Deep Blue

by Alan Judd

  Hookey never had time for small talk or gossip. Charles’s hand was on the door handle when he decided to take a chance. ‘Do you mind if I briefly mention the immediate cause of my leaving Paris? One of them, anyway.’

  ‘So long as you’re not asking for my opinion of that unctuous creep Copplestone.’

  ‘It’s about a man called Federov, head of the Soviet trade delegation to the Paris Air Show, and a former Russian access agent whom I was supposed to terminate but didn’t. They were in a prison camp together and the access agent—’

  ‘Come back and sit down.’

  The story shrank in the telling. There was really very little to it and he realised as he spoke that what had swayed him was the intensity of Josef’s conviction that Federov was biddable and the Soviet system rotten to the core. He could convey nothing of that intensity and felt it would not impress Hookey anyway, who had doubtless heard it all before.

  But Hookey listened, slouched back in his chair, his hands pushed into his cardigan pockets. When Charles finished he leaned forward and made a note on the single piece of paper on his desk. ‘How long is the trade delegation there for?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It was still there last week.’

  ‘Is anyone else seeing this access agent?’

  ‘Doubt it. Unless Angus has sent someone to terminate him.’

  The three phones on Hookey’s desk were coloured red, black and grey. He picked up the grey one. ‘Maureen, could you find out from the French A section whether the Russian trade delegation is still in Paris and when it’s due to leave. Also, get the file of a Paris access agent number – number, Charles?’ He put the phone down. ‘Bugger off to MI5 now and then come back and see me before close of play tonight. Does anyone else know about this?’

  ‘Only Angus, though I imagine others in the Paris station will have got to know about it.’

  ‘Keep it that way.’

  The MI5 building was an anonymous grey office block at the top of Gower Street. Technical operations were planned by A branch, where Charles was thanked for his help and told to regard himself as part of the team.

  ‘We won’t make too much of a mess of your flat,’ said a portly man called Steve. ‘Anything we do we make good, better than it was. We’ve got these new silent drills which they’ll never hear, especially as we’ll only drill when they’re out.’ He laughed and handed Charles a mug of coffee. ‘We’ve been through plans of the building but it would be helpful now if you could indicate which rooms you use for what and what’s in them. We’ll need to sort out somewhere to hide the recording kit, somewhere out of your way and not visible to visitors. You live alone, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I have a girlfriend who stays sometimes.’

  ‘She in the Office or conscious?’

  ‘Neither.’ Janet worked in the HR department of a major chain store. Charles had never made her aware of the real nature of his work, maintaining the fiction of his Foreign Office cover.

  ‘That could be a problem.’

  ‘There’s quite a bit of space and an empty cupboard in the spare bedroom. I could bring some of my junk from my mother’s house to hide things.’

  They were joined by a tall woman in her thirties with startling red hair that looked as if it had been electrocuted. She was the Russian Illegals section desk officer. ‘Sue, Sue North. Have you met them, the Turnips?’ she asked as they shook hands. ‘Don’t worry, that’s just the name we’ve given them because they’re both dumpy and round. Known to the world as Stephen and Diane Melbury, in their forties, dealers in rare books, manuscripts and maps. Moved here from Toronto three months ago. We reckon they must keep all their stuff in the flat because there’s no indication of a storage place elsewhere and they get a lot of business mail, parcels of books and so on. Whether that’s enough to make a plausible living, we can’t say. Doubtful, I think.’

  ‘Why are you interested in them?’

  ‘Canadian liaison put us on to them when they left Canada. The original lead came from the Americans but I can’t say any more about that. The Canadians checked out their histories and all seemed OK at first but then someone noticed that both birth certificates are identical to babies born in Toronto who died within a year or two of each other. The FBI have also been on to us about them. So, you’ve not met them? Or seen them on the stairs? Or ever been in their flat?’ She had strong dark eyebrows which she raised with each question.

  ‘No, but I could easily contrive a reason to call. Introduce myself in a neighbourly way.’

  ‘That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?’ Her eyebrows went up again as she looked at Steve and his two colleagues. ‘Ideally, they’d invite you in for a drink so you could get an idea of what’s where in the flat and the best places for mikes, that sort of thing. But only if it’s easy and natural. Last thing we want is to arouse suspicions.’

  He couldn’t easily place her accent, partly because it seemed to come and go. He guessed Midlands, somewhere.

  ‘All we need now is a date to recce your place,’ said Steve. ‘Best when they’re not there but according to telecheck they’re not often out together. Boring life, whatever it is. Could a couple of us come round as friends of yours for a drink one evening?’

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ said Sue.

  It was after six when Charles returned to Century House, by which time most sections had closed for the night. Maureen was still at her desk and Hookey at his, working in a subdued pool of light thrown by his green-shaded table lamp, the strip-lights turned off. It was such memories of Hookey that, years later, prompted Charles to get his own lamp. Hookey was smoking his pipe and reading a file, which he covered as Charles entered.

  ‘Have you made them happy bunnies in Gower Street?’

  ‘I think so. They—’

  ‘Our friend Federov is still in Paris. He’s due to come on here, as you know, but it’s obviously more natural for your chap to make contact with him there. Trouble is, we’ve only got two days to do it. Can you ring your chap, fly to Paris tonight or at sparrow’s fart in the morning and brief him on what to say to Federov if he can get to him? His number’s in his Head Office file, which is with Maureen.’

