Breaking Cover

by Stella Rimington

  ‘Sorry, Liz,’ said Wally, swinging his chair round to face the sofa. But she had already gone to get Peggy, to set in train tracing the details of the mobile phone.

  By ten-thirty reports were coming in of the Mercedes’s progress. It had been sighted driving north on the M1, travelling very fast. South of Leeds, cameras at the junction spotted it joining the M62. It must have turned back southwards because it was next reported on the Manchester ring road. But before any action could be taken it had disappeared, presumably having left the motorway, somewhere near Sale.

  Wally turned to Liz, who by this time was back sitting on the sofa. ‘What would you like us to do next? It sounds like the car could be anywhere in the Greater Manchester area.’

  ‘Could you get a team out from there to scout around, just to see if they can spot the car? It might be parked up somewhere for the night. There’s not much else we can do unless there’s a further camera sighting.’

  48

  ‘It’s McKay here,’ said a voice on the phone. It sounded cheerful, and vaguely familiar.

  It had been a long day for Jasminder. C was appearing on TV the following day, with the Heads of MI5 and GCHQ, at the first public meeting of the Security and Intelligence Committee, and she needed to get up to speed with the whys and wherefores of the occasion. She was responsible for briefing the media after it was over and C was anxious that the event should receive a good response. She also had yet another talk to give to a department in Vauxhall Cross – this time it was Finance – and though she had given the same talk a number of times already, she still felt the need to familiarise herself with it beforehand. Always at the back of her mind was the growing anxiety that she still had nothing of substance to give Laurenz and it seemed unlikely she’d get anything in the next week either.

  The voice on the phone went on, ‘McKay… Bruno McKay – you know, the amusing chap you met at lunch the other day? We shared a table, you remember.’

  And she did remember, of course. Bruno. She’d looked him up in the Staff Directory after lunch and found there was only one Bruno in Head Office. He worked with Geoffrey Fane, though his precise job wasn’t clear from the directory and nor did it give his surname, just the initial ‘M’. Now her heart lifted at the mere discovery of this mysterious Bruno’s full name. Laurenz had been scathing when she’d reported back to him about her conversation with the man: ‘It’s no use telling me you’ve made a great new contact if you haven’t even managed to find out his name or what he does. I don’t believe you’re trying. You’d better be careful,’ he’d added threateningly.

  ‘Yes. How could I forget?’ she replied, trying to match Bruno’s light-hearted tone. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Ms Kapoor, I was hoping to see you again.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said hesitantly, thinking of all the work she had to get through. On the other hand, she was desperate to find something to satisfy Laurenz. ‘When were you thinking of?’

  ‘Well, it’s almost seven o’clock in Paris, which calls for an aperitif, oui? Why don’t I meet you in half an hour just outside the building, on Vauxhall Bridge Road?’

  Jasminder thought for a moment, comparing the contrasting prospects of a late night spent working in the office then a solitary takeaway curry at her flat, or finding out more about this intriguing-sounding colleague. In the end, there was no contest. ‘That sounds good,’ she said.

  ‘See you there then,’ said Bruno McKay, and rang off.

  Fifteen minutes after the agreed time, Jasminder was still waiting on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road, wondering where this man McKay had got to. Lots of people were leaving work but there was no sign of him. How long was she supposed to wait?

  She’d just decided to give it another five minutes when she heard the toot of a horn, and saw across the street a white Audi cabriolet drawn up by the pavement. It was a warm evening, the car’s top was down and she recognised the man at the wheel from their lunchtime conversation. He waved and smiled, and she waved back as she waited for a gap in the traffic to allow her to cross the street.

  ‘Hop in,’ said Bruno, leaning across to open the door for her.

