Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  Rigov had chosen the location because it was close to the motorway, where he could quickly lose himself in the traffic, and far enough from Cheltenham, where his secret agent lived and worked. They had met here once before, in the winter of 2007, shortly after Rigov had recruited him; both had enjoyed the risotto.

  The agent stayed seated as Rigov joined him and shook his hand. In these public surroundings, both men remained nameless and chose their words with care. The agent was in his late forties, short and paunchy, with lank hair dyed a gingery brown, and stained, roll-your-own-tobacco fingers. He wore the faded jeans, black T-shirt and baseball shoes of a man in midlife crisis. For eighteen years he had been employed as a low-paid technical officer at GCHQ, the British government’s gigantic listening station in Cheltenham. For the past three of these he had also worked for Anatoli Rigov, passing information on logistical planning, strategic priorities and, in two especially bountiful years, passwords and an encryption key.

  To the FSB, successor to the KGB and equally deadly, he was the most satisfactory of espionage recruits, a volunteer motivated solely by greed. Their prime asset, born and brought up in Gloucester, displayed none of the politics, ideology or fear that made other cases so demanding. This relationship required nothing more than the occasional heavy drink and regular payments from Moscow into a secret account in Grand Cayman.

  No one in the restaurant would hear Rigov’s foreign accent. At his bidding, the agent ordered for them both, risotto and large glasses of red wine. Rigov had already decided this would be their final lunch and the last time they would see each other. The signs that all was not well had been evident to him since May: within a month of being arrested for driving under the influence, his sole intelligence asset in this quiet corner of the world had deserted his wife for a local barmaid twenty years younger, then promptly been accused of drunkenness and sexual harassment at work. He swore on his mother’s life that the allegation was rubbish, but Rigov recognised the crumbling life of a stressed agent in middle age and sensed danger. In the FSB man’s long experience, one indiscretion so easily led to another. Left unattended, the dominoes might collapse all the way to his office in Moscow.

  They talked for a while, inconsequential chatter about anything but drink and sex, until the risotto arrived. Rigov waited for his agent to order more wine and offer his mea culpa.

  The man picked up his fork. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this. Really.’ The voice was West Country, slow and soft, but Rigov picked up the hint of desperation, the plea of a failure needing money for a new life with a younger woman.

  Rigov gave him the smile he had used against Karl Sergeyev. ‘No hard feelings. As I always said, we met as friends and that is how we will part.’

  ‘This stuff in the office is all bollocks.’ He leant forward, invading the Russian’s personal space, his gaze intense. ‘Honestly. It’ll blow over. I can handle it.’

  Rigov slowly shook his head. ‘But they may review your security clearance,’ he said quietly, holding his ground, ‘which eliminates your usefulness to me.’

  ‘No. I’ll dig myself out of this shit. Promise.’

  ‘And in the meantime you need money. I understand completely.’ The smile was still there as the envelope appeared in Rigov’s hand. He slid the agent’s plate to one side as he handed it across the table. ‘Which is why we are continuing the transfer for two more months, as a goodwill gesture. We wait until things settle, then we meet again.’ He pressed the envelope into the man’s hand. ‘But you have to sign on the dotted line.’

  Rigov had remembered his agent wore glasses for reading. As he nervously pulled the single sheet of paper from its envelope and fumbled with the spectacles case, Rigov held the pen directly over his agent’s food and clicked the end twice, squirting two streams of clear liquid into the risotto. ‘These days, we all have to satisfy the bean counters,’ he said. Rigov scribbled on the envelope to demonstrate the pen did not work, then produced another from his jacket and handed it across the table. ‘With a pen that writes.’ He smiled.

  The signing was a charade, for the account was already closed and the agent doomed the moment he swallowed his food and settled their bill in cash. The phial in Rigov’s magic pen contained a new poison developed by the FSB, whose scientists had exploited the European E. coli epidemic in 2011 to develop an even more aggressive variant, resistant to every known treatment. In the days to come the bacterium would quietly embed itself in the agent’s gut. Within a week he would suffer stomach cramps, quickly followed by diarrhoea, vomiting, collapse of the nervous system, kidney failure and death.

