’
Now it was her turn to look stung. ‘I am aware that this is not what you wanted to hear.’
‘We have a bounden duty here that is not, I think, in question.’
‘I disagree. Our greatest duty is to preserve the integrity of our democracy, which, I am afraid, includes an essential belief in it.’
‘It’s hard to think of anything that would erode it more swiftly than the idea that we all sat here knowing the prime minister was working for our mortal enemy, not to mention his past actions, and resolved to do nothing about it.’
‘But that is where all this falls down for me. Upon reflection, and taking into account what you’ve told me, I don’t think I do yet believe that.’
‘Kate has watched the video, in full, revolting detail, an act of conscientious duty in itself. She is not in any doubt that it is genuine.’
‘I understand that. I have always found our prime minister’s personal morals repellent, though even I did not believe he would sink this low. But the fact that he is a profligate adulterer – even in this repellent way – does not de facto prove he is a Russian spy. And if we were to go ahead and accept this defection, we would be destroying him.’
‘We have a former head of the SVR – or at least his son – categorically stating that they recruited James Ryan to work for the Russian government while he was serving in Kosovo and that they used this video and enormous cash payments, the details of which they will bring with them, to blackmail and induce him.’
It occurred to Kate that she had never asked Mikhail if the video had been sufficient of itself to turn James Ryan, but the conversation was moving too fast now. ‘This is my point,’ Ian said. ‘What if the Russians are just using this to destroy the prime minister and cause maximum possible chaos and disruption to our political system?’
Normally a master of self-control, Sir Alan visibly struggled to maintain it. He stared at Ian with barely concealed disdain. Kate glanced at Suzy, who had the good sense to remain silent. She wasn’t looking at Ian with quite the same admiration now.
‘I’ll be honest,’ Simpson said. ‘What really troubles me here is the context. In the very first briefing note to me on this matter, you made very clear that you were not aware of any putsch within the SVR, the GRU, or at the apex of any other part of the Russian political system. This news has come out of nowhere.’
‘That is because we very rarely get a break at this level. We’re being offered an unprecedented opportunity that we cannot in all conscience turn down.’
‘But isn’t it just a bit too convenient?’ Ian asked, all innocence once again.
‘We lose nothing by proceeding. We have to give two people, who mean nothing to the public at large, asylum. Once they are here, we can all assess the video and the evidence of bank payments for ourselves. If we do not believe them to be genuine, we argue they came here under false pretences and act as we see fit.’
‘Except they will have a letter with my name on it. What would be our explanation for why I wrote it if we decided this offer was not genuine? I’d look naïve at best, downright stupid at worst. The prime minister would be livid that I had even entertained the idea and I wouldn’t blame him.’
Sir Alan shook his head curtly. ‘You have no choice, ma’am, I am afraid.’
It was Meg Simpson’s turn to redden. She didn’t like to be lectured by anyone, but she was on shaky ground and she knew it. ‘I’m not saying I won’t write the letter and authorize this operation, just that I need more. If you can find further detail on the context, on what is really going on in Moscow, then I would feel a great deal more confident. Has there really been a putsch? If you can confirm there has, without equivocation, then I guarantee I will sign that letter.’
To Kate, this information seemed theoretical at best, irrelevant at worst, and she could see Sir Alan felt the same, though he chose to internalize his anger, in front of the group at least. He stayed behind as she, Suzy and Ian filed out.
They didn’t speak until they were on the Mall. Suzy ordered a taxi and Ian let her climb i
n before he turned to Kate. ‘Do you fancy walking back?’
Her head was so paralysed now with sleep deprivation, coffee and the strange tension of that meeting that she had already decided as much. Not that she would normally have welcomed Ian’s company.
It was a lot warmer that morning, the daffodils blooming in St James’s Park, which was more or less deserted. They were level with the great expanse of Horse Guards Parade before Ian finally blurted out what was on his mind. ‘Have you spoken to her?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘Julie, of course!’
‘About what?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Kate.’
