Woman of State

by Simon Berthon

  ‘I presume he found you, Jimmy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Dorothy.’

  ‘A satisfactory conversation?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think the ghosts of the past need disturb us too much.’

  ‘Does that imply there are ghosts not of the past?’ she asked with a remarkably arched eyebrow.

  In stony silence he marched on, opened the French windows, entered the house and carefully closed them behind him. There were some documents he wanted to reread before deciding whether to continue to store them against a rainy day of nursing-home bills exceeding government service pension, or to consign them to the dustbin of betrayals.

  As so often before, he reflected on the elegance of the plan – Operation Hawk, as he had called it. In the summer of 1993, he, now based at the Dublin embassy, had been the one and only person in possession of two pieces of intriguingly connected information. Maire McCartney, sister of the Gang of Four’s leader, Martin McCartney, was living in the city as a student at Trinity College. David Wallis, drummed out of the army, needed a new outlet for his particular gifts.

  Put the two of them together – and allow the game to unfold.

  He discussed it with one extremely senior official only, the rising young star of the service. In turn, the official advised one senior minister only, as was Whitehall protocol in such matters. The official also informed an opposition party shadow minister with the relevant expertise in order to hedge against future changes in government.

  Perhaps if he had felt able to tell Wallis the real point of the game, it might have saved him. But, if he had done that, Wallis could never have played the role of David Vallely so well.

  Until the unforeseen happened.

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘I have some information for you, Minister.’ Jemima Sheffield was perched, chin thrust forward, on the edge of an armchair. Anne-Marie sat straight-backed on the circular pouffe opposite. In the chill of the audibly ventilating air, Jemima produced a bound folder.

  The day had begun with Anne-Marie’s first visit to the chamber of the House of Commons. It was two weeks after the general election – MPs gathered to elect the Speaker of the Commons, many using the occasion to swear the oath of allegiance. Lining up by the Speaker’s table among a throng of ministerial colleagues and MPs, Anne-Marie felt again like an exotic bird flown in from some obscure paradise, an object of extreme curiosity to be stared at, congratulated, shaken by hands and arms thrust from all directions. The bewigged Clerk of the House offered her a copy of the New Testament.

  Observing the hypocrisy all around, she took it and swore her ‘faithfulness and true allegiance to the monarch and heirs and successors, according to law. So help me God.’ Royalty and God all in one day – I’ve travelled far, she told herself, smiling fraudulently at the clerk.

  Steve Whalley ranged alongside, with surprising stealth for such a bulbous figure.

  ‘I trust your friends the asylum seekers are feeling the benefit of our enlightened new administration,’ he chirped. He leant to whisper in her ear, blowing a rank combination of cologne and halitosis. ‘By the way, kid, I believe we have an acquaintance in common.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she replied tartly.

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured, elongating the word. ‘Chap called Jimmy. I bumped into him the other day.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he soothed. ‘He only wanted to tell me to be nice to you.’ He turned and strode through the doors of the chamber towards the Central Lobby, leaving Anne-Marie in a cramp of confusion and dread that lingered through the day.

  ‘I activated your request,’ continued Jemima, handing over the folder. ‘I hope you will feel this addresses the issue you raised with me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Taking the folder, Anne-Marie walked slowly over to the glass frontage of her flat. She kicked off her shoes and stood, watching the still-light evening cloaking the humming city. She swivelled. ‘Perhaps, Jemima, you could first put this in context.’

  ‘It pertains to what was called Operation Hawk.’

  ‘Hawk?’

  ‘Yes, Minister.’

  ‘A bird of prey, I believe.’

  ‘I understand that David Wallis had pet kestrels in his childhood and it had no greater meaning than that.’

  ‘How convenient.’ Anne-Marie retraced her steps, sat down and began to read, determined to quash any emotion.

  ‘You asked me, Minister,’ said Jemima, searching for any signs of reaction, ‘to know the truth about David Wallis’s attitude towards you. While clearing his flat, we found a small dictaphone.’

  ‘Dictaphone?’