  Thirty

  Tuesday, 18 September, 13.47, River Thames

  Because it was closest to the station exit, Kestrel, John Kerr’s mole within MI5, always travelled to work in the third carriage of his Jubilee Line train from Stanmore to Westminster. Whenever possible he stood by the second set of double doors, so that he could be first onto the escalator for the brisk ten-minute walk to ‘Toad Hall’, the fun name by which MI5 employees referred to Thames House, their headquarters.

  For the journey home, around five-forty-five every weekday evening, Kestrel always boarded the fifth carriage. His routine breached the first principle of tradecraft, which required intelligence officers to avoid regular patterns of behaviour. It was a curious lapse from a man whose job was to deal with security breaches.

  This morning he was much later than usual, close to lunchtime. Waiting to join Kestrel’s train at Baker Street, Melanie spotted him in the crowded carriage exactly where he was supposed to be, complete with shabby blue raincoat and copy of the Financial Times. He was shorter than most other men in the carriage and appeared to be experimenting with a comb-over. He evidently clocked her the moment she boarded the train. This morning she guessed his reliance on the second law of deceit; no overt recognition of people you knew was for personal, not professional, reasons.

  As Melanie moved up the carriage towards him, he turned away and buried himself in the newspaper. ‘You didn’t return John’s calls,’ she said quietly, squeezing in close between a couple of rucksacks, ‘and he needs to have a chat today. Right now, in fact.’

  They were slowing on the approach to Westminster. Kestrel looked around and tried to appear cool, but Melanie saw panic in his eyes. ‘I’m due in the office, for God’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve got meetings.’

  Melanie’s hand came over the top of the paper. ‘So throw a sickie.’ The train stopped and the doors whooshed open. ‘You know where to go.’

  She followed him out of the station and watched him turn left, calling the office with his excuses as he crossed the Embankment towards Westminster Bridge. Then she hurried back down into tunnel, taking the Tube to Tower Hill.

  Kerr was loitering by Westminster Pier. He watched Kestrel purchase two boat tickets to Tower Bridge and waited for him to board first.

  Kestrel’s real name was Jeremy Thompson, and he was a middle-ranking officer in MI5. Because he doubled as John Kerr’s agent of duress, discretion was vital. They had used this method twice before, and today the river was perfect for their meeting, visibility reduced by grey cloud and drizzle.

  Kerr waited for the crew to cast off before joining him in the open by the small deck on the stern, separated from the saloon by toilets and a storage cabin, where the engines would camouflage their voices. The boat was empty, apart from a German family in waterproofs being blown about on the foredeck and a scattering of French retirees in the saloon buying drinks and crisps from the female deckhand. Without any prospect of tips, the coxswain had abandoned his running commentary on famous sights.

  Kerr had originally phoned Kestrel early on Friday morning because he needed the inside story on Ahmed Jibril. But things had moved on in the intervening four days: right now he was preoccupied with the heat coming from Philippa Harrington about his illicit search in Knightsbridge. Complaints from MI5’s lower orders were routine: why should Kerr’s misbehaviour be attracting the anger of t
he DG herself?

  Kestrel looked gloomy as Kerr gave his account, fixing his eyes on their soapy wake as they sailed downstream towards Waterloo. When he had finished, Kerr tapped him on the shoulder. ‘So how did they get to me, Jerry?’ At their very first meeting Kestrel had told Kerr he hated any shortening of his name; Kerr used it the whole time. ‘Must have been from an OP or remote camera.’

  ‘Or cell site on your mobile,’ said Kestrel, looking away to the riverbank.

  ‘No chance,’ said Kerr. ‘So why would they keep CCTV on an empty house? And, more to the point, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m in vetting, for Christ’s sake,’ said Kestrel, in exasperation, ‘not in the loop any more.’

  This was true, to an extent. When they had first met, Kestrel had been working as a liaison officer. But he was being disingenuous, for Kerr knew that his current job was in the policy secretariat, with access to the director-general’s private office, and chapter and verse on MI5’s strategic planning. In some respects Kerr judged him to be better placed than before.

