Her gaze dropped from his, and she started to sob. 'They threatened to kill my parents.'
Àhh; said Arrow, matter-of-fact. 'That's pretty basic, and it's just like them. With someone young like you, it works nearly every time. Tell me, how did they set you up?'
She stifled a sob, and he wiped her eyes with a corner of the bedsheet. 'When I was in Turkey, on that exchange, I was approached by a man who said he had an employment proposition for me. I thought he was a Turk, so I had coffee with him. He was very matter-of-fact about it. He said that as a Muslim, the interests of the State of Iraq were my interests. He proposed that when I graduated, I should apply for posts in the civil service, with the Ministry of Defence or the Foreign Office as my preferences. Once inside, I should look for posts in sensitive departments. He gave me a list. The Foreign Secretary's Private Office was at the top. Defence was second.'
She went on: 'He said that once I was in a suitable post, I would be contacted and I would feed information back to them. When I was operational, money would be lodged for me in a numbered account in Zurich. He also said that if I refused or failed to co-operate in any way, then my parents would be killed first, and me next. You know all the rest. I've been passing information since I've been activated.'
She looked up at him desperately. 'What's going to happen to me, Adam? Are you going to put me away?'
He shook his head. Nothing's going to happen to you, love. You haven't done anything, you see.'
She stared at him, bewildered.
`You don't think I'd 'ave let you feed genuine secrets to the Iraqis, do you? Everything you saw, copied and sent was specially prepared. It was realistic enough not to compromise you with them, but written so that it would expose their agents in other Gulf States. We've shut down most of those within the last month. You're an international heroine, love, even if you did think you were a spy!'
She gazed at him, open-mouthed. 'Who knows about this?'
`Me, John Swift, Morelli, the PM and the head of MI6, that's all. Now what we've got to do is close you down, without the Iraqis suspecting that they've been stuffed.'
`How can you do that?'
`This is what Morelli, MI6 and I have worked out. Swifty doesn't have to know, and the PM doesn't want to. I've got a document photocopied and ready for you to hand over. It's from the director of MI6 to Morelli, saying that the Iraqi network has been uncovered in its entirety, and is about to be terminated. I've added in a note saying that you're cutting and running. You communicate through a safe house in Kilburn, right? You make a phone call, and take your material there, to hand it over to your contact. You see him, but you don't know his name. Am I right?'
She nodded. 'Yes,' she whispered.
'We know who he is, though. He's called Rafiq; he's a restaurant worker with a French passport. As soon as Rafiq transmits your message to Baghdad, he'll be picked up and charged. Well announce his arrest, but we'll say that his contact in Whitehall has committed suicide. Unless we're all very much mistaken, the Iraqis will shut down the whole operation. They won't look for you, because our suicide announcement will make them believe that we've killed you. That's what they would do in our shoes; hold one for a show trial and execution, and just do away with the others.'
She looked up at him, her confidence returning. 'So what do I do?'
`Don't go to the office tomorrow. Leave here early and go home. Make your call to Rafiq, and set up a meeting for ten o'clock. Then pack your favourite clothes and take a taxi to Kilburn. Meet Rafiq at the safe house, and hand over the material. Let him leave first, then you go. But you don't go back to the Ministry . . . ever. Or to your flat. I'll see to it that it's cleared, and the rent and everything taken care of.'
`What do I do instead?'
He reached for his wallet, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to her. 'You go to this address. It's a flat in Godalming, in Surrey. But don't go straight there. Take a taxi back into London and catch a bus. That's nice and public and it'll make it easy for us to ensure that no one's following you who shouldn't be. There'll be someone there to meet you and to stay with you for the first few days — for your peace of mind as much as anything else.
It'll all be okay.'
And what about us, you and I? Do we have a future?'
Of course, if that's what you want. I'll visit you as soon as I can be absolutely sure that the Iraqis have bought the whole story;
She hugged him, quickly. Her body felt cold against his, so he drew her down beneath the covers.
`Will I be able to see my parents, eventually?' she asked. 1 was still trembling, but her composure was returning.