  ‘Yes. And microcassettes. Nothing sophisticated, what any office would have for standard dictation.’ Jemima paused. ‘It turned out he was recording an occasional diary. I understand no one knew about it. If they had, he would have been asked to desist.’ Another secret, thought Anne-Marie. Was it another deception, too? ‘There was no professional reason for it. His communications with his supervisor were face to face. Intentionally so.’

  ‘Supervisor?’ mused Anne-Maire. ‘Would that be the man called Jimmy by any chance? Uncle Jimmy to some.’

  ‘Yes, Minister.’ Jemima was inscrutable. ‘After Wallis’s disappearance the diary was transcribed and added to his file. The folder contains extracts which are relevant to his contact with you.’

  ‘So it is censored.’

  ‘Only for operational reasons, Minister. But there’s very little of that. It seems the recordings eventually became more of a respository for his . . . his emotions.’

  It seemed to Anne-Marie that emotion was an alien word to Jemima.

  Wednesday, 13 October 1993

  I followed her this morning from her house to the library. Grey day, drizzle. The walk took her 25 minutes. She has short, stocky legs, I was surprised by how fast they move. I watched her go into the library. I allowed half an hour, then went in myself. Sat opposite her at the other end of a long study table. She took a quick peep at me – I didn’t look back. Jimmy was not being very flattering. She’s nice-looking with long tresses of auburn hair. Almost red. And not podgy, it’s just puppy fat and only shows because she’s short. I’ll stay away tomorrow except to track what she does for lunch. Don’t want her to think I’m chasing her.

  Anne-Marie was smouldering. ‘You shits!’

  ‘Minister, I—’

  ‘This is vile, Jemima.’

  ‘Perhaps I could explain the thinking behind this operation, Minister,’ replied Jemima evenly. ‘Insofar as it has been explained to me.’

  ‘In a minute.’ Anne-Marie turned to the next entry.

  Friday, 15 October 1993

  I got to the library early. Took the seat she sat in two days ago. She arrived at her usual time and was bemused for a moment. She went to get her book and sat down at the other end of the table. So our positions were reversed. As planned, I could command the view beyond her. She was sweating from the walk. Maybe seeing me in her seat too. There were hints of looks by both of us.

  Eventually we exchanged a smile. I decided to go for it and waylaid her in the sandwich bar. We walked down the street and chatted. I think her nerves made her sound sharp but she settled down. No problem with me being a ‘Brit’. Seemed cool with it. She was fun. Easy to talk to. I did Jimmy’s idea of mispronouncing her name – not knowing it was Irish etc. Felt a bit slimy. We discussed our work. If I wasn’t coming home for the weekend, it could have gone on. But, as discussed with Jimmy, I guess slow is best. She needed to go to the chemist. Seemed flustered by it.

  Anne-Marie lowered the folder. ‘All right. I begin to see it all.’ Her voice was ice. She sensed Jemima gathering herself for a rehearsed speech.

  ‘Around that time, Minister, it was in fact the Metropolitan Police, Special Branch, which pioneered this intelligence-gathering tactic. Their initial focus was animal-rights activists. Some presented a lethal threat to animal-res
earch laboratories and scientists who worked in them. Reports of this later surfaced in the investigative press.’

  ‘Yes, I read them. Undercover policemen leading double lives who seduced vulnerable young women, impregnated them, made bigamous marriages with them.’

  ‘Yes, Minister. In retrospect, it feels . . .’ – she searched for a word – ‘unwholesome. But the danger was clear and present. It was perhaps therefore not unreasonable for the intelligence services in Ireland to take advantage of any similar opportunity.’

  ‘Jemima, how long have spies used seduction as a means of obtaining information?’

  Beads of sweat formed on Jemima’s brow. ‘I’m afraid I, er . . . I’m not—’

  ‘One hundred years? Two hundred? Two thousand, perhaps, back to Roman times? Egyptian?’

  ‘Yes, Minister.’

  ‘Shall we read on?’