  They drove off, Bruno talking nineteen to the dozen – most of it proving entirely inaudible, drowned by the sound of the traffic. Crossing the river, he steered through a bewildering maze of side streets until they came to Hyde Park Corner, where he zoomed east on Piccadilly, turned at Fortnum’s, then wiggled his way up a side street and came to a halt before a small but smart-looking hotel. The doorman seemed to recognise the car; he came out quickly, opened Jasminder’s door, then caught the keys that Bruno tossed to him and got into the driving seat as Bruno shepherded Jasminder into the hotel.

  Was he staying here? she wondered. More disturbing, had he brought her here hoping for what the French called a cinq à sept in his room? But no, he escorted her up the steps and turned straight into the hotel’s small, discreet bar.

  ‘Now,’ said Bruno, as the barman came over, ‘what’ll it be? A glass of champagne? Whisky? Gin?’

  ‘Sparkling water?’ asked Jasminder weakly.

  ‘You can have that as a chaser on the side,’ he said, and promptly ordered two glasses of champagne.

  After a short time spent listening to Bruno’s flow of light conversation, Jasminder leaned back against the soft cushions of the armchair, sipping her champagne and starting to relax. Bruno was saying that he had only recently been posted back to London, having been Head of Station in Paris for the last four years.

  ‘That must have been a very busy Station,’ said Jasminder, trying to remember what sort of things Laurenz wanted her to find out.

  ‘Of course. Though nothing like as busy as it is back here. Geoffrey Fane is a hard taskmaster. How are you finding it working for C? I’m very flattered you said yes to coming out tonight. I had assumed you’d be rushed off your feet and your social schedule would be chock-a-block.’

  ‘Lots of work,’ said Jasminder. ‘Not much time for a social schedule.’

  ‘But I imagine there’s a partner in your life. Where is he tonight?’ said Bruno.

  She stiffened slightly, wondering why he thought she was attached. She was all too aware that she had never declared Laurenz to MI6. ‘That’s where your sources have let you down,’ she said, hoping that Peggy Kinsolving was not one of them. ‘I’m unattached.’

  ‘Ah. No sources. I was just guessing, actually. Not many women as attractive as you are unattached.’

  The flattery was so outrageous that Jasminder couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

  ‘Only the attractive ones,’ said Bruno with a grin.

  Though this light-hearted banter in this comfortable bar with this self-assured man was very pleasant, it was getting her nowhere. She must not allow herself to relax. Jasminder sat up straight in her chair and changed the subject. ‘So are you back in London for good now?’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘Who knows? Things move pretty fast in the Service as I’m sure you’ve found out. And even now I’m back here, I still travel a lot.’

  ‘Exotic places?’ she enquired, hoping not to sound too inquisitive.

  ‘Sadly not. Mostly all the Stations in places Geoffrey Fane doesn’t want to go to himself.’

  ‘Didn’t you say you were in Russia last week?’

  ‘Yes, and Estonia and Latvia – I’m saving the joys of Lithuania for next year.’

  ‘I suppose the Moscow Station has a busy time at present?’ asked Jasminder. This seemed a safe enough question. He’d just think it was natural curiosity.

  ‘It’s chaotic,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘But that’s true of most Stations. Except Paris,’ he added with a grin. ‘I left it absolutely shipshape.’

  By now Bruno was on his second glass of champagne. ‘I have to say, the main drawback to the Russian Revolution – other than the small matter of the forty or fifty million people Stalin had killed – was that it severed the traditiona
l ties between Russia and France. Ever since then, the Russians have been almost defiantly nekulturny. I know there’s the Bolshoi and all that, but the veneer is very thin.’

  ‘Even now?’ He’d sheared off at a tangent. None of this was going to be of much value to Laurenz, but she wanted to keep Bruno talking about Russia. Something might come out, she told herself, especially if he kept drinking champagne.

  Bruno smiled. ‘I’d be delighted to give you a sermon on conditions in present-day Russia, but there’s a caveat attached.’ When Jasminder raised an eyebrow, he said, ‘That you be my guest for dinner here. Hotels rarely stand out for their cuisine, but this place is a remarkable exception.’