  ‘Don’t try that “need to know” crap on me again. I’m telling you, Jerry, I believe they took away a body that night. Possibly a fourteen-year-old girl’s. I’ll know for sure very soon. The place was deep cleaned like you never saw in your life but I still found traces of blood on the floor. And brackets inside for some kind of video loop. What’s that all about? And why would your engineers want to cover it outside by remote cameras? That’s even weirder. I need to see the paperwork on this, and I know you guys don’t fart without creating a record, so have another think.’

  Jeremy Thompson was forty-two, married with three children. Kerr had recruited him four years earlier after a fundamentalist-Christian PC had arrested him with another man on Hampstead Heath for committing what he insisted on describing as a ‘lewd act’, then becoming involved in a brawl. The moment they found Thompson’s government pass, the local uniform boss had called John Kerr, his contact in SO15. Kerr had made the deal with the duty inspector in three minutes; his pitch to Thompson in the stinking police cell had taken four hours.

  Over the years, Kestrel had veered between co-operation and resentment. On dark days, when he was fractious after a risky cruising adventure the night before, Kerr would calmly remind him he had saved his job and his marriage, but Kestrel often responded badly. ‘What you do to me is straightforward fucking blackmail,’ he had once shouted into the mobile Kerr had given him, ‘and all for sticking my cock in a chartered accountant’s gob.’ Kestrel’s offence, of course, lay not in the bisexuality but the subterfuge. Both men knew Kerr’s leverage would evaporate the day Kestrel came out to his wife and put his hands up to his vetting officer.

  ‘I can’t call up the file,’ he said eventually, ‘because there almost certainly isn’t one.’ The two German kids ran through the saloon onto their deck, caught Kestrel’s grim look and retreated. As she turned, the little girl tripped on his shoe and burst into tears.

  ‘Wrong answer. And do you know what, Jerry? I might have let this go if Philippa hadn’t been so enthusiastic about slagging me off to my boss,’ Kerr yelled, above the child’s screams. They watched her run back past the wheelhouse to her parents. ‘We’re talking a life here, Jerry, so don’t blank me.’

  Kestrel sighed heavily and his body actually seemed to deflate. ‘Look, this all goes back a long way. It started overseas. A small circle in MI6. Totally in-house. No one outside the family. Queen and country offered exotic postings in those days, alternative lifestyles. Boys, girls, discretion assured, especially if you were married. Anything to keep the pecker up and all totally unofficial.’

  ‘Honey traps, you mean?’

  ‘No way. House parties among consenting adults.’

  ‘So, a bunch of immoral bastards screwed around to liven up the spying and took it up the arse from time to time. What’s new in the higher gene pool?’

  ‘MI6 saw no reason to change just because they got transferred back to Century House.’

  The German parents were in the saloon now, buying drinks from the bar. The boy was pointing at Kestrel, and the mother, little girl in her arms, glared at him.

  ‘Then, in the nineties, the management introduced lie-detector tests and some got out PDQ. A few took their chances and winged it, and a handful were protected. After a while they introduced a few key players in my Service. Things sort of carried on as normal, but on a much smaller scale.’

  ‘So how do you know about this?’ Kerr’s question echoed back at them as they steamed under Waterloo Bridge.

  Kestrel looked back through the saloon, then turned to face aft, as if the tourists might read his lips. ‘One of our leavers told me. A regular desk officer, nothing flash.’

  ‘Which branch?’

  ‘G. International extremism. Officially she resigned to retrain as a teacher, but that wasn’t the real reason. She knew what was happening.’

  ‘She was involved in it, you mean,’ said Kerr.

  ‘Everything changed. They started to introduce girls from outside the circle. Sometimes boys, too.’

  ‘Hookers, you mean? Rent boys?’

  ‘Kids. Children were being kidnapped off the street.’

  ‘Where? Here in London? Don’t go all coy on me, Jerry.’

  ‘Not London. Abroad. I don’t know. Turkey, I think. She just said it had all gone horribly wrong.’

  ‘Because they were compromised, you mean? Who found out about it?’

  ‘No one. It’s a total secret.’

  ‘So give me some names. Spit it out, Jerry. You’re used to that.’

