by Tom Bradby
‘I thought the PM looked bone tired the other day,’ Stuart said. ‘Maybe his wife will force him to quit.’
‘When do they ever do that?’ Harry asked. He was on his third gin and tonic already, and had taken to tugging his corduroy jacket as tightly as possible over his belly, a nervous gesture that gave away a preoccupation with his swelling girth. Imogen had already shot him a few warning glances, though she herself had had a couple of glasses of red wine.
‘You haven’t heard any rumours about his health?’ Kate asked.
Imogen frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Something I picked up. Crossed wires, probably.’
‘Well, you would know.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘What’s supposed to be wrong with him?’
‘There were just rumours he might not be in the best of health. I wondered if you’d heard them.’
‘No, but—’
Their waitress passed the table and Imogen stuck out her hand so far it almost blocked her progress. ‘Could we have that bottle of red wine sometime in the next decade? I’ve asked a couple of times already.’
The waitress stammered an apology. Harry stared uncomfortably into his glass as she departed.
Imogen locked her sights on Kate again. ‘I mean specifically. What did you hear?’
‘That he hadn’t been well.’
‘In what way?’
Kate shrugged. ‘No more than that.’
‘I mean flu or fatigue – or something more serious?’
‘I honestly don’t know any more.’
‘C’mon, Kate. You know everything.’
‘Leave it, love,’ Harry said. ‘It’s probably one of those things Kate can’t talk about, and we shouldn’t press her.’ He winked at Kate. ‘However much we might want to.’
The waitress came back with the second bottle of red wine. She seemed nervous – Imogen did that to people – and a slightly clumsy twist of the bottle after filling her glass left a couple of spots on the frilly cuff of Imogen’s shirt.
‘For God’s sake!’ she exploded.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the waitress spluttered, her gaze transfixed on the two red dots on the cream material as if they were blood. ‘I’ll get a cloth … some salt maybe …’
‘No!’ Imogen barked. ‘This is a McQueen, for fuck’s sake.’
The waitress brought a salt shaker from the neighbouring table and Imogen snatched it away from her, then insisted on seeing the manager and explaining loudly that it was a designer shirt. He looked as confused by the significance of this as Stuart might have been, but promised to pay for it to be expertly cleaned or replaced. He said he wouldn’t charge them for the evening’s wine.
Harry made one attempt to intervene, but was swiftly silenced and reduced to staring into his drink. Stuart offered his boss discreet support, tut-tutting once or twice, then adding, ‘Hopeless,’ and ‘Ridiculous,’ for good measure. Kate couldn’t think of any other situation in which Stuart would have behaved like that: he hated rudeness. But when Imogen shone her light on people, she could do no wrong.
After the drama had played out, Stuart and Imogen were drawn back to work chat, which left Kate wondering whether Imogen had behaved so oddly because she really didn’t know about the PM’s illness, or because she did. Perhaps it was just her driving ambition, which was aroused at the slightest scent of a rival’s blood in the water. But Kate had a strong sense that Imogen would be a very good liar.
And good liars made good spies.
Kate closed her eyes. It was the curse of the case officer to be able to see every possibility in the most nuanced detail.
Kate and Harry listened to their spouses half-heartedly, chipping in about holiday plans and kitchen extensions until, after the main course, Stuart excused himself. Kate noticed he took his phone – the digital detox agreed the month before was going well then – and returned ashen-faced.
‘Fuck me, Kate, sounds like you were spot on. The PM is about to make an emergency statement. Robert Peston tweeted that he thinks he’s going to resign.’ Stuart handed Kate his phone and she passed it around the group. There was a stupefied silence.
‘At almost ten o’clock at night?’ Imogen said.
‘Somebody must have been about to break the story,’ Stuart said.
‘I think he’s got cancer,’ Kate murmured. She looked at Imogen. ‘That was the rumour.’