She tried to think of any subject she less wanted to discuss with him. ‘What was that all about?’ she asked, gesturing back to the foreign secretary’s residence behind them.
‘You know what it was about,’ he said. ‘The Russians love playing games and sooner or later we need to stop responding. I just don’t agree with you and Alan on that, but it’s an honest difference of opinion and I’m perfectly entitled to express my views, convenient or not. Isn’t that his mantra? “We are not here to agree”?’
‘This is different and you know it.’
‘You both think it is. But I’m less certain. I don’t blame her for her caution. You’ll probably get your letter, whether it’s a good idea or not, but she’s just covering her arse. I don’t see any harm in making us go through the hoops.’
‘We have a week at most until the offer disappears – perhaps to a rival, who may be in a position to embarrass us.’
‘Everyone else will have exactly the same reservations, Kate. All Alan has to do is write a moderately convincing brief and you’ll have your letter. And she’s right to question it – even you can’t deny this has all come out of the blue. Have we heard a single other source talk about a coup in Moscow Centre? Don’t you think we would have seen some other reporting of it?’
‘Not necessarily. You know how long it takes for news of any change at the top in Moscow to leak. Besides, I have seen the video.’
‘If it’s real.’
Kate could see further argument was pointless. She turned her attention to a group of Japanese tourists feeding the ducks. The enthusiasm of their children, their joy, was briefly distracting.
‘Besides,’ Ian continued, ‘don’t change the subject. Have you talked to her?’
‘About what exactly?’
‘Us, of course! Jesus, Kate, you can be wilfully dense sometimes.’
‘What aspect of “us” would you like to discuss?’
‘She won’t return my calls.’ Ian stopped and faced her. Kate noticed that the chest hair that poked out from his open-necked shirt in tufts was grey now. He suddenly looked older, too. Not that she could talk. ‘This is serious, Kate.’
‘What is?’
‘I’m in love with her, goddamn it.’
Kate did not know whether to laugh or cry. She felt as if she was being hollowed out from the inside with exhaustion and nervous tension, and here was this absurd man-child pouring out his heart – and to her, of all people. ‘You’ll have to talk to her, Ian. I really can’t help you.’
‘But you’re her friend. She trusts you.’
‘I’m also her boss and you’re mine, so this conversation feels inappropriate on any number of levels.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Don’t be a prig. I just told you I loved her. This isn’t some wretched office fling. I care—’
‘But that is exactly how she sees it. I’m fairly sure it was just sex for her. She’s told me that often enough.’ Ian looked as if she had slapped him across the face. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Isn’t that what most extra-marital affairs are supposed to be about?’
‘No! Jesus . . .’ Ian was clearly bewildered. ‘What do you mean, just sex?’
‘Oh, come on, Ian. This is like talking to one of my teenagers.’ Much too like, Kate wanted to add. ‘Julie is a very tough and, if we’re being honest, somewhat damaged young woman. She has many demons to slay, which I’m sure she’ll manage to do in her own good time. She was having an affair with you because it came without baggage. Your declaration of undying love is the last thing she wants to hear.’
‘Damaged?’
‘Her mother! You must know that her mother abandoned them when she was still a child?’ He seemed mystified. ‘And her brother?’ Kate added.
‘He was killed, yes . . .’
‘On that bus on 7/7. They’d had an argument. She was more or less a mother to him and she blames herself because he skipped school that day.’
‘But that’s why I love her. She’s complicated . . . interesting.’
‘You have a wife, Ian.’
‘Had! I must be the only man in the country whose calls are rejected by both wife and mistress. It’s absurd!’
Kate thought that probably took them to the nub of the matter. Only Ian could mistake a bruised ego for a broken heart. ‘I have to get back,’ she said.
‘I’ll see you there. I’m just going to drown myself in the pond.’
‘You’ll have a job,’ Kate said. She walked on through St James’s Park, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. It was still early. Civil servants were arriving for work in a steady stream at the front entrance of the Treasury building. She skirted Parliament Square and walked on down towards Millbank, past a group of Kurdish protesters demonstrating against the depredations of the Turkish state outside the House of Commons.
