Agent of the State

by Roger Pearce

  The video lasted a couple of minutes. When it ended they sat in stunned silence for a few moments. ‘Now will you give this bastard up?’ said Kerr, eventually. When Masters looked away he reached across her to his middle drawer, banging it open against her knees without apology. She had to push back as he shuffled through his papers until he reached an enlarged photograph of Tania. He dropped it on the desk in front of her. ‘You’re a teacher, Pamela,’ he said angrily. ‘Now you see what happens when good people do nothing.’

  ‘You heard the woman’s voice goading him on from behind the camera?’ said Masters, stony-faced. ‘That’s Claire Grant. She’s the one filming it, I’m telling you. She often used to do that. She loves it. To film and be filmed.’

  Kerr took his chair again. ‘And I take it Jerry sent this too?’

  ‘I called him just before I left, told him I was coming to see Melanie. “Ultima voluntas” means “last will”. I really fear for him.’

  ‘So are you going to carry on playing the Queen of Dumb,’ said Kerr, ‘or help us put a stop to this?’

  ‘Go and arrest Claire bloody Grant. As soon as I saw that bitch on the lunchtime news I guessed what she was up to. That’s why I’m here. I have spoken out.’

  Kerr was looking her straight in the eye. ‘But that’s not the only reason you came forward now, is it?’ he said. ‘It wasn’t only Jerry Thompson who made the connection between in-house shagging and outright slaughter, was it?’

  Masters lowered her head. ‘Jeremy called me on Monday night.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Told me Joe Allenby had been murdered for sending you that stuff about Ahmed Jibril. You can see why he’s so terrified for himself.’

  ‘So that’s what drove you here, is it?’ said Kerr. ‘Guilt for a good man you didn’t even know?’

  ‘But I did.’ Head lowered, Masters was quietly weeping again, her voice scarcely audible. ‘Joe knew about everything.’

  Melanie touched her arm. ‘He was the other person you phoned, wasn’t he, Pamela? That day we first met? The international call? You rang Joe, didn’t you?’

  ‘I loved him.’ She looked up at Melanie, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Joe Allenby was the father of my baby.’

  While Melanie took Masters back to Reception, Kerr watched the video again, examining every detail. ‘Did you spot it?’ he said, the moment she returned and took Masters’s chair beside him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know who “Harold” is.’ Kerr muted the sound and froze the video. He clicked through a series of frames. ‘Look at the bastard’s left hand against Tania’s leg, as he really gets worked up. Watch the glove. It slips . . . just . . . here. See that dark mark on the back of his hand? Who did I tell you had been having chemo?’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘She mentioned Africa, right? I remembered he served two tours in Nairobi. Alan Fargo just confirmed he was in Bulgaria before that.’

  ‘So why didn’t you . . . ?’

  ‘Because I wanted to hear the bastard’s name from her own lips.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Kerr checked his watch, locked the screen and grabbed his jacket. ‘I’m going to see him, of course. And while I’m gone I want you to get hold of Kestrel. Wherever you catch up with him, I’ll be there.’

  Perplexed, Melanie ran after Kerr and caught him by the lift lobby. ‘Look, I think Pamela may be right. Don’t you think we should lay off Kestrel for a while? I mean, what he tried to do on the Tube. He knows what happened to Joe for speaking out. The guy’s on the edge, John. Depressed. I think he needs help.’

  ‘Find him,’ Kerr shot back, as he stepped into the lift.

  ‘John, I’m really not comfortable with this.’

  ‘Today,’ he said, as the doors closed on them.

  Fifty-one

  Wednesday, 26 September, 17.13, chairman’s office, National Crime Agency

  Jacketless and relaxed, cuffs turned back, Theo Canning bounded across the carpet to greet Kerr, pumping his hand and leading him into the room.

  ‘John, welcome aboard at long last,’ he said, ushering him to an armchair. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  Kerr had never known a senior official capable of disarming people as expertly as Canning. ‘So the magic touch finally worked, Theo.’ He smiled.