  They moved on to the dining room, which was small and elegant, with crisp linen tablecloths, silver cutlery and beautiful china. Candles on the tables were reflected in mirrors and small chandeliers sparkled. The food was excellent and Bruno was entertaining company, though he seemed incapable of sticking to any one topic of conversation for more than a bon mot. Each time Jasminder tried to steer him back towards the topic of Russia, and in particular the workings of the Moscow Station, he made a half-serious, half-facetious remark and promptly talked about something else. She tried the Baltic States but the same thing happened. She didn’t manage to find out where the Station there was – or even if there was one.

  He seemed much more interested in Jasminder’s background, and got her to tell him about her previous life as a civil libertarian lawyer and the dilemma she’d felt about taking the MI6 job. He asked lots of questions and actually seemed to be listening to the answers, and she began to realise there was a deeper, more thoughtful side to this man, though he seemed at pains to hide it behind his flippant front. At any other time she would have liked to get to know this deeper Bruno better, but right now she wanted him indiscreet. And he had started to be just that, describing the personal peccadillos of the Athens Station head and the expenses scandal from several years before that had seen an accountant prosecuted, but it was infuriating the way he wriggled lizard-like away from any attempt to pin him down.

  Finally, as they were having coffee (with a small cognac for Bruno), she managed to get the subject back to Russia. ‘If Putin’s the savage everybody is saying, then there must be plenty of disenchanted people in the government. He can’t have turned the clock back completely, can he?’

  ‘No, though he’s trying.’

  ‘I mean, there must be plenty of opportunities for us with dissidents or perhaps inside the political establishment. Even in high places.’

  ‘Especially in high places,’ Bruno said emphatically. ‘Putin has to be a little careful. Live by the sword, die by the sword – that kind of thing.’

  ‘But I suppose it would be very dangerous for anyone to be in touch with the Embassy – let alone the Station –though some of them must want to talk.’

  ‘Talk? What do you mean?’

  Jasminder realised that Bruno was not as tipsy as she’d thought. She shrugged, trying to sound casual. ‘I just mean we must be able to find good sources of information – other than official ones. Someone was telling me last week that we have more informants in Russia and the Baltic States than we know what to do with. And without all the cloak-and-dagger business of the past.’

  ‘Oh, there’s still plenty of that,’ Bruno declared. ‘Lots of hair-raising escapades I could tell you about.’

  I wish you would, thought Jasminder, but he was looking at his watch. ‘Golly, time does fly when you’re having fun. I suggest we move on.’ And he waved to the waiter for the bill.

  Outside, the doorman had already driven the Audi into place and was rewarded by something slipped into his hand. Bruno sat at the wheel for a moment. ‘Now, where am I taking you?’ He paused and Jasminder wondered whether one option might be his place. She was willing enough, hoping he might expand on these exploits he’d referred to. But he added, ‘I don’t know where you live.’

  ‘Islington,’ she said. When he didn’t react she added, ‘Is that too far out of your way? I can always get a taxi.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there in a jiffy.’

  And three jumped amber lights and a succession of deft manoeuvres later, Bruno pulled up in front of Jasminder’s flat.

  She took a deep breath and said, ‘Would you like to come in for coffee?’ The implication was as clear as she could make it. Her only worry was that her cleaner might not have shown up that day. The state of Jasminder’s bedroom as of that morning would have put off any man.

  But to her surprise Bruno shook his head. ‘Very sweet of you, especially after a long evening listening to me waffle on. But I’ve got a big day tomorrow so I hope you won’t mind if I take a rain check.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jasminder, with a disappointment she could not disguise. Already she could envisage Laurenz’s reaction. ‘I’ll hold you to it,’ she added.

  Bruno leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘We’ll tackle the Russians next time then.’ It sounded light-hearted but it struck her as an odd thing for him to say. As she said goodnight and got out of the car, she felt as if, for all her questioning, Bruno had been the one who’d got most out of the evening.

