by Matthew Dunn
“Anytime you like. Same time tomorrow? I want to update you on progress with the new fittings in my house.” She held up her carrier bag. “By the way – chocolates and a book. I’m not sure if sugar and a psychological analysis of the human condition is what the doctor ordered, but to hell with it.” She placed the bag in front of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiled. “Same time tomorrow, but only if your work allows.” Her smile vanished. “When I look at you I look at Jayne Archer, and I also look at Susan Archer. Every day, I’ve carried that burden for fifty years. I look at you, I look at her. It’s been torture.”
Archer kissed her mother on the cheek. “It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever known.”
That afternoon, Archer was back in London. For two hours she spent time in MI6’s headquarters in Vauxhall Cross, checking in on her department, reading telegrams, and attending a meeting in a board room with other senior members of the service. After that, she left to attend an agent meeting in Mayfair.
She approached Duke’s Hotel. The old building was tucked away in a short cul-de-sac within the heartland of one of London’s wealthiest districts. It was hard to find unless one took a cab to the venue, was only a five minute walk from Buckingham Palace, was small yet luxurious, old, had a solitary and creaky lift, and a tiny bar that was world renowned for its martini cocktails. She took the elevator to the fifth floor. There was no one in the corridor. She walked past rooms until she got to where she wanted to be. She looked left and right. Satisfied she wasn’t being watched, she knocked three times on the door, waited five seconds, and knocked twice.
Natalia Asina opened the door a few inches, though kept the chain lock in place.
Archer asked, “Would you like a coffee?”
The phrase was the pre-agreed code between Archer and Natalia that it was safe to meet. If Archer had asked, “Would you like to have a cocktail downstairs at six?” it would have meant that she suspected she was under surveillance. In that case, Natalia would have shut and locked the door, opened the room’s sash window, walked twenty yards along the twelve inch wide exterior ledge, opened another window, and entered a room that was three rooms adjacent to hers. Then, she’d stay in the back up room that was paid for by Archer. Archer would meanwhile try to draw the surveillance team away from the hotel. And when the time was right, Natalia would leave the premises. But, it wasn’t a failsafe routine. The drop from the ledge to the concrete ground was eighty yards; Natalia was scared of heights; and there was no guarantee that a surveillance team would leave the hotel when Archer aborted the meeting. Still, it was the only escape plan available to Natalia.
Natalia fully opened the door. Archer entered. Natalia closed the door and bolted the entrance.
The room was small, contained a double bed, chair and desk, wardrobe, chest of drawers, and a bathroom. Archer sat on the edge of the bed. Natalia sat in the chair.
Natalia puffed on a vaporiser electronic cigarette. Normally she smoked tobacco cigarettes, but smoking was not permitted in the hotel. “Why did you wish to see me?”
Archer thought that Natalia looked tired. Normally the pretty young Russian’s face was taught and brimming with health. Now there were bags under her eyes, her face was pasty, and her posture was hunched, as if her body was fatigued and craved sleep. Archer replied, “I wanted to see that you’re okay. Are you okay? You don’t look like you’re firing on all cylinders.”
Natalia opened the tank of her vaporiser, squired in double menthol e-liquid, closed the tank, sucked on the device, and blew out a large plume of vapour. “The embassy’s running on empty. There’s so much damn work. Doesn’t matter if you’re SVR, GRU, or a mainstream diplomat. Lines between us are getting blurred.”
She was referring to the Russian embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, London, within which were twenty three undeclared SVR officers and GRU officers. GRU was the military wing of Russian Intelligence.
Archer nodded. “We’re giving the Russians lots of headaches; the Russians are giving us lots of headaches. How will Brexit affect trade deals with Russia? Will the British ever be able to prove that the Novichok nerve agent poisonings in Salisbury were sanctioned by Vladimir Putin? What’s our latest stance on Syria? What’s Russia’s next move in the Middle East? Are we going to maintain sanctions against Russia? Will billions in dirty Russian money laundered in our banks be unfrozen? The list goes on and on and on.”
“It does.” Natalia looked at the corner of the room. “Some of those issues are above my paygrade. But, I can tell you that our embassy’s the busiest I’ve seen it since I moved here three years ago.”
Archer felt like a mentor to Natalia. The Russian was young and relatively new to the secret world. By comparison, Archer had seen so much in her vocation. And if there was one thing she’d learned during her lifelong career as a spy it was never to be surprised by the surprising. In due course, Natalia would embrace that truism. But not yet. She was still learning. Archer asked, “Have you thought about what I said in our last meeting?”
Natalia was irritated. “I told you then and I’m telling you now – I can’t do this anymore.”
“But, you haven’t told me why you won’t work with me anymore.”
Natalia threw up her arms in exasperation. “What is there to say apart from the obvious fact that if I’m caught, I’ll be chopped up into little pieces, put in hundreds of parcels, and posted to all four corners of the world?!” She inhaled on her e-cigarette, in an effort to calm her emotions. “I’ve given you a lot so far.”