She joined the morning rush through the space-age security pods at the front entrance to the SIS building and exchanged small-talk in the lifts until she reached her floor. Julie was waiting for her, and no sooner had Kate run through the essentials of the meeting with Meg Simpson than Julie was bringing her back to her least favourite subject of the moment. ‘What is wrong with him?’ Julie asked.
‘I assume you mean our boss?’
‘He keeps pestering me, day and night. I’m going to have to report him to HR if this goes on. And I really don’t want to do that – for either of our sakes.’
‘He just declared to me his undying love for you in St James’s Park.’
‘To you?’
‘Try not to make that sound like an insult.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. You can’t stand the man.’
‘True. I can think of people he would more logically choose to confide in.’
Julie left with a departing shot at her former lover: ‘He’s a total idiot.’ Kate almost replied that she could have told her friend that, and had, but she managed to swallow her words. She closed the door and watched Julie walk across to her station on the other side of the office. Kate closed the blind, sat at her desk and logged on to her computer. She shut her eyes, fatigue overwhelming her.
Her phone buzzed and, for a surprising moment, her heart skipped at the thought it might be Stuart. Ian’s declaration of love for Julie had reminded her of the early days of Stuart’s courtship at Cambridge, when he had refused to take no for an answer. But it was C: One p.m. at Grumbles restaurant, Pimlico.
It wasn’t a request, much less an invitation. He could be Olympian in his detachment, though as he nursed his wife in her death throes he had more than excuse enough.
Kate slipped the phone into her pocket. Why had she thought it might be Stuart? And why had her heart skipped a beat at the prospect?
Comfortable, comforting Stuart: she was conscious again of missing him and the steady to and fro of everyday domestic interaction. But it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Why had he thrown all that away for a few nights in bed with Imogen Conrad? For the rest of her days that would make her feel about two feet tall.
16
IT WAS THE kind of instinct born of long experience, but it took Kate some time to be sure.
She walked on up Belgrave Road as planned and turned into Churton Street. She passed the blue awning of Grumbles and carried on towards C’s house in Churton Place. It was bright now, the sky a clear and vivid blu
e. The customers of a café called the Roasting were sitting at small metal tables outside, their faces turned towards the sun.
Kate stopped at a flower shop just beyond it and lost herself in there for a moment or two, as if killing time.
She emerged again and, without looking back, walked on beyond Churton Place and turned left into the street market in the pedestrian section. The vendors mostly sold food and she drifted past their stalls, picking up some vegetables and fruit to test their quality and bending closer to smell some of the cheese on the trestle at the end.
She quickened her pace, heading towards Victoria, but it took her until she was on the other side of the station to be absolutely sure she was right. She had come up the escalator to the small shopping mall on the first floor and now doubled back. Almost immediately – coming up on the opposite escalator – she saw the young Indian man in a grey T-shirt and leather jacket she had first spotted as she had turned from Lupus Street into Belgrave Road.
Kate went into WHSmith and bought a copy of The Times.
She walked across the station concourse, then swung quickly right on to Wilton Road. As she passed Rosa’s Thai Café – inexplicably another of C’s favourite local restaurants – she saw the girl with the green chinos and brown pumps.
Kate didn’t break her stride. She went to a café called Pimlico Fresh at the end of Wilton Road and ordered a latte. She took it to a vacant seat outside and looked up and down the street to see if she could make out any more of her watchers.
She wasn’t in much doubt as to who they were or what they were doing, but she wanted a few moments to think about it. She had toyed with the idea that the men and women following her might be Russians, but she had dismissed it. Unless Moscow’s operational teams had made epic strides in their ability to assimilate convincingly into a London scene, it was not conceivable. Besides, why on earth would the Russians want to follow her to lunch?
Kate took out her phone and called Suzy. Her deputy answered straight away. ‘When were you thinking of telling me you’ve put a tail on me?’