  Sunday, 17 October 1993

  Got the last flight back. I want to be at the library early morning to catch her. The weekend was a mistake. I’d promised to go with Rob to his uncle’s shoot in Devon. They like to show me off as their expert shot. For the first time really, I saw it for what it is. A game of rich men paying to drink, kill and be merry. I drank too much myself. Then after lunch I lowered my gun following snipe. A beater saw me. It was ghastly, embarrassing. Rob noticed. He tried to interrogate me on the way back. Brought up leaving the army again and all that. Like before, I told him to f— off. None of his business. Made up later. We overnighted with Mum and Fiona. I think she and Rob are finally getting together. I was in my room, looking at photos of Dad and then me in uniform. I realized I just wanted to get back here. New life, new start, new adventure. Wherever it leads. The cause is good.

  Monday, 18 October 1993

  I passed her a note suggesting a pizza and she gave the thumbs-up straightaway. Then a rueful smile. I returned it. We got along nicely at supper. I think she quite likes this sad, lonely British boy. It’s an identity that suits me right now. I find it easy to slip into. The stars are in the right place.

  I got her on to her family. She mentioned the brother – then stopped herself saying too much. It made me wonder if she fears him. Or what she might let slip about him. I should be careful not to probe too obviously. There’s something about her that suggests secrets within. Sometimes she shows her spikiness and flashes her eyes. Throws down some kind of challenge. I like it. ‘The green-eyed girl of the Emerald Isle’. Intriguing days ahead.

  Anne-Marie’s face burnt with the dawning comprehension of the full extent of her blindness – even if she still held to the hope that something more complex might emerge. To Jemima she would show only her contempt. ‘So they targeted me to get to my brother.’

  ‘In effect, yes, Minister.’

  ‘Even though I’d managed to get away from that environment to pursue my studies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you not see a difference between a potentially violent animal-rights activist and a third-year law student?’

  ‘They were both means to an end.’

  ‘No, the difference is that I was going about my lawful business. I was not suspected of illegal activity.’

  ‘Not as far as I know, Minister.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Jemima?’ She could feel the anger returning.

  ‘They may have seen you as a suspect, Minister. By association, perhaps. The file doesn’t shed light on this.’

  ‘You people will invent anything to justify yourselves, won’t you?’ Anne-Marie thought of that first weekend when David said he’d been climbing Lugnaquilla. ‘It was all a lie from the outset.’

  ‘Yes. That’s certainly how it began.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jemima hesitated. ‘If I may, Minister, I suggest you read to the end and come to your own conclusions.’

  ‘Are you going to just sit there while I do?’

  ‘My instructions are not to let this material out of my sight.’

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, at least give me one night on my own with . . . with him.’ Anne-Marie could see the hesitation, and then a frown cross Jemima’s face.

  ‘I’m not authorized to do this. I’ll need to retrieve the folder before you leave in the morning.’

  ‘So be it. Now you may leave, Jemima. You can see yourself out.’

  The deputy director-general of the Security Service, MI5, listening in to the conversation in Anne-Marie Gallagher’s apartment, was satisfied. In the rehearsal, they had anticipated that the Minister would demand to be allowed to read the file alone. Jemima Sheffield’s concession might therefore be seen as an act of personal loyalty to her, which could begin to repair their relationship. From that, further confidences might follow.

  It was also possible that Ms Gallagher might be prompted by reading the file to perform some action – make a phone call, for example. If so, it could throw a chink of light on the final moments of David Wallis’s life. More than two decades later these remained a mystery to the Secret Intelligence Service, whose operation it then was, and the Security Service, which was charged with monitoring any blowback. Interrogation of Anne-Marie Gallagher, a.k.a. Maire McCartney, had been ruled out at the time as unlikely to be productive, and potentially counterproductive. Surveillance, however, had never been excluded and this moment could be a unique opportunity in the long aftermath.

  The ‘voice’ of the diary shared a tone Anne-Marie recognized from the David who had first shown himself to her: boyish, fun, adventurous, signs of fragility. But he was leading a double life. She wanted to know if the diary would shed light on how he resolved it.

