‘Anastasia.’
‘So not Anette?’
‘It is immaterial.’
I grit my teeth and say nothing. After a while he resumes in the same patronizing tone.
‘Anastasia is a woman of considerable intelligence who is capable also of discussing physics without simplicity. I described her in detail to your debriefers. You appear to be ignorant of this information.’
It was true. He had described Anastasia. Just not in such precise or glowing terms and certainly not as a future correspondent calling herself Anette. As far as the debriefers were concerned she was just another Moscow Centre apparatchik dropping in on sleeper school to burnish her image.
‘And you think the woman who called herself Anastasia at sleeper school personally wrote this letter to you?’
‘I am convinced.’
‘Only the under-text, or the surface letter too?’
‘Both. Anastasia has become Anette. This is a recognition signal to me. Anastasia our wise instructor from Moscow Centre has become Anette my passionate mistress in Copenhagen who does not exist. Also I am familiar with her handwriting. When Anastasia was lecturing us at sleeper school she advised us on European manners of handwriting without the influence of Cyrillic. Everything she taught us was for one purpose only: to assimilate with the Western enemy: “Over time you will become them. You will think like them. You will talk like them. You will feel like them and you will write like them. Only in your secret hearts will you remain one of us.” Like me, she too was from old Chekist family. Her father, also her grandfather. Of this she was very proud. After her last lecture to us she took me aside and told me: you will never know my name but you and I are of one blood, we are pure, we are old Cheka, we are Russia, I congratulate you with my soul on your great calling. She embraced me.’
Was this where the first faint echoes from my operational past began to ring in my memory’s ear? Probably it was, for my immediate instinct was to redirect the conversation:
‘What typewriter did you use?’
‘Only manual, Peter. I use nothing electronic. This is how we were instructed. Electronic is too dangerous. Anastasia, Anette, she is not electronic. She is traditional and wishes her students to be traditional also.’
Exercising well-honed skills of self-control, I affect to ignore Sergei’s obsession with the woman Anette or Anastasia and resume my reading of his decoded and translated under-text.
‘You are to rent a room or apartment for July and August in one of three selected districts around North London – yes? – which your controller – you say this former woman lecturer – then proceeds to itemize for you. Do these instructions suggest anything to you?’
‘It was how she taught us. In order to prepare a conspiratorial meeting it is essential to have alternative locations. Only in this way can logistical changes be accommodated and security observed. This is also her operational maxim.’
‘Have you ever been to any of these North London districts?’
‘No, Peter, I have not.’
‘When did you last visit London?’
‘For one weekend only in May.’
‘With whom?’
‘It is immaterial, Peter.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘A friend.’
‘Male or female?’
‘It is immaterial.’
‘So male. Has the friend got a name?’
No answer. I continue my reading:
‘While in London for the months of July and August you will assume the name of Markus Schweizer, a German-speaking Swiss freelance journalist, for which you will be provided with additional documentation. Do you know a Markus Schweizer?’
‘Peter, I know no such person.’
‘Have you ever used such an alias before?’
‘No, Peter.’
‘Never heard of one?’
‘No, Peter.’
‘Was Markus Schweizer the name of the friend you took to London?’
‘No, Peter. Also I did not take him. He accompanied me.’
‘But you speak German.’
‘I am adequate.’
‘Your debriefers said more than adequate. They said you were fluent. I’m more interested to know whether you have any explanation for Moscow’s instructions?’
I have lost him again. He has lapsed into an Ed-like contemplation, his gaze fixed on the teeming windscreen. Suddenly he has an announcement to make:
‘Peter, I regret that I am not able to be this Swiss person. I shall not go to London. It is a provocation. I resign.’
‘I’m asking you why Moscow should wish you to be the independent German-speaking freelance journalist Markus Schweizer for two months of summer in one of three selected districts of North-east London,’ I persist, ignoring this outburst.
