Deep Blue

by Alan Judd

  Josef’s eyes were submerged again by wrinkled flesh. ‘Sir, you must please understand that in my world that word had a meaning different to that which I presume you intend.’

  Charles smiled back. ‘And in my world it means even less than you think. It means that I record that you have been told that you are no longer regarded as an active agent and that you are to be thanked for your service by—’

  ‘You are children.’ Josef ceased smiling as he leaned forward and helped himself to a Montecristo cigar from the box on the table. He offered the packet to Charles, who didn’t want another but felt he should accept. He had followed his host in using empty plates as ashtrays.

  ‘By which I mean you are not serious.’ Josef paused as they both lit from his lighter. ‘You think spying is a job. But in this world – our world – it is a crusade. An old spy does not cease to be a spy when he loses access. He is still a soldier – he still has his gun – even when he is not in the front line. He can still help in an encounter with the enemy. You should never tell him he is no longer any use. You should simply say, “Here is how to contact us. We do not forget you. Ring us if you find anything interesting.” It will not happen often, sometimes he will waste your time, but sometimes it happens.’

  ‘Of course, yes, that’s really what—’

  ‘You have not suffered, that is your trouble. For you the Cold War is like a football match, like your English football league, some games you win and some you lose and then you go home. You do not understand what it is to live under communism. It is not a game and you can’t go home. You must learn that, Mr Thoroughgood.’

  Josef’s face had reddened and his dark eyes glistened. Charles’s reaction to any display of emotion was to seek to ameliorate it. ‘I agree, Josef, we have not suffered but we do understand it is a war, a war of beliefs and values, a war of ideas. Probably our manner, the manners of people like me, make us seem—’

  ‘Casual and complacent. If you seem, you are. Major Mackenzie was not. He wouldn’t have survived if he had been. He had fought Nazism, he understood communism, he recognised realities, he knew what these systems, these people, are like.’

  ‘So do we, do I – I hope. I know that they believe—’

  ‘No.’ Josef raised his voice and waved his cigar. ‘They believe in nothing. That is what you in the West do not understand. They say to you and to each other in public, they say Marx, they say Lenin, they justify themselves. But it’s clothes, that’s all, they clothe themselves in it, like a religion. But really it’s power, keeping power, that’s all they want. They don’t care about the people, they are not interested in ideas, they just want to keep hold of power. The whole system, the whole country, is corrupt, completely. They all know it and they all pretend it isn’t. Russia is for sale, I promise you. You could buy it if you understood it. There are no real communists in Russia, they are all in the West, in your universities, in your newspapers, your BBC. Have you noticed what happens to those who go to live in Russia or other communist countries? They never get on, they are never happy. Because they are communist, they are really communist when they arrive, but no one else is. Certainly no one in the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. They are for the Communist Party, not communism.’

  Yvette arrived with coffees and biscuits on an elaborately painted tray. Josef’s smile reappeared. ‘My dear, I am trying to educate Mr Thoroughgood. He thinks members of the CPSU are communists.’

  Yvette smiled at Charles. ‘Josef has strong beliefs. You must think for yourself.’

  Afterwards, Josef walked Charles to his car on the drive at the front of the house. He took Charles’s arm. ‘So I am being terminated, you call it? This is our first and last meeting. After my many years of work?’

  Charles felt awkward and reluctant but his instructions were clear. Josef had had nothing to report for years. ‘I’m afraid—’

  ‘A sadness for me but a tragedy for MI6. And the tragedy is, you don’t know why.’

  Charles stopped, his hand on his car door. ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘Because you don’t understand how rotten your enemy is, rotten inside. Mrs Thatcher and President Reagan, they worry about Soviet nuclear missiles, SS-20s. But you don’t understand, if you want to know more about SS-20s you can have one, you buy one. I am serious. If you offer the crew a home in the West they will drive it across the border for you, through the Iron Curtain. You can have it.’

  Charles had heard this sort of thing before. Perhaps it was true but the practicalities seemed insuperable. And it always came down to practicalities. He held out his hand. ‘You may be right, Josef, and if you ever work out how we can speak to an SS-20 crew, let me know. You have the number.’