Not for a few months at the very least. Eventually, well arrange a meeting on neutral ground. But for now, they'll have to think you're dead too. For their own safety as much as anything. They'll be given a death certificate, and they'll have to hold a funeral. After a while, as soon as I judge that it's okay, I'll send a message to them.'
She took a deep breath. 'It'll be awful for them. But if you say so, then it has to be. But for how long, Adam? Will I have to live in hiding always? Will it be just like being in prison?'
He smiled. Not unless you insist on seeing it that way. As to how long, we'll move you out of Godalming after a while, possibly to Derbyshire, where I come from. It'll make it easier for me to visit you if you're there. You'll have a new identity too. We'll fix you up with a job . . . a lecturer, maybe . . . to let you build a real new life. After a year or so, you and I can begin thinking long-term . . . if you still want to, that is.'
She frowned. 'But won't people find out then, people from the Ministry, who'll think I'm dead?'
`Love, Swifty and I ain't in the office directories, remember. There are around twenty people in MOD who've ever heard of me. And none of them know my real name, or anything about my private life.'
She smiled, reassured. 'What is your real name?'
Àdam.
The other one, then?'
`What does it say on the doorbell downstairs?'
She wrinkled her brow. 'Feather, isn't it?'
`That'll do then. You can use it, if you like. After tomorrow Shania Mirzana'll be no use to you. I'll get you a new birth certificate, NI number, passport and all that. Just you pick a name.
She thought for a few seconds. 'Feather — yes, I like that. It's nice, even for a brown-skinned girl. As for a forename, do you think that Robin would be a bit cheeky?'
Adam laughed and gave her a quick hug. 'I think it would be perfect. I'll see to it tomorrow. For now let's eat, if you've still got an appetite.'
Ì have,' she murmured, 'but not for food; not just yet.' She bit his nipple, gently.
`Hey,' he gasped. 'Tell me one more thing.'
`What?'
`When you broke into Maurice Noble's house last week, to photograph something that you hadn't had a chance to copy during the day . . .'
`You . . .'
`No, not me. I didn't follow you. Swifty did that. Anyway, when you opened the Red Box, there was nothing, absolutely nothing unusual about it?'
`No, nothing at all.'
`Just as well,' said Arrow. 'Otherwise, right now a street in Putney would be missing one house, you'd be spread all over south London, and I'd be looking for a new girlfriend!'
SEVENTY
She pressed the bell, three times in quick succession, then turned the plastic oval handle and pushed. As usual, the Yale was on the latch, and the dirty door, with great bare patches showing in its black paintwork, swung open before her.
`Hello!' she called out as usual as she climbed the narrow stair which led from the street directly into the small flat. Her ascent was made awkward by a huge nylon hold-all which she lugged by her side, grasped in both hands and held up to avoid it snagging on the wooden steps.
She was breathing hard as she reached the top of the flight and turned into what she imagined would be the living room, were the place occupied and not completely empty of furniture. She dropped the bag, w
hich hit the floor with a thud, sending up a small cloud of dust.
`You're three minutes late,' the man said sharply. He was of medium height, and slim-built, with a complexion much browner than hers, and a thin black moustache. It came to her that after all their meetings, she was taking in these details for the first time.
He was poorly dressed, she noticed, in a crumpled suit and a shirt frayed clean through at the collar.
He nodded towards the hold-all. 'What's this?' he asked, with an edge of suspicion in his voice.
A cold chill ran through her. Don't make him suspicious, Adam had said. We don't want him panicking. She twisted her mouth into what she hoped was a rueful grin. 'Nothing. I was supposed to be going off for a break this morning, down to Devon with a few girlfriends. I was almost gone last night when this signal came in. I had a look at it and decided I had to pass it on. I'll have to catch the rest up on the train.'
'What's so urgent about it?'
The grin turned to a frown. 'You know better than to ask me that. I give you the information in a sealed envelope, you leave, I follow. We discuss nothing. That's the drill.'
He held out his hand. 'Okay, okay,' he said, in a guttural accent, 'so keep your hair on.