‘It is in order to facilitate my murder. Such a deduction is clear to any mind familiar with Moscow Centre practice. Maybe not you. By providing Centre with an address in London I shall be sending them instructions regarding where and how to liquidate me. That is normal practice in the case of suspected traitors. It will be Moscow’s pleasure to select a most painful death for me. I shall not go.’
‘Bit of an elaborate way of going about it, isn’t it?’ I suggest, unmoved. ‘Dragging you to London just to kill you. Why not bring you to a deserted place like this, dig a hole, shoot you and put you in it? Then leak it to your friends in York that you’re safely home in Moscow and job done? Why aren’t you answering me? Is your change of heart in some way connected with the friend you won’t tell me about? The one you took to London? I have a feeling I’ve even met him. Is that possible?’
I am making a leap of intuition. I am putting two and two together and making five. I am remembering an episode that occurred during the convivial handover with Giles in Sergei’s university lodgings. The door opens without a knock, a cheerful youth with an earring and a ponytail pops his head round and starts to say ‘Hey, Serge, have you got a—’ then sees us and with a suppressed ‘whoops’ closes the door softly behind him as if to say he was never there.
In another part of my head, the full force of memory has struck home to me. Anastasia alias Anette, and whatever other names she favours, is no longer a fleeting shadow half remembered from my past. She is a solid figure of stature and operational prowess, much as Sergei himself has just described her.
‘Sergei,’ I say in a gentler tone than I have used so far, ‘why else might you not want to be Markus Schweizer in London for the summer? Have you planned a holiday with your friend? It’s a stressful life. We understand those things.’
‘They wish only to kill me.’
‘And if you have made holiday plans, and you can tell me who your friend is, then maybe we can come to a mutually acceptable arrangement.’
‘I have no such plans, Peter. I think actually you are projecting. Maybe you have plans for yourself. I know nothing about you. Norman was kind to me. You are a wall. You are Peter. You are not my friend.’
‘Then who is your friend?’ I insist. ‘Come on, Sergei. We’re human. After a year on your own here in England, don’t tell me you haven’t found somebody to pal up with? All right, maybe you should have notified us. Let’s forget that. Let’s assume it’s not all that serious. Just someone to go on holiday with. A summer partner. Why not?’
He rounds on me in Russian outrage and barks:
‘He is not my summer partner! He is the friend of my heart!’
‘Well in that case,’ I say, ‘he sounds exactly the sort of friend you need and we must find a way to keep him happy. Not in London, but we’ll think of something. Is he a student?’
‘He is postgraduate. He is kulturny—’ and for my better understanding: ‘He is cultivated in all artistic subjects.’
‘And a fellow physicist perhaps?’
‘No. For English literature. For your great poets. For all poets.’
‘Does he know you were a Russian agent?’
‘He would des
pise me.’
‘Even if you are working for the British?’
‘He despises all deception.’
‘Then we have nothing to worry about, do we? Just write down his name for me here on this piece of paper.’
He accepts my notepad and pen, turns his back to me and writes.
‘And his birthday, which I’m sure you know,’ I add.
He writes again, rips off the page, folds it and with an imperious gesture hands it to me. I unfold it, glance at the name, slip it into the padded envelope with his other offerings and recover my notepad.
‘So, Sergei,’ I say, in an altogether warmer tone. ‘We shall resolve the matter of your Barry in the next few days. Positively. Creatively, I’m sure. Then I won’t have to tell Her Majesty’s Home Office that you’ve ceased collaborating with us, will I? And by doing so violated the terms of your residence.’
A fresh torrent of rain sweeps across the windscreen.
‘Sergei accepts,’ he announces.
*
I have driven a distance and parked under a clump of chestnut trees where the wind and rain are not so ferocious. Seated beside me, Sergei has adopted a pose of superior detachment and is pretending to study the scenery.
‘So let’s talk some more about your Anette,’ I suggest, selecting my most relaxed tone of voice. ‘Or shall we go back to calling her Anastasia, which is how you knew her when she lectured you? Tell me more about her talents.’
‘She is an accomplished linguist and a woman of great quality and education and most skilled in conspiracy.’