‘You do know everything,’ Imogen gushed, but Kate thought her expression was more guarded than impressed.
They paid quickly and hurried to Harry and Imogen’s, only two streets away. On the television screen, Robert Peston was standing in front of a podium outside Number Ten Downing Street. The prime minister had been hoping to go on for some time, he said, but a sharp deterioration in his condition had forced a snap decision.
No sooner had he said that than the prime minister emerged from the iconic front door. His tall and beautiful wife stood beside him. They held hands for a moment before he began. ‘I’m sorry to bring you here at this late hour,’ he said, ‘but news I received earlier today has forced my hand.
‘I was diagnosed with prostate cancer three weeks ago. I had hoped that it could be effectively treated, and that I would be able to carry on with my work more or less uninterrupted, happy to be cared for by the brilliant staff of the best healthcare system in the world. However, though hope is by no means lost, the news I received today was less encouraging.
‘I thought about taking a break from the business of government for a short period but …’ he looked across to the media scrum that had been quickly assembled before him ‘… after talking it over with my staff and my family this evening, it was evident to me that this is not practicable. The country can never have a part-time prime minister, for whatever reason, and I would be letting you all down if I were to attempt it.
‘I’m sorry again to have brought you here so late, but I was warned rumours might start to circulate and I wanted you to hear this from me. It has been a great privilege to serve my country, by which, of course, I mean all of you. I hope I will be able to do so again in some capacity, but for now, from this office at least, it is goodbye.’
He took his wife’s hand once more. Tears were running down her cheeks. He waved to the cameras and led her back inside.
‘Shit,’ Stuart said.
‘Oscar-winning,’ Harry said.
Stuart turned to Imogen. ‘Are you going to stand? You have to! James will be on the phone already.’
Imogen looked shell-shocked, which was more or less how Kate felt. She glanced at an incoming message from Rav. Bingo, it said, with an excitement she couldn’t match. She disappeared to the loo, closed the door and sat, elbows on her knees, while she messaged back: Now what do we do?
His response arrived via WhatsApp. Focus on who runs. Investigate (the foreign secretary first, but the rest too, INCLUDING Imogen). Return to source operation and see what more we can get. And let’s not forget ‘Viper’. Why might he/she be in a position to help? PS Your call, but think we’ll have to bring in 5. I know Pete Gibbs. Smart.
Kate put the phone into her pocket. Pete Gibbs headed up a highly secret unit at the heart of MI5, tasked with investigating all attempts to infiltrate British public life. Rav was probably right, but Kate intrinsically disliked widening the circle of knowledge. No matter how tight the procedures and how careful the intentions, it would become harder to shield the original source of the intelligence. She had promised Lena she wouldn’t put her at risk, and she had every intention of sticking to that pledge, even if she hadn’t yet stepped in to shield the girl’s sister.
In the taxi home, Stuart was pretty high on the night’s events. ‘She’ll win.’
‘She’ll run him close, but she won’t win.’
‘She’s young, she’s telegenic, she’s smart. Take a look at the polls. The fall-off in support for the government amid the under-thirties has been calamitous, and she’s the only one who stands a
chance of winning them another election.’
‘She’s all of those things, but they won’t endear her to the party rank and file.’
‘Well, I think you’re wrong, wrong, wrong.’
‘We’ll see.’
By the time they got home Gus was asleep, but Fiona was still poring over her computer. ‘I heard the news,’ she said, when Kate looked in. ‘Poor guy.’
‘Somehow we never expect someone in such a position of power to be struck down by something so ordinary.’
‘It sounded like he’s about to die.’
‘It did rather, didn’t it?’
‘His wife was crying a river. What’s he like?’
‘Decent enough. When push comes to shove, the sort of man you want to have in a job like that.’ Kate moved over to kiss her daughter.
‘I was back on time,’ Fiona said defensively.
‘I’m sure.’
‘He’s not the boy you think he is.’
Kate sat on the bed. ‘He’s just much older than you, love.’