Give it to me, and let me go, if it's so urgent.'
She nodded and bent over the hold-all. Unzipping a side pocket she drew out a brown A4
envelope, sealed and folded across the centre. 'Here. Take my word for it, it's urgent. Do what you have to do with it as fast as you can.'
The man took it from her, and shoved it roughly into a pocket of his jacket. 'Very well. I'm going. Remember, give me the usual ten minutes' start before you go to catch your train.
Till the next time.'
`Yes,' she muttered, as he disappeared down the staircase towards the drab street outside.
As she heard the creaking door close behind him, she breathed a huge sigh of relief. She realised she was shaking, and reached automatically into the deep pocket of her woollen jacket. Finding her Turkish cigarettes, she lit one and drew on it deeply, then, throwing the spent match into the nearest corner of the room, she exhaled, and sat down carefully on her tight-packed hold-all.
Only a few seconds later, she heard a sound. It came from directly above her head. 'Ugh,'
she said aloud. 'Rats. Hardly surprising in a place like this.'
But then, the ceiling creaked once more, louder this time She jumped bolt upright and backed against the wall, looking upwards. On none of her previous visits had she ever noticed the trapdoor to the attic. Now it caught her gaze and held it, as, slowly, as if someone's fingers were struggling for purchase, it began to move.
Finally the hatch was free. Where it had been, in the fat corner of the ceiling, there was a black hole into nothing. But the doorway was empty for only a moment. First, she saw the ridged soles of a pair of heavy brogue shoes. Then short, stocky legs, encased in what seemed to be black, overall-style trousers appeared through the trap. They descended slowly, as if they were being lowered out of some awful dark cloud, until suddenly, with a rush, the rest of Adam Arrow dropped into the room.
Òh! Adam, you shit!' It was almost a scream. 'What a scare you gave me!' She rushed towards him and hugged him. 'You might have told me you'd be hiding up there. If I'd known I had a guardian angel on the premises I wouldn't have been so bloody scared. I thought I wasn't seeing you again for weeks' She hugged him again, tighter, and pressed her left cheek against his. Did you always mean to do this, or was it a change of plan?'
His arms were around her. The left clamped across her shoulders, returning her embrace.
His right hand slipped round, and grabbed her jaw. He tugged, once, very hard. The crack filled the room, and in the same instant, she went limp in his grasp.
`No, Shana,' he said, in a voice as hard as the flinty expression in his eyes. He let the body go, watching as it crumpled to the floor. 'This was always the way it was going to be.'
SEVENTY-ONE
‘You look a bit tense, Adam. You all right?'
Lieutenant John Swift was one of those people who never beat about the bush.
‘Eh? What? Course I'm all right.'
Swift nodded. 'That's good. You looked like shit for a second, that's all.'
`Just shut the fook up, Swifty.' He glanced up at his wall clock.
It was just before midday. Now, what d'you want?'
Swift sat down squarely in the chair facing his desk. He was a big husky man, eight inches taller than Arrow. Like his colleague, he had come to MOD Security from the Special Forces, but in his case from the Special Boat Services, for which he had been selected after seven years in nuclear submarines.
‘Got something for you,' he said, slapping a yellow folder with a red Top Secret classification down on the desk.
`What's this?'
Ìt's that report you asked for, on the Aerofoil consortium.' `By heck, that was quick.
Someone must have owed you a favour.'
`They did, but after this it's paid in full. That's the warts-and-all document you wanted. It's in there, all the detail, but for Christ's sake, Adam, be careful with it. You can't let any of what's in it go beyond this office, or neither of us will sleep easy!
Arrow's eyebrows twitched upwards. 'Must be hot stuff Swifty. Summarise it for me.'
Òkay then.' He took a breath. 'The Aerofoil consortium has three main players. It was put together purely to develop and market a new air-to-ground missile called Reaper. The members are Fusil, a French company who build the rocket itself, Bartoli of Belgium, who specialise in the payload, and SL, that's short for Société Lugano, a Swiss company, who provide the guidance system. The initiative behind Aerofoil came from SL. The company knew that it would have no chance of selling to any NATO member on its own, so it head-hunted partners from within the European Union. They designed and built their missile inside two years. The MOD order is their first biggièSo what's so special about the missile?' asked Arrow.