‘Age?’
‘I would say, perhaps fifty. Fifty-three maybe. Not beautiful, but with much dignity and charisma. In the face also. Such a woman could believe in God.’
Sergei also believes in God, he has told his debriefers. But his faith must not be mediated. As an intellectual he has no love of clergy.
‘Height?’ I enquire.
‘I would say, one metre sixty-five.’
‘Voice?’
‘Anastasia spoke only English with us, in which she was clearly excellent.’
‘You never heard her speak Russian?’
‘No, Peter. I did not.’
‘Not one word?’
‘No.’
‘German?’
‘Once only she spoke German. It was to recite Heine. This is a German poet of the Romantic Period, also a Jew.’
‘In your mind. Now, or maybe when you were listening to her speaking. How would you place her geographically? From what region?’
I had expected him to ponder ostentatiously, but he came straight back:
‘It was my impression that this woman, by her bearing and dark eyes and complexion, also from the cadence of her speech, was from Georgia.’
Dull down, I am urging myself. Be your mediocre professional self.
‘Sergei?’
‘Please, Peter?’
‘What is the date of your planned holiday with Barry?’
‘It will be for all of August. It will be to visit on foot as pilgrims your historic British places of culture and spiritual freedom.’
‘And your university term begins when?’
‘September 24th.’
‘Then why not postpone your holiday until September? Tell him you have an important research project in London.’
‘I cannot do this. Barry will wish only to accompany me.’
But my head is already spinning with alternatives.
‘Then consider this. We send you – just for example – an official letter on, say, Harvard University Physics Faculty notepaper congratulating you on your great work in York. We offer you a two-month summer research fellowship on the Harvard campus in July and August, all expenses paid, and an honorarium. You could show that to Barry, and as soon as you’ve completed your spell in London as Markus Schweizer the two of you can pick up where you left off and have the time of your lives using all those lovely dollars that Harvard will have given you for your research project. Would that play? Well, would it or not?’
‘Provided such a letter is plausible and the honorarium is realistic, it is my belief that Barry would be proud for me,’ he announces.
Some spies are lightweights pretending to be heavyweights. Some are heavyweights despite themselves. Unless my inflamed memory deceives me, Sergei has just promoted himself to the heavyweight class.
*
Seated in the front of the car, we debate as two professionals the sort of replies we will be sending to Anette in Copenhagen: a first draft of the under-text assuring Centre that Sergei will comply with its instructions, then the cover text, which I propose to leave to his erotic imagination, stipulating only that, together with the under-text, I approve it before it is sent.
Having concluded – not least for my own convenience – that Sergei is likely to be more at ease with a female handler, I inform him that he will henceforth be working to Jennifer, aka Florence, on all matters of routine. I undertake to bring Jennifer to York on a get-to-know-you expedition and discuss what cover best befits their future relationship: perhaps not girlfriend, since Jennifer is tall and good-looking and Barry might take offence. I will remain Sergei’s controller, Jennifer will report to me at all stages. And I remember thinking to myself that whatever had got into Florence on the badminton court, here was the gift of a challenging agent operation to restore her morale and test her skills.
At a petrol station on the outskirts of York I invest in two egg-and-cress sandwiches and two bottles of fizzy lemonade. Giles would no doubt have produced a Fortnum’s hamper. When we have finished our picnic and cleaned the crumbs out of the car together, I drop Sergei at a bus stop. He attempts to embrace me. I shake his hand instead. To my surprise it is still early afternoon. I return the hire car to the depot and am lucky to catch a fast train that gets me to London in time to take Prue to our local Indian. Since Office matters are off-limits, our dinner conversation turns on the shameful practices of Big Pharma. Back at home, we watch Channel 4 News on catch-up and on this inconclusive note go to bed, but sleep comes slowly to me.
Florence has still not responded to my phone message. The Treasury sub-committee’s verdict on Rosebud, according to an enigmatic late email from Viv, is ‘due any moment but still pending’. If I do not find these augurs quite as ominous as I might have done, that is because my head is still rejoicing in the improbable chain of connection that Sergei and his Anette have revealed to me. I am reminded of an aphorism of my mentor Bryn Jordan: if you spy for long enough, the show comes round again.