  ‘I don’t have any detail. It’s never talked about in the office.’

  ‘Well, MI5 didn’t follow those two men to Marston Street by accident, so someone in your Service is aware. And if they’re not part of whatever this is, who are they protecting?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear.’

  ‘So I’ll give their boss a pull and ask him.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Kestrel looked close to tears. ‘Please don’t do that.’

  They stood in silence, watching the Houses of Parliament recede as the boat rounded the wide bend towards Southwark. ‘How did your friend find out?’ asked Kerr, eventually.

  ‘She wasn’t a friend, exactly. I hardly knew her.’ Kerr’s agent moved to the port side of the boat and stood watching HMS President, the old naval training ship. ‘She signed the Official Secrets clause promising to keep schtum for life, got pissed, took me home and shagged me. Blurted it out over a post-coital ciggy. Followed by a surprisingly efficient blow-job.’ Kestrel took a deep breath. ‘They were being trafficked to order. I think she said they were being smuggled into the UK for sex and never heard of again.’

  Kerr was incredulous. ‘You think?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Like I said, she was drunk. We were both the worse for wear.’

  ‘So let me get this straight. HMG employees were actually conniving in the importation of these kids, right? And still are, for all we know.’

  ‘A tiny circle. A rogue element.’

  ‘Great. That makes me feel a lot better. Arranging to have them trafficked to order. Kidnapped, abused and murdered. I’d say this is a real show-stopper, Jerry, wouldn’t you? Pushes torturing AQ suspects right to the back of the queue. And what did your friend do about it?’

  ‘What could she do?’

  ‘How about blow the fucking whistle?’

  ‘I dunno, by the time she ’fessed to me she was well out of it. And when you leave the Service the shutters come crashing down.’

  ‘So why would she tell all to a relative stranger?’

  ‘It’s what people do under stress, John,’ Kestrel suddenly snapped back, ‘or duress. Christ, you should know.’

  ‘Or maybe she thought you had the guts to follow it through.’ Kerr watched Kestrel’s eyes slip downstream to his right and knew he was looking out for the City of London School, his old school. ‘But you didn’t, did you? You did swe
et FA,’ he said, turning his agent to face him, ‘and now you’re going to tell me who she is, so you won’t feel quite so bloody guilty once I know for certain they removed a young girl’s body that night, with MI5 watching and protecting them.’

  Kestrel stood silently by the rail, looking out at St Paul’s. ‘She’s a teacher at a girls’ private school near Windsor,’ he said, watching the happy part of his life drift away. ‘But I’m telling you she won’t want to get involved. She’ll deny everything.’

  ‘I need to speak with her anyway. Name, Jerry.’

  ‘Pamela Masters.’

  ‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ said Kerr, squeezing his agent’s arm. ‘Doing the right thing at last?’

  ‘What? Betraying the Service to you?’

  ‘Thought we were on the same side.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ said Kestrel, with a harsh laugh. ‘This is blatant fucking coercion, not patriotism.’

  They paused, both looking up at Tower Bridge. ‘So while you’re on a roll, Jerry, what’s happening with Ahmed Jibril over at your place?’ said Kerr, evenly.

  Kestrel immediately looked away. ‘John, let’s not go there.’

  ‘I’m already too far down the track. And don’t tell me you haven’t got a file on him.’

  They were almost at their destination, slowing on the approach to St Katharine’s Dock in front of the Tower Hotel. ‘There is, but it’s under double cover. Never leaves Philippa’s office.’

  ‘What does it say? Tell me, Jerry.’

  The crewman had come aft to take charge of disembarkation now, followed by the German family. On the pontoon, another hand waited with the gangway on wheels. Releasing the guardrail, the crewman held the mooring line ready to cast to his mate on the dock.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So why the nervous breakdown all of a sudden?’ Kerr could see his agent growing increasingly agitated with talk of Ahmed Jibril. He was like a trapped animal, eyes flitting everywhere, looking desperately for an escape. ‘Philippa tells my boss to do nothing more on Jibril and everyone’s even more pissed off with me than usual. Where did I go wrong, Jerry? What makes this target so special?’