  ‘Your commander Paula Whatever totally blanked me, then called out of the blue last night to offer you up immediately. Can’t wait to hear what you did to annoy her.’ He chuckled. ‘Anyway, you were spot on about Mickey Baines. But I want us to keep this as close as possible, obviously. Things turned out very badly for this chap. For your ears only, John.’

  Over the next five minutes Canning described the discovery of the murdered Mickey Baines just outside Amsterdam. He had been found with his throat cut and a kilo of heroin stuffed inside his jacket. Early conclusions from Dutch police were that he had been murdered in the course of an illegal drugs transaction. ‘Bastard was on leave driving his own car. Absolutely no official business in Holland, but loaded with Class A in a city he knew like the back of his hand. The Dutch have promised a thorough investigation but don’t hold your breath. Now you see why I need you alongside.’

  Kerr kept himself as relaxed as Canning, mirroring the other man’s deception. ‘Hope I can make it worth your while.’

  ‘You can help me start cutting out the cancer straight away.’ He sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers in a steeple, and dropped his voice. Kerr had to drag his eyes from the bruising on the back of Canning’s left hand. ‘Now for the difficult part, which I’m telling you in absolute confidence. I’ve had suspicions about Baines for several months. Already asked others to take a look at him, people from my old firm, and your information confirmed the dirt they managed to dig up. Now here’s the urgency. Baines was due to receive a payment late tonight from a major target in our Operation Pyramid. It’s a bog-standard sting. Because Baines went AWOL we set up the transaction through a third party, another corrupt officer within this organisation. We arrested him this morning. He’s rolled over, admitted everything, but I very much want this handover to go ahead.’

  ‘Using me as the decoy,’ said Kerr, every nerve on high alert.

  ‘Got it in one.’ He looked apologetic. ‘I know you don’t start officially till Monday.’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Time’s pressing. And I’m having to keep this so tight within the Agency.’

  It was Kerr’s turn to lean forward now, his smile even broader than Canning’s. ‘Theo, I don’t need persuading. We’re on the same side.’

  ‘Spoken like a true gent.’ Canning chuckled again. ‘The cut-out is unknown to the target. You say the code word, they hand over the loot. Risk is negligible, John. Armed cover and arrest teams on the plot, and we’ll pick up any counter-surveillance. Just receive the money, keep the evidential chain intact.’

  ‘Where’s the meet?’ Kerr’s voice was so light he could have been arranging a social get-together.

  ‘Wapping. So, will you do it, my friend?’

  ‘I’ve got masses of loose ends back at the office,’ said Kerr, standing, ‘but sure, of course I will. What time is the handover?’

  Canning glanced at the clock. ‘Twenty-three-thirty. Gives us about six hours. Leave me your mobile number so I can brief you later this evening. And again, everything’s strictly entre nous, John,’ he said, as Kerr scribbled his number. ‘Dirty linen and all that.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kerr, and edged towards Canning’s private bathroom. Do you mind?’

  Kerr locked the door and retrieved a couple of tissues with a few strands of Canning’s hair from the waste bin. The toilet was unflushed, so he dipped a handful of toilet paper in the urine, enclosed it in some paper towels and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands.

  Opening the door to his outer office, Canning shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll set things up and give yo
u a bell,’ he said, as Kerr memorised Canning’s mobile number from the whiteboard behind Dorothy’s head.

  ‘Great to be on board, Theo.’ He smiled broadly again, searching the other man’s face. ‘And I won’t let you down.’

  Fifty-two

  Wednesday, 26 September, 17.28, Eagle Security Services

  Karl Sergeyev was waiting in his tiny office for an evening driving assignment when Yuri Goschenko rang for him. The call came thirty minutes early, leaving him no time to freshen up and snatch some food. Behind with his laundry, he had worn the same shirt for two days, which he would never have contemplated in his previous life. There was a stain on his pale blue silk tie and his suit trousers were creased from hours spent sitting in Goschenko’s limousine.