  Friday, 12 November 1993

  I may be taking it too slowly. Giving her too much time for thought. (She remembered that long hiatus before he made his move.) Making her ask questions that might not have reared their heads if I – well, we – had just got on with it. We’d have certainly both been up for it. She said out of the blue she was worried because she didn’t really know me.

  I was thrown. It was as if she’d become unsure about me. Needed someone to vouch for me. I could only think of one solution. Phoned Rob to come over for a weekend. Climb a mountain and meet my new girl. Bit of trouble persuading him. I apologized for being an arse at the shoot. Eventually he agreed. Obviously I couldn’t tell him more at this stage or he’d have pulled out. Preparing myself for an awkward conversation when I meet him at the airport.

  Monday, 29 November 1993

  The weekend worked – just. There was nearly a fall at the first hurdle. I waited till Rob was safely inside the car. Then explained the name change. I said my chances with her would be ruined if she ever discovered I was a British soldier. Especially that I’d served in the North. Even trickier to explain the orphan thing. No family left and all that. He blew a gasket. Accused me of playing tricks like I always did. He shouted at me. Demanded I turn round and put him on the next plane back to London. I did my best pleading. All being done for love, she really could be the one. Finally he cooled down. He was a bit sour with me whenever she was out of sight. But he played the game.

  He had suckered his best friend, too. There was no need now to interrogate Rob McNeil. He’d been nothing more than a gopher for David ‘Vallely’. Just as he was for his new boss at Number 10 now.

  I think Rob believed it when I told him it was all for love. The odd thing was that I began to as well. My hours alone with her were almost dreamlike. Something beautiful happening. But which me was it happening to? While we were lying together, she told me about her life with Mrs Ryan. Said that was the real reason she could never invite me to her flat. I remembered to act with surprise. Part of me is getting in deep. I’ll leave her alone for a day.

  Wednesday, 1 December 1993

  Saw Jimmy to report on the weekend. He wants me to tell her my father was a soldier. I said it wasn’t a good idea. He was insistent. Said her telling me about Mrs Ryan and the kids was a big deal for her. I needed to tell her something big in return.
Something really awkward for me to face up. He said it will solidify us. I kept suspecting he had another reason. Asked him. He denied it. You never know with Jimmy. I said I didn’t actually seem to be doing anything. He reminded me ‘slowly slowly’. Said wait till after Christmas.

  Thursday, 2 December 1993

  I collected her from the library. As we walked across the park, I saw a bloke from Exeter who did the same course as me. Not a friend but he’d have recognized me. Like I did him. Nasty moment which I didn’t cover too well. Pretended I was avoiding an old girlfriend. I think it ended up OK. The car didn’t impress her – should have known. It went well in the flat. I had a sense of something needing to be made up after what happened in the park. It suddenly became the right moment to tell her about my father. She was shocked. But it was surprise not hostility. She’s too open-minded for that. In fact it led to an interesting discussion about politics and violence here. First time that’s come up. She’ll want it to be the last too.

  Tuesday, 21 December 1993

  Saw Jimmy. Says I should make the next move after Christmas when the chance comes. It’s a relief. The inactivity makes it harder to sustain things. She’s going home just for a couple of nights. Says she doesn’t want to but owes it to her ma and da. I’m the same. Don’t want to but owe it to Mum and Fiona.

  Monday, 27 December 1993

  Midnight. Just got back after dropping her near Mrs Ryan. Everything’s changed, opened up. I feel a mix of excitement and emotion. Apprehension too. I left home late morning Boxing Day. It was good to see Mum and Fiona. But I felt like that last time after the shoot. Just wanted to be back here. Got a late afternoon flight yesterday. She’d said she was coming back the day after Boxing Day. I couldn’t face being in the flat alone. So I drove west, not east. Just headed off to where we’d spent that weekend. But this time it was dull cloud. I started climbing one of the Bens but looked back to see land and sea merge in a dark, grey nothing. Came back down and stopped at a pub. Inside there was a row of black-jacketed men, peat cutters with black caps. Sitting uniformly on stools all along the bar. One by one, the heads swivelled. Dark, sunken eyes inspected me. I turned round and left. Never felt further away from home.