“You have. You’ve given me the names of half of the undeclared Russian spies in the London embassy; ditto the embassies in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Washington DC, and other places. There’s still a lot more I need from you. I need to know the senior SVR and GRU intelligence officers in the embassies.”
“I don’t know their names! They use aliases. Most of them don’t even tell low-ranking people like me that they work for the SVR or GRU. They pose as diplomats to you and me. They ring fence themselves because they’re petrified that one of their own, in this case me, might talk to someone who’ll cut their balls off.”
“With a bit of effort and ingenuity, you could establish their true identities. Plus, it’s imperative that we find out the identities of the sleeper cells in The Netherlands, New York, Manchester, Rennes, Madrid, and Zurich.”
Natalia huffed. “The sleeper cells are ghosts.”
“You’re still responsible for every agent in each cell.”
“Via cut outs, usually three or four people. I can’t get direct access to the ghosts.”
“Identify the last cut out in the chain who has that access. Give me that person’s name. Then we can come up with a plan to take it to the final level and get each ghost’s name.”
Natalia bowed her head and rubbed her eyes. “I made a decision two weeks ago that I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired, scared, trust no one except you, and don’t want to fucking die.”
Archer leaned forward and said in an earnest and calm tone, “You’re not going to die.”
“Really?! Can you promise me that?! Jesus!”
“Natalia. I know you’re scared. And I know how that feels like. I was scared every second of every day when I served overseas. And for the most part,” She waved her arm, “it wasn’t in swanky places like this. I’ve served in warzones, famine-ridden countries, crumbling cities where secret police were hunting me while I hid in grimy apartments, deserts in Iraq where there were insurgents on my heels, and mountains in Afghanistan where my special forces protection detail got blown up by surface to surface missiles and were butchered by the Taliban. I know fear. Dukes Hotel in Mayfair is not a place to be scared.”
Natalia shook her head. “Then you know nothing. My people can get to traitors wherever they are. You were lucky to escape the Taliban. There is no luck involved if Russia deploys an assassination unit. You and I would be dead before we knew what had killed us.”
Archer breathed in deeply. She
was getting nowhere and needed to change tack. “I hear what you say. You’re exhausted. You need some time off. I’ll give you that. But I also need you to do something for me in return.”
Natalia was still but said nothing.
“I want you to take care of yourself. And I want you to allow me to see you tomorrow so that I can check on your wellbeing. It will be a different hotel.” She wrote the hotel name on a piece of paper.
Natalia looked at the paper, withdrew a box of matches, and burnt the note.
“Is that okay?”
Natalia nodded.
“Good.” Archer looked Natalia up and down. “What is your cover for being out of the embassy this afternoon?”
“I told my boss that I was researching an anti-surveillance route between Piccadilly Circus and Harrods. I said I may need to go shopping on foot between both locations, in order to define the reason for my route if a British surveillance team was watching me. It’s the usual tradecraft – give the surveillance team some explanation as to why you’re doing what you’re doing.”
“That’s a perfectly plausible lie as to why you needed to walk the route. But, we have a problem. You have no shopping, two of your nails have cracked polish, your hair looks shit, you have no expensive sample perfume on your throat, and your face is desperately in need of a makeover. You need to return to the embassy with a huge smile on your face and the image of a woman who’s shopped until she dropped.”
“Shopped until she dropped?”
“Don’t worry about it; it’s just a phrase that refers to women who had a good time buying stuff.”
Natalia looked at her phone’s clock. “I only have four hours before my absence will be viewed as unusual.”
“Then we must engage runners. I’d estimate you are a size six. Shoe size four. Is that correct?”
Natalia looked confused. “Yes on both counts.”
Archer picked up the room’s phone to the concierge. When he answered, she said to him, “I need you to do me an enormous favour. The guest in the room I’m calling from is a relative. We’re in a bit of a pickle. She’s just received a marriage proposal and has been invited out to dinner this evening to meet her fiancé’s parents. She needs to look the part. We need a size six skirt and jacket from Harrods, Channel No. 4 perfume from Harvey Nichols, a hairdresser, manicurist, and beautician who can come right now to her hotel room, dresses and size four court shoes from Oxford Street, and do make sure that all clothes purchased are kept in the branded shopping bags. I will pay. This is an emergency. Do you have people up to the task?”
This was the most unusual request the concierge had ever heard during his twenty two years of service at the hotel. For a while, he was flustered. Then he said, “It is difficult, but I will see what I can do.”
“Just get it done. I’ll pay you extra if you achieve results. This is my daughter we’re talking about. And she doesn’t want to look like a bag of shit pulled up in the middle when she meets her prospective parents-in-laws.” Archer slammed down the phone and smiled at Natalia. “So, now you can become a princess spy. I’ve just saved your ass and dignity.”