  He had just taken a call from Nancy, the third that day, and her mood had graduated from upset through anxiety to screaming fury. Karl had missed two of the money transfers he had promised her since leaving home. The previous day he had defaulted on a mortgage repayment. The children needed new uniform and shoes for school, and trainers for home. When Nancy said she was desperately short of money Karl knew she was telling the truth, for his own situation had lurched rapidly from tricky to dire. In a week he would receive his final full pay cheque from the Met, a realisation that had already sent Nancy scouring the sits-vac columns. Worse still, his remuneration from Goschenko, in terms of timing and amount, remained worryingly opaque.

  A full week after he had watched Olga and Goschenko having sex, Karl still felt wrecked and deeply unhappy. He had not told Olga what he had seen, letting her false denial stand unchallenged. Although she was still angry with him, her sexual passion seemed as hot as ever, and she insisted she wanted to change her life so that they could be together. This confused Karl even more. Obsession, jealousy and humiliation joined forces with guilt over Nancy and the children. His emotions were tearing him apart.

  Karl had always been known for his optimism, and now he told himself everything would be all right. He knew that, observing each chapter in his complicated love life, bemused work friends wryly referred to him as the ‘hope-over-experience guy’. Karl had always taken this as a compliment, but his newest relationship was proving a lot more testing. This affair was making him recalibrate the balance with each day that passed. His heart longed for a future with Olga, but his head warned him to keep his rented flat.

  Buttoning his jacket, Karl entered Goschenko’s palatial office to find the throne occupied by Anatoli Rigov. Goschenko sat in a slightly more modest upholstered chair to one side of the vast desk, in clear deference to the Russian trade minister. Neither was smiling.

  Goschenko spoke first, his hand outstretched. ‘Key,’ was all he said.

  Mystified, Karl reached into his pocket for the Mercedes key and handed it over. ‘I warned you, Karl,’ said Goschenko. ‘I cannot employ a man who drinks and drives. Who takes so little pride in his appearance.’

  Everyone remained silent, until Rigov broke the atmosphere with a smile. ‘I would put it somewhat differently. For a mere chauffeur in London we have people like Boris. You have the skills to navigate a far more complex world, my friend.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘For that I can only express my regret,’ said Rigov, with a sideways glance at Goschenko. ‘Which is why I wanted to see you. I believe you were disciplined because of . . . shall we say over-sensitivity by our embassy officials? I merely informed the ambassador you were being fastidious about your duties that evening. In any event, I apologise. That is what I am here to tell you. I feel responsible for what happened, Karl, and want to help you resume the profession for which you are so well suited.’

  Karl was astonished at Rigov’s forwardness, which sent a pulse of excitement through him. His career had come to a shuddering halt just as his emotional life had shot into overdrive, and this work-life imbalance had been another cause of unhappiness. Somewhere deep inside him a gear changed up, but he put on his sceptical face. ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘I have seen you work at first hand, Karl,’ Rigov continued. ‘It pains me to see a brother Russian treated with such disregard. I want to put things right between us.’

  Another pulse. Karl gave a short laugh as he briefly reached inside his jacket. ‘Not possible.’

  ‘People change their minds,’ said Goschenko.

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘And people can be overruled,’ said Rigov, smoothly. ‘Yuri is concerned about you. He knows of your emotional ties to the girl and your problems at home. Your shortage of money, in particular.’

  Karl shot another look at Goschenko. ‘Did Olga tell you that? Have you been talking about me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Rigov, all smiles again. ‘Your face is an open book to us, Karl. Right now we can both read the anxiety written there. It is natural. And I want to help you get your life back at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We hold you in high regard, Karl, as a fellow Russian.’ The smile had not left Rigov’s face. Even Goschenko was looking happy. ‘We have seen you with your family.’

  ‘You’ve been watching me?’

  ‘And they deserve a secure future. So does Olga, would you not agree?’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘I want our friendship to grow. You accept my invitation for a discreet drink from time to time to talk about matters of mutual interest.’

  Now Karl managed the flicker of a smile. ‘And who would I be talking with, Mr Rigov?’