‘You mean he has loads of ink and piercings.’
‘I don’t want to have another argument. I just urge you to be careful and go very slowly.’
‘You mean about sex?’
‘Sex with him would be rape, so that is not a good idea.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t be rape!’
‘Statutory rape. You’re a long way from sixteen. He would go to jail, which is not something either of you would be happy about.’
‘No one would know.’
Kate took Fiona’s hand. ‘I’m not trying to imprison you. I’m just trying to look out for your best interests. I’m not going to discuss sex because you’re too young for that. If you’re still going out with him in a year’s time, perhaps it’s something we can talk about. If he waits that long, maybe he is the boy you think he is.’
Fiona pulled her hand away. ‘You have no idea how out of touch you are.’
‘I have to be in work early, so I may not see you in the morning. Have a good day.’
Kate went to take off her make-up, then brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. Stuart would normally be snoring by now, but he was wide awake. ‘You can’t beat a bit of political intrigue,’ he said.
‘Hmm.’
‘And it would be quite exciting if our friend became the most powerful woman in the country.’
‘You’re forgetting the Queen.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘It would be complicated, that’s for sure.’
‘Do you think she’d ask me to go with her?’
‘I imagine so.’ Kate leant over and kissed his cheek. ‘Just make sure you don’t spill anything on her designer shirt.’ She rolled over. ‘Now go to sleep.’
He did, but she didn’t.
At least, not for long.
At two in the morning, she was woken by a vivid dream in which she discovered Lena’s mutilated body in a wood, signs of torture clearly visible on her face and neck, arms and breasts.
Kate sat up with a familiar feeling of panic in her chest. She got up, her body covered with sweat. She went to the window, drew back the curtain and looked down into the street. It was deserted. She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, as the psychotherapist had taught her, and after a while the panic began to subside. She went downstairs, made herself a cup of tea and sat on a stool alongside the kitchen island to drink it.
With a start she realized that Stuart was behind her. She swung around.
‘What is it?’ His voice was creased with worry.
‘Oh, same old.’
‘Work or home?’
‘We have someone out there, a young girl I recruited, not much older than Fiona. Our daughter is risking her virtue, but that girl is risking her neck – and the lack of balance was getting to me.’
‘I often think you have everything under control, but …’
Kate sighed. ‘Maybe it’s what happened in Lahore with Rav – or my mother, I don’t know. But the dread in the pit of my stomach is always the same.’
‘Have you seen your counsellor recently?’
‘Not for a few months. I thought it was getting better.’
‘You’re the most conscientious and careful woman I know so I’m totally sure you’re doing everything you can for the girl you have out there.’
‘I hope so, but she’s there because of me. That’s hard to get out of your head in the middle of the night.’
Stuart sighed. ‘We’ve talked about this. I know it’s an important job and you’re very good at it, but we agreed it’s not worth damaging your health. You have to be able to leave it locked inside that fortress. You can’t bring it home, and leave part of yourself behind. That’s not a good deal.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘If I can help, call me.’ He walked to the stairs.
‘You do help, my love. It’s not really the work but the sense of vulnerability that I can’t help bringing home,’ she said. ‘No brothers, no sisters, no father, no mother to speak of. Work is intellectual stimulation, God is a fantasy. In the balance sheet of my life at dead of night, it’s you, Gus and Fiona in the plus column. That’s it. Nothing else. Whatever may trigger it, it’s the fear of losing you all that brings on the dread.’
‘But we’re not going anywhere.’
‘How do we know what Fate will decree? My love for all of you is paralysing at times. If I didn’t know about the threats out there, I wouldn’t be so gripped by the need to man the barricades. But I do.’
‘I understand. Of course I do. But in the morning, I’ll still emerge from the duvet looking like a demented wild boar, as you have been known to suggest, Fiona will still be a hormonal teenager – though hopefully over her Swedish-porn-star phase – and Gus will still struggle to utter five words before breakfast. Normal transmission will continue. And we’ll live for the day, not for all time. Because that is what we all have to do.’