  Josef ignored his hand. ‘I tell you now. The man who can do it is here, underneath your nose. Igor Federov. I can introduce you.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘From the camp.’

  ‘He was in the camp? Then how did he—’

  ‘How did he climb up this greasy pole all the way to the Central Committee? He is clever man and he betray everyone, that’s how.’ Josef took Charles’s arm again and began walking him towards the lawn, away from his car. ‘In the camps you learn the truth about the system that sent you there. You must understand this thing. This system, it stink like shit, it taste like shit, it is shit. You know it because you are inside the communist arse. They have made you into shit. If they let you out you can do three things. Keep quiet and hope no one ever notices you again, which is what most people do. Or you get out, right out, you escape the system like I did. Very few can do this, I was lucky. Or you take your revenge by climbing back up the greasy pole and make the system serve you. Even fewer people do that but Igor did. That is what he has done. He is there for himself, only himself, and if he thinks you can help him, he will help you. And if he thinks you are in his way, you are back down the pole, in the shit. Whoosh!’ Josef sliced the air with his free hand.

  ‘You still know him? Will you see him while he’s here?’

  ‘If I contact him he will see me. It was a camp friendship. Such things are not forgotten.’

  ‘Could you persuade him to meet us – me?’

  ‘If you have something he wants. I can ask.’

  Charles unhooked Josef from his arm and shook hands again. ‘Termination suspended.’

  Josef’s moist dark eyes disappeared again. ‘You are learning, Mr Thoroughgood. One day you will be Major Mackenzie.’

  Chapter Four

  The Present

  Charles’s desire to indulge his irritation did not quite overcome his wisdom in hiding it, but it was a close-run thing. It was the day following the NSC meeting and Robin Cleveley was sitting in Charles’s office with a cup of coffee, looking about him as if they were sharing a private joke.

  ‘I knew Croydon was – well, not where you want to be, but I’d no idea it was . . . I mean, this building, it’s so awful it’s worth preserving. Preferably with the remains of the architect on display in the entrance, crumbling with his creation.’ Robin laughed.

  Charles forced a smile. The appointment had taken him by surprise. It was in his calendar, as his private secretary pointed out. He disliked his screen calendar because entries could appear and disappear without his knowledge whereas with his pocket diary he had physically to enter or delete. He would not have agreed an appointment with Robin Cleveley if he had known.

  ‘I do put all new entries in red,’ Elaine had said, no doubt hiding her own irritation. ‘But you do have to look at it now and again.’

  Charles held up his hands. ‘Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’

  ‘It’s a bit late to cancel now.’

  Charles nodded.

  What made it more irritating was that Robin had come to discuss moving MI6 back into central London, speaking with the authority of the Foreign Secretary. ‘Elspeth wants you there, very much so, and she’s tasked me with sorting it. We’ve looked at a number of options, including squeezing you back into
a couple of floors in the old MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross. But I thought perhaps you wouldn’t want to share it with a hotel. Hope that was right? Best option by far, cheapest, soon to be available and most central, is a return to that building at the bottom of Victoria Street where you went after Vauxhall Cross. Of course, you’d have to share it with the DTs – Department for Trade – and some PR companies and you’d only get two floors, but they are the top ones and you’re smaller than you were. But there’s a fly in the ointment. D’you know Melanie Stokes? Home Secretary’s head SPAD, my equivalent. She was at the meeting the other day. They – she – want it for their beefed-up immigration unit. You know, the one that lets the wrong ones in, keeps the right ones out. Lot of political pressure. Melanie’s determined and poisonous and she’s got a head start.’

  SPADS always seemed to love or loathe each other, more often loathing those from the same political tribe. ‘D’you mean they have first option, or what?’

  ‘I mean, she heard that we were considering it for you and so realised it was available. She’s trying to get the Home Sec to take it to cabinet and veto it on the grounds that it sends a signal that the government is encouraging spying and that you’re a controversial appointment. Because of your history, that is. Nothing personal. Nothing personal at all.’