  49

  Peggy came in very early the next day and joined Liz in her office. ‘I hope you weren’t here all night,’ she said.

  ‘Not quite. I did go home.’ Liz didn’t say that it had been at two in the morning. She’d managed to nap for a couple of hours but was up again at five and here at Thames House by six. ‘How’s that feeling?’ she asked, pointing at the sling on Peggy’s left arm.

  ‘Not bad. It’s only when I forget about it and knock something that it hurts.’

  ‘Did you get anything on the Mercedes?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s registered to a private company. I’ve sent an enquiry to Companies House, but they haven’t come back to me yet. They’re probably still in bed. I’ve also got some news on the phone number Hansen gave to the pub – it’s a pay-as-you-go, bought three months ago in Manchester. I should have the list of calls from and to it later this morning. And of course, if he’s used it since last night we should be able to get a fix on him, but I don’t suppose he’s stupid enough for that.’

  ‘No. So far he’s been very professional. That car swap at the pub was clever.’

  ‘Do you think he saw A4 yesterday? Do you think he knows we’re on to him?’

  ‘Not sure,’ replied Liz. ‘Wally Woods doesn’t think so. Let’s hope he’s right.’

  Peggy stifled a small yawn, and blushed slightly when Liz smiled. ‘What’s going on up there now?’ Peggy asked.

  ‘I’ve just had a report from Wally. Yesterday’s teams are holed up in a Travelodge south of Manchester, getting some rest; a new team was sent out from the city as soon as we got the Number Plate Recognition information and they’ve been scouring around the area near Sale, where he disappeared, all night, but no sign of the car so far. They’ve passed the number to Greater Manchester Police, but no reaction from them either.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at a map,’ said Peggy. ‘I’m not sure where Sale is.’ She tapped a screen. ‘Just off the Manchester ring road, apparently. On the south side.’

  ‘Gosh,’ she added, as a satellite photo of the area came up on her screen. She turned the computer sideways so they could both study it more easily. ‘It looks a rather unpromising place to drive to late at night. Especially with all that complicated counter-surveillance. What on earth can he be doing up there?’

  ‘Well, if he is a Russian Illegal and not a Norwegian banker at all – and given his behaviour that seems increasingly likely – and if we are looking at this pincer operation, then we need to think what connection the Russians have with that part of the North of England.’

  Peggy pointed at the screen. ‘There’s the airport not far away. Maybe he was going there.’

  ‘Or…’ said Liz slowly, now peering at the screen as well. ‘Look, there… Altrincham. That�
��s where that oligarch Patricov has his mansion. I went to see it with the Chief Constable.’

  ‘You don’t think he could have anything to do with it, do you? I thought he was anti-Putin.’

  ‘That’s what I was told. But you never know. It’s the only Russian connection I’ve heard of in that area. I’m sure if there was anyone else Russian in the neighbourhood, the Chief Constable would have mentioned it. I’m going to ring him.’

  Liz reached the police switchboard in Manchester, and was put through straightaway. She was impressed; not many Chief Constables answered their own phone, especially this early in the day.

  ‘Pearson,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Hello, it’s Liz Carlyle in Thames House.’

  ‘Ha! I was thinking about you just the other day. How are things?’

  ‘I’m fine, but something’s come up. It’s to do with Patricov.’

  ‘I hope you’ve found out more about him than we have. He’s a careful bird, our Mr P.’

  ‘It’s not him I want to ask about. We have someone under surveillance here in London – a banker by the name of Hansen. He’s Norwegian, or at least his papers all say he’s Norwegian.

  ‘Anyway, we followed him yesterday when he drove out of London. I don’t think he spotted our teams, but he went through pretty complicated counter-surveillance. Either he’s a pro, or he’s leading two lives that he’s determined to keep separate.’ She explained about the car switch that A4 had discovered. ‘We’ve checked the Mercedes he drove off in; it’s registered to something called Asimov Holdings. We’re trying to run down details on the company right now, but it’s private and it’s taking us a while.’