‘But in the middle of the night, I fear the threat rather than revel in the joy.’
‘You can’t protect us from life. And you’ll squeeze the humanity out of us if you try.’
‘I don’t want to protect you from life—’
‘You are not your mother, Kate. You’re not going to do what she did, and our family will not go the way of your own. Keep your anxiety locked away with her and with your work. Back here, you simply need to have faith in us.’
She smiled at him. ‘I know. I’ll be up in a minute.’
‘You’re a nutter,’ he said, and disappeared back to bed.
7
The following morning, the meeting with C was early enough to take place in his dining room on the top floor of MI6 Headquarters in Vauxhall. Kate rode the lift up and gave her overcoat to Beddows, the butler, who ushered her wordlessly into a cosy room with a dramatic view of Big Ben. If it was designed to convince guests that this was where real power rested at the heart of London’s innermost establishment, it could not have done a more successful job. Even the carpet seemed thicker than anywhere else in the building.
Sir Alan and Ian were already eating bacon and scrambled eggs. Rav was pushing some fruit and yoghurt around his plate. He never ate breakfast and rarely lunch. He was the archetypal night owl.
Beddows poured Kate some coffee. Sir Alan was already in full flow, and Rav was the beneficiary. ‘I see no reason to waste time drawing up a huge list of potential runners and riders for the leadership. We can assume that if one of them is a Russian agent, he or she will stand. So as each candidate declares they list themselves as a potential suspect. We can safely predict the foreign secretary will put himself forward, so you should begin your investigations there today. The same, too, I think, with Imogen Conrad. Since they effectively represent each wing of the party, they may end up as the only candidates.’
‘I still think we should wait and see if we can get some corroboration,’ Ian said. ‘If there’s any kind of leak, it’ll be hugely—’
‘We can’t wait. And there won’t
be a leak.’
‘We know the Russians. What if this is just another—’
‘We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. I’m well aware of that. But for now the greater danger is inaction.’ Sir Alan was glaring at him.
Kate caught Rav’s eye.
‘We’re not talking about a thin stream of intelligence from a single agent,’ Sir Alan went on. ‘We’re discussing a conversation involving the most senior officials in the SVR that we can all listen to and form a judgement on. We’d look ridiculous if it emerged we’d just sat on it.’
‘Rav suggested we bring in Pete Gibbs from Five,’ Kate said.
Ian responded like a scalded cat: ‘Out of the question.’
‘I understand your reluctance,’ Kate said, aware that Rav was still deploying his best poker face, ‘but are we not under an obligation to inform them?’
‘Yes,’ C said. ‘And indeed we will, in due course. But for now I want to keep the knowledge we have within this building. It’s our intelligence. We own it and we need to take care of it.’
‘Imogen Conrad stays on my list,’ Kate said, still trying to distance herself from the glimpse of egocentric volatility she had been treated to the previous evening.
‘Agreed. We should remain open to all possibilities. If Istanbul is an attempt to wrong-foot us, then it’s conceivable that she is their woman and the foreign secretary their enemy. More prosaically, we may need to provide evidence ourselves some day that we conducted our investigations in an even-handed manner from the receipt of that first intelligence.’
‘Any no-go areas?’
‘Run the slide rule over everything. Finances, relationships, sex lives. Conduct yourselves exactly as if you were assessing the vulnerability of a foreign agent to an approach. We can simply pass it off as routine positive vetting, brought forward as a result of this contest.’
‘But don’t get bloody caught doing it, all the same,’ Ian said.
‘That might be difficult.’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage, Kate,’ Ian said. ‘We all know how resourceful you can be.’
‘There is one other thing,’ C said, glossing over Ian’s waspishness. He tapped the file. ‘Viper can help, they said. So who is Viper?’