  ‘Elspeth’s predecessor promised we’d be back in Whitehall. Gave me his word.’

  ‘But then he got moved. We’re serious about it, I promise you. We want you back.’

  They kicked the subject around but got no further. It was left that Robin would get the Foreign Secretary to mention it informally to the Prime Minister and then Robin would press ahead. Charles had to swallow his dislike of dealing with courtiers, and keep it down.

  ‘One other thing.’ Robin paused at the door. ‘Does the name Deep Blue mean anything?’

  ‘Chess computer. Why?’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ He looked as if he were about to add something, then changed his mind. ‘Thanks. Goodbye.’

  Charles stayed late again that evening going through the Badger file. It had sat in his security cupboard all day like an alcoholic’s secret supply, the thought of it a sly comfort in the interstices of meetings, emails and questions about his proposal that all important or costly operations should be subjected to impact assessments. It was not only Robin Cleveley’s question that kept reminding him of Badger but his earlier iteration of ‘nothing personal’. Angus Copplestone had used the identical phrasing decades before in Paris, when sacking him.

  The 1980s

  ‘You must understand, Charles, that it’s nothing personal, nothing personal at all. It’s just that the MI5 officer we’re getting will take over a substantial slice of your liaison job – it would hardly be fair to give him less, since that’s why he’s being posted here – and Head Office in their wisdom have decided that your talents would best be deployed back in London.’

  ‘I shall be very sorry to go.’

  ‘I shall be very sorry to lose you.’ They smiled in mutual insincerity. ‘I’m sure Personnel will find you a decent perch in London. You’re not due your annual confidential report yet but I’ll do an interim end-of-post one. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to avoid mentioning your recent refusal to terminate that useless old agent. Your suggestion that we could use an old has-been like him to get alongside a Central Committee operator like Federov was frankly naïve. Politically naïve, too. I thought I’d made it clear that the ambassador and the Foreign Office wouldn’t let us within a million miles of Federov. But I hope that won’t count too much against you. You don’t seem to have dropped any balls with liaison, which was your main thing, of course.’

  Charles nodded. If he argued Angus would simply add that he couldn’t take criticism. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles. The station will miss you.’

  Back in London, Charles had been made assistant desk officer to the European Community Liaison Team. He shared an office with Mike, a man a few years older whom he assumed must have done something wrong to be posted there. It was soon apparent, however, that Mike, so far from doing anything wrong, never did anything at all. He introduced Charles to office climbing, in which the aim was to get all round the perimeter walls of the office without touching the floor. It was a ritual for newcomers to the section and the record was held by the legendary Freddie Farquarson, who had gone off the rails in Rio.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Four minutes thirty-two. Like a bloody monkey.’

  ‘In Rio, I mean.’

  ‘All got hushed up but if it’s Rio it’s sex. Foreign Office has a history of heads of mission going off the rails there. Last but one just went AWOL. Never seen again until our head of station ran into him in a brothel. He was the barman. You need to get both feet on the ledge or you won’t get across to the next window. Holding the blinds not allowed.’

  Charles was spread-eagled between a security cabinet and the window ledge. They were on the fourteenth floor of Century House, with a panoramic view of Lambeth and south London. The door opened and Harold, their boss, entered. Tall, bald and bespectacled, he was nearing retirement and looked permanently, wearily, puzzled. ‘When you’ve a moment, Charles.’ He pulled the door to.

  Charles jumped down. ‘My usual good timing.’

  ‘Don’t worry, nothing surprises Harold. Anyway, he knows all about office climbing. Reckons in this section we need something to keep us awake. Apparently after the war when Head Office was in Broadway Buildings they used to chuck thunder-flashes under people’s desks when they nodded off. More a military culture then, I guess. Everything was.’

  Harold’s desk faced his office window so that his back was to the door. He did not look up until Charles stood beside him. His puzzled expression deepened before clearing. ‘Ah, Charles, yes, thanks for dropping by. C/Sovbloc – Hookey – wants to see you. Gather he knows you. You’ve worked for him before.’