Over the following three hours Natalia was pampered by the manicurist, hair dresser, and beautician. She was also fitted for the clothes purchased from Harrods. The garments needed tailoring in her room. Alongside Natalia and Archer, there were five people in her room. Archer sat on the bed, watching the workers buzz around Natalia like bees trying to make their queen the best she could be. At the end of the process, Natalia was transformed into a woman who resembled nothing short of elegant style and class. After the people left, Archer rang the concierge and gave him her credit card number. It wasn’t in her name. It belonged to MI6.
Archer looked at the tasteful paper and twine shopping bags lined up in the room’s corridor. “Go now. You paid for all of this out of your own cash. The receipts are in the bags. You can claim all money back from the Russian embassy. You’ll get two thousand and sixty two pounds in compensation. That’s what’s come off my service’s credit card; and that’s what’s going into your bank account when your accounts department pays up. Tomorrow your embassy closes at one PM. You’ll meet me at three PM in the other hotel. There will be no need for all this rigmarole.” She pointed at the bags. “Tomorrow it’s your afternoon off. You can do what you like without being worried about explaining your absence from work.”
The mobile phone that was Sign’s lifeline to Archer rang at sixty forty five PM. Sign answered and listened to Archer.
She gave him details of the meeting with Natalia tomorrow. “Today I played a sleight of hand. Normally when we meet it’s always one-to-one in hotel rooms. This afternoon I changed that. I told her that she hadn’t covered her tracks correctly. That was true. She’s naïve and has a lot to learn. But more important to me was that I wanted her to get used to the presence of others during our face to face meetings. It was a test. I got other people in the room. They were just hotel staff and beauticians. But it was a step in the right direction. Tomorrow we significantly up the ante.” She told him what she had in mind.
“Good. We shall see you then.” He ended the call and entered his flat’s kitchen to make a cup of tea. Knutsen was out, collecting Indian takeaway for their supper. Sign was deep in thought as he stared at the kettle while it heated water.
Thirty minutes later, Knutsen arrived clutching a white carrier bag containing cartons of food. The aroma of Indian spices was unmistakable. Knutsen placed the bag on the kitchen counter and withdrew the cartons. “You told me to use my judgement and choose wisely. I’ve got us beef madras, tandoori chicken, Kerala prawn curry, lamb biriyani, turmeric potatoes, sag aloo, saffron basmati rice, chickpeas and lentils, mint sauce, and papadums. Oh, and I got four ice cold bottles of Henry Weston cider.”
Sign looked at the mountain of food and smiled. “Are we expecting company this evening?”
“I was hungry. Help yourself to what you want.” Knutsen grabbed a plate, heaped food on to it, opened one of the bottles, and carried his food and drink into the lounge.
Sign stared at the open cartons. “Which one is the joker in the pack?”
While sitting in his armchair and devouring his food, Knutsen called out, “Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.”
Sign wasn’t buying that. “We do this once a month. Every time, and I mean every time, you smuggle in one dish, amid the others, that is so potent it is like eating molten lava. Last time we had curry, I lost the lottery and picked the joker. My body was perspiring more rapidly than it would have done if I’d been sitting fully clothed in a Swedish sauna.”
“Just man-up and get on with it.”
Sign served up a bit of everything. He reasoned that playing the numbers game would ensure he could push the lava to one side after a mouthful and at least have a near-full plate of less noxious food to fill his body. He grabbed a cider and sat opposite Knutsen. He sampled the meat and prawn curries. “Oh, you cad! There is no joker in the pack this time because you’ve tampered with them all.”
Knutsen giggled. “Yep. I asked the restaurant to make sure they were hot enough to make putting your bollocks into a fire feel like a pleasurable experience.” He couldn’t stop laughing as he saw Sign breathing rapidly and sweating. “Work through the pain, mate. It gets easier. And think of the health benefits.”
“There are no health benefits to being poisoned!”
“A fiver says you can’t finish everything on your plate.” Knutsen carried on eating, immune to the potency of the spices.
“A fiver is a fiver. Wager accepted.” Sign carried on eating, his mouth on fire, his lungs feeling like they had locked up, and his shirt now a sodden mess. He gasped for air when he finished. He put his plate on the side table. “Next time I’m going to order from the restaurant. You can’t be trusted.”
Knutsen handed him a five pound note. “You better get showered and changed. I’ll clear up while you’re doing that.”
Ten min
utes later, Sign was back in his chair, slowly sipping his cider. He felt like his stomach lining had been attacked by bullet ants. But, at least he was no longer sweating and was in clean clothes.
Knutsen returned to his seat. “There’s a bit left over. I might have it for breakfast.”
“You really are beyond redemption.”
Knutsen watched him. “Sometimes it takes an unexpected shock to the mind and body to kick start a train of thought.”