`That's just it. If you've read our guys' assessment, you'll know that there's nothing special about it. Yet Davey gave Aerofoil the order, against what everyone said was a superior British product. You remember the flak that caused.'
The soldier nodded.
`Well, it seems that this was too much for MI6. That organisation is still its own master in some respects, and its DG decided to make some enquiries off his own bat. What he found out made his hair curl.
The investigation had a quiet look at Davey's bank accounts and investment portfolio but there was nothing there to indicate that he'd taken a back-hander. It had a look at the French and Belgian companies and found them squeaky clean. But when it tried to look at SL, it came up against a series of blanks.
The people who fronted their technical input to the operation were unknowns, without any track record in the defence industry. The ownership of the company was obscure too, linked into a Swiss investment trust.
'Then someone had a bright idea. They had an expert look at SL's guidance technology and compare it to other systems in use around the world. And very quickly, they came up with an interesting analysis. The Reaper guidance system is similar in every important respect, and identical in some, to that used in its missiles by one major military power, and one alone.'
Ànd what's that?' asked Arrow impatiently.
`Russia.'
Èh? We bought Russian technology from these people? 'Ow the hell did we do that?'
Ànother terrific question, Adam, and another that MI6 asked too. They dug as hard as they could into Société Lugano, and eventually they came up with a name for its owner, one Martin Hugo, an immigrant to Switzerland at the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union. They even came up with a photograph. The DG was out of control by this time, so he sent my pal over to Moscow with the picture, to show it to an old rival of his in the KGB. The Russian clocked it straight away. Martin Hugo's real name is Vassily Kelnikov, and he was a KGB General involved in Intelligence gathering. He was
part of the coup against Gorbachev, but he vanished just before it went pear-shaped, taking a fortune in gold with him, plus, they suspected but couldn't tell for certain, a number of military secrets. The KGB have tried to find him ever since, but they didn't know where to look.
Their best guess was that he had gone to America.'
Òkay,' said Arrow. 'So Davey bought recycled Russian missile technology, which was never brilliant in the first place, from a KGB fugitive. Why the hell would he do that?'
`MI6's last question. And the KGB gave them the answer. When Kelnikov vanished he took items from files on quite a few Prominent people, and one of them was . . Colin Davey MP.'
`Spot on. It was blackmail. Davey was a poofter. Kelnikov compromised him when he was a junior Minister, and had the photographs to prove it. You can work out the rest. The Aerofoil submission landed on his desk, and a copy of a photograph arrived with his private mail. Davey had a straight choice. He picked the dishonourable way, and justified his decision with some bluff about us being good Europeans and not wishing to be seen to be insular.'
Ì remember it well,' said Arrow. 'He took it to extremes though, buying Russian kit. So what did Six do with the report?'
`They took it to the PM, and he, true to current form, told them to lock it up tight in case the daylight got at it. The DG begged him at least to shuffle Davey, but he refused. Said it was too close to the election. When I came asking questions yesterday, my contact went to the DG, who said, quote, "Bugger the PM and his Government. Give MoD a sight of the file." So there it is.' Swift nodded at the yellow folder. 'They want it back by five o'clock, and I've promised, on your life, that it won't be photocopied.'
Arrow laughed. 'Thanks, pal. But I've no need to copy it. If Kelnikov was blackmailing Davey, all it tells me is that he didn't kill him. Mind you, it's a bit uncomfortable to think of him running around loose. How many other happy snaps does he have?'
`That's academic,' said Swift. 'Martin Hugo was killed in Switzerland three days ago. The KGB didn't even make it look like an accident, just blew his bloody head off on his front doorstep. They had a word with the French and the Belgians too, letting them know who their companies were playing with. The Aerofoil consortium will be wound up within the next few days, so score one for MI6.'
Skinner's Ordeal Page 26