  ‘I was involved with one of his operations.’

  ‘Well, you’d better cut along and see him. Shouldn’t say anything to Mike if this is going to be hush-hush Sovbloc secret squirrel business.’

  ‘Sorry about – when you came in just now, I was just . . .’

  Harold shook his head. ‘Anything to relieve Head Office tedium. I’d be more inclined to jump out of the window than straddle it if I were your age. I’m stuck here till I go, of course, but with luck a better berth will come along for you. Maybe Hookey’s got something up his sleeve. Good man, Hookey. Got character. Not much of that about in the Office these days. Used to be, of course. Used to be some wonderful characters around.’ He gazed through the window as if at a parade of wonderful old Office characters. He seemed to have forgotten Charles.

  ‘I’ll go and see him, then.’

  ‘What?’ Harold looked round. ‘Yes, good idea, yes.’ When Charles reached the door he spoke again. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to do that paper on European threat-warning restructuring strategy yet?’

  ‘Mike and I were talking about it the other day.’

  ‘No need to rush it. No one will notice if we don’t contribute at all. MI5 are bound to send reams of stuff, anyway. But if we do send something there’ll be a conference jolly for you or Mike in Rome or Stockholm or somewhere.’

  ‘We’ll get on with it, then.’

  ‘Nothing too long, mind. Unless you don’t want anyone to read it.’

  C/Sovbloc’s empire was on the twelfth floor, a quiet floor because, unlike all the others, the office doors were closed. Hookey occupied the corner overlooking Waterloo station, protected by his secretary’s outer office. She was Maureen, a tweedy, kindly-looking woman in her forties whom Charles knew from earlier involvement in another Sovbloc case.

  ‘Charles, this is a nice surprise, how are you?’ She smiled as she discreetly covered the papers in her in-tray with an empty file folder. She had no pending tray and the out-tray was already covered. ‘I knew his lordship was looking for you.
I’ll just see if he’s disturbable.’ As in the Foreign Office, there was a convention that no one knocked on doors. She stood in the doorway so that Charles couldn’t see. Hookey murmured something, papers were shuffled and a security cabinet closed. Maureen stood aside and smiled.

  Hookey was a short man wearing glasses and a grey cardigan, with his suit jacket hung over the back of his controller’s large swivel chair. He had a pale, thoughtful face and grey eyes which gave nothing away.

  ‘Happy to be back from Paris?’

  ‘In some ways.’

  ‘One of which must be the absence from your life of Angus Copplestone. Not a marriage made in heaven. Doubtless he feels the same. Where are you now?’

  Charles told him.

  ‘Best thing you can do there is sabotage the wretched EC. If only we were allowed to penetrate it. Anyway, I’ve got something else for you. Not another job, I’m afraid, but a minor and I hope not too bothersome distraction. You’re still in your flat in the Boltons?’

  ‘Just moved back in. Luckily, the tenant—’

  ‘Good. MI5 want to use it.’ He explained that MI5 were interested in the couple who had moved into the flat below Charles’s, middle-aged Canadians who ran a rare book and map business from home. ‘Or so they purport to be. MI5 suspect they may be Russian illegals, intelligence officers deployed under natural cover in the West to handle cases too sensitive or too awkward for the KGB residency in the embassy. Remember the Krogers, Lonsdale and the Portland dockyard spy ring and all that? Same sort of thing, only MI5 have got no idea what they’re up to or even whether they’re definitely illegals.

  ‘Anyway, they’ve obviously got enough on them to justify a warrant for a tech-op. Probe mikes, I guess. They did the usual neighbour checks and were delighted to find you lived upstairs. Assuming, that is, that you’re willing to act as listening post and have part of your flat cluttered with their gear and your floorboards drilled through and all that?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I—’

  ‘No money in it, of course, as you’re one of us. You might get the odd bottle of plonk. They’re keen, they want to get on with it, so you’d better go over today. Provided the arduous duties of your new section will permit your temporary absence. Maureen will tell you who to see over there. Any questions?’