10
Riding on the tube to Camden Town early that Wednesday morning, I took a clear-headed look at the competing tasks awaiting me. How far to take the issue of Florence’s insubordination? Report her to Human Resources and instigate a full-blown disciplinary tribunal with Moira in the chair? Heaven forfend. Better to have it out with her one-to-one behind closed doors. And on the positive side, award her the fast-developing case of agent Pitchfork.
Letting myself into the dingy hallway of the Haven, I am struck by the unusual silence. Ilya’s bicycle is there, but where is Ilya? Where is anyone? I climb the stairs to the first landing: not a sound. All doors closed. I climb to the second. The door to Florence’s cubicle is sealed with masking tape. A red ‘No Entry’ sign is pasted across it, and the door handle sprayed with wax. But the door to my own office stands wide open. On my desk lie two printouts.
The first an internal memo from Viv informing addressees that after due consideration by the competent Treasury sub-committee Operation Rosebud has been cancelled on grounds of disproportionate risk.
The second is an internal memo from Moira informing all relevant departments that Florence has resigned from the Service as of Monday and that full severance procedure has been activated in accordance with HO rules of disengagement.
*
Think now, do crisis later.
According to Moira, Florence’s resignation occurred a mere four hours before she showed up f
or the foursome with Ed and Laura at the Athleticus, which went a long way to explaining her aberrant behaviour. What had caused her to resign? On the face of it, the cancellation of Operation Rosebud, but don’t rush your fences. Having read both documents slowly for a third time, I stepped back on to the landing, cupped my hands over my mouth and yelled:
‘Everybody out, please. Now!’
As my team cautiously emerges from behind closed doors I piece together the story, or as much of it as anybody knows or is willing to say. Around eleven on the Monday morning, while I was safely tucked away in darkest Northwood, Florence had informed Ilya that she had an appointment with Dom Trench in his office. According to Ilya, normally a reliable source, she appeared more worried than excited by the prospect.
At one-fifteenish, while Ilya was upstairs covering the communications desk and the rest of the team were downstairs having their sandwich lunches and reading their phones, Florence appeared in the kitchen doorway having returned from her appointment with Dom. Scottish Denise had always been closest to Florence in the pecking order and had routinely taken over her agents when Florence was tied up or on leave.
‘She just stood there, Nat, like for minutes, staring at us like we were all crazy’ – Denise, awestruck.
‘Had Florence actually said anything?’
‘Not one single word, Nat. Just looked at us.’
From the kitchen Florence had gone upstairs to her room, locked the door on herself and – back to Ilya – ‘five minutes later came out with a Tesco carrier bag containing her flip-flops, the photo of her dead mum she kept on her desk, her cardie for when the heating’s off, and girls’ stuff from her desk drawer’. How Ilya managed to see all this collection at one glance eludes me, so allow for poetic licence.
Florence then ‘kisses me like three times Russian-style’ – Ilya, in full flood – ‘gives me an extra hug and tells me it’s for all of us. The hug is. So I say, what’s all this about then, Florence? because we know not to call her Flo. And Florence says, it’s nothing really, Ilya, except the ship has been taken over by the rats and I’ve jumped.’
For want of further testimony, these then were Florence’s parting words to the Haven. She had had her parley with Dom, handed in her resignation, returned from Head Office to the Haven, collected her possessions and by approximately 3.05 p.m. was back on the street and unemployed. Within minutes of her departure, two tight-lipped representatives from Domestic Security – not the rats who had taken over the ship, but Ferrets, as they were commonly known – arrived in a green Office van, removed Florence’s computer and steel cupboard and demanded to know of each member of my staff in turn whether she had entrusted any article to them for safekeeping or discussed the reasons for her departure. Having received the required assurances on both counts, they sealed her room.
Agent Running in the Field Page 10