  ‘Come now, my friend.’ Rigov was regarding him like a long-suffering parent. ‘We both recognised each other the moment we met. Yuri will be here for you if I am away.’

  ‘And what if I choose not to?’

  Rigov shrugged. ‘Then we part as we met, as friends. You owe us nothing,’ he said, with a glance at Goschenko. ‘But Yuri has yet to pay you.’ He paused as Goschenko placed a wad of new fifty-pound notes on the desk. ‘Five thousand pounds, on account. Whether you accept my offer or not, this is yours. Payment for the services you have already rendered Yuri. And a goodwill gift, compensation for the difficulty we have caused you.’

  Karl exhaled and sat back in his chair. He stayed silent for a few moments, looking between the two of them. ‘Does Olga know about this?’

  Rigov shook his head. ‘No one outside this room. If you allow me to help you, I will arrange a less clumsy method of remuneration, of course.’

  Karl had been covering Russian targets long enough to know that ‘parting as friends’ was an old KGB euphemism for murder, sometimes slow and agonising, often violent and bloody. He reached forward for the money and looked from one to the other. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Goschenko spoke first. ‘Just continue being a good intelligence officer at Scotland Yard, of course,’ he said.

  Then he caught Rigov looking hard at him. ‘And a faithful Russian for us, naturally.’ The smile returned, but the voice did not sound friendly any more.

  Melanie had to loiter around MI5 headquarters at Thames House for nearly two hours before Kestrel appeared. She waited out of sight in Victoria Tower Gardens, a precious stretch of green between Millbank and the river, the route Kerr’s agent always took for the short walk to Westminster Underground. She sprawled with a paperback on a bench beneath overhanging trees looking across the grey, fast-moving Thames to the flashy glass apartments on the south side of Lambeth Bridge.

  By the time Kestrel appeared, dusk was falling. Melanie had just climbed the steps beside the children’s playground for another check of the Thames House entrance when she saw him. She watched him turn left outside the front arch and launch himself onto the pedestrian crossing in the busy Horseferry Road. Traffic was racing onto Lambeth Bridge and his sudden appearance forced everything to brake sharply. Melanie heard a screech of tyres, then White Van Man was shouting obscenities through the passenger window. But Kestrel seemed completely unaware, entering the gardens at a rush, raincoat flapping, his comb-over waving in the breeze from the
river.

  Melanie kept herself invisible as he hurried towards Parliament Square. She caught up with him by the Buxton Memorial, a fountain erected to celebrate the emancipation of slaves.

  ‘We got it, Jeremy,’ was all she said, lightly taking his arm.

  He swung round in a rush, evidently unaware she had been following him. He looked tortured, face sweaty and grey despite the fast walk, his whole body shaking.

  ‘The video.’ Melanie spoke quietly. ‘Pamela told us everything and John needs to see you again right now.’

  Kestrel swung his arm away. ‘Well, he can bloody piss off.’

  ‘This is too serious to leave, Jeremy.’

  ‘And you, too.’

  Melanie kept her distance as Kestrel raced off towards the Tube without looking back, half running now. On the busy approach to Westminster Bridge he charged across the road without waiting for the lights to change, and Melanie almost lost him in the crowds converging on the station. She managed to get alongside him again as he went through the ticket barrier, following him onto the escalator and standing on the step above him. He was heading for the District and Circle Lines, rather than his normal Jubilee which would take him home. An alarm bell immediately rang in Melanie’s head, for she knew that only Jubilee Line trains were separated from the platform by Perspex security screens, making it impossible to jump onto the line.

  Kestrel seemed desperate now, looking about wildly for anyone who might recognise him as they descended into the depths. She spoke directly into his ear. ‘Jeremy, you have nothing to fear. We’ll protect you. But we can’t let this go. None of us.’

  When she touched his arm again he seemed to go crazy, yelling, ‘Thief! Thief! Leave me alone!’ at the top of his voice and pushing her away from him. As they rumbled downwards the scene was unambiguous. Commuters saw a respectable man in a suit, just like them, being threatened by a woman from the underclass.