  ‘Yes, but what about the Paris station? If they—’

  Hookey waved his pipe. ‘Copplestone must know nothing of our interest in Federov. He’d go bleating to his ambassador, who’d get the Foreign Office to put the kybosh on it. We might be able to argue the case but it would take days and we’d miss him. Go and ring now and then come back and have a whisky. We need to agree what your chap should say to him. And what you’ll say if you get to him.’

  Chapter Five

  The Present

  Michael Dunton, Director General of MI5, had a heart attack on the day he and Charles were due to lunch. He had been feeling unwell the week before, his office said, but had come into work that day saying he felt better. Then, during a meeting with his directors, he was stricken by pains in his chest and arms. He was taken across the river to St Thomas’s, where he was found to be in the midst of an attack. He was alive and would undergo surgery but the prognosis was not yet clear. His wife was at the hospital. The DDG – Deputy Director General, Simon Mall – would take over for the time being. Was there anything Charles needed to discuss urgently?

  There wasn’t. It was their routine monthly catch-up at which they resolved issues, usually turf disputes, that their respective staffs had failed to sort out at lower levels. They also agreed joint tactics on wider Whitehall issues. He could have done it all with Simon Mall but found his company depressing to the point of lowering the room temperature. A grey man in every sense, albeit honest and conscientious and not at all dislikeable, he exemplified the precautionary principle to a degree that – as Michael Dunton himself had once disloyally remarked – would have prevented evolution. Charles proposed that the meeting should wait until Michael’s fate became clearer.

  He felt vindicated when Elaine, his private secretary, came in to say that
she’d just heard something from MI5 private office.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Not about the DG, or not directly. No, they told the Home Office that the DDG would take over for the time being. Then ten minutes later the Home Secretary himself rang the DDG to say that although he could continue to run the service in Michael Dunton’s absence he – the Home Secretary – wanted to send his SPAD over in a supervisory role. That’s the dreaded Melanie Stokes everyone talks about.’

  ‘What does he mean by “supervisory role”? Who’s actually running it, her or Simon?’

  ‘They don’t know. They’re all in a tizz about it. The Home Secretary mentioned “overseeing intra-Whitehall relations” but no one knows what that means.’

  ‘Poor old Simon. He may not be God’s gift but he doesn’t deserve that. What do you know about Melanie Stokes?’

  ‘Only that she’s a prize . . .’ Elaine smiled. ‘D’you want me to spell it out?’

  ‘Robin Cleveley thinks the same. That might have made me think well of her except that she’s trying to stop us moving back to Whitehall. Find out what you can – basic biog details – and let me know.’

  ‘Know thine enemy?’

  ‘Plus any gossip.’

  Elaine had been a private secretary in the Foreign Office before moving to work for Charles and was well known in the Whitehall private secretarial network. Private office staff were efficient and their cooperation with each other went beyond formal inter-departmental relations. She reappeared later that day, notebook in hand. ‘Melanie Stokes. Shall I close the door?’

  She sat, smiling. ‘Quite a girl. Born in Bermuda to a Spanish mother and British father who was later imprisoned for embezzlement and seems to have faded from the scene. Got to Oxford, got a first in Modern Languages, ran off with her tutor pursued by vengeful wife, dumped him, went through two think-tanks in quick succession – in every sense, I gather – and got to know the Home Sec socially – at least, that was the word used – when he was shadow spokesman. Then got taken on as his SPAD and the rest we know. Has a live-in partner, an older man who – wait for it – is a Triple A activist. Said to run a secret group they don’t admit to called Direct Action. He does a lot of social media and occasional press pieces for left-of-centre publications. Occasionally seen at demos but doesn’t show his face very often. No suggestion that she is influenced by his views but no one who knows them can understand what they’re doing together. She fights the Home Office corner aggressively, as you may have noticed. Whatever the argument.’

  ‘Do we have a name for the partner?’

  ‘Micklethwaite.’ She leafed through her notebook. ‘Can’t remember his first name, not sure I—’

  ‘James. James Anthony, known to friends and family as Jam. Or used to be.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Knew. I used to go out with his sister, about a hundred years ago, in the Eighties. There was no Triple A then but he was involved with CND and the Greenham Common nuclear protest. He has quite a past, too.’

  ‘Sounds as if he’s not alone.’

  Charles smiled. ‘Mine’s nothing like as colourful, I’m afraid.’ As she left he added, ‘Couldn’t do me another favour, could you? Find out whether there’s a lady in MI5 called Sue North. She’d be a certain age, like me. Probably left years ago.’

  The rest of the afternoon was taken up with his finance people, rehearsing forthcoming budget negotiations with the Treasury. Elsewhere in the building, he couldn’t help reflecting, other people were planning operations, recounting those they’d been on, assessing and issuing reports, discussing this agent’s motivation or that one’s future, drafting recruitment proposals. Or room climbing, for all he knew – though open-plan offices had presumably put a stop to a lot of that sort of thing. Quite possibly to other forms of fun, too. There didn’t seem to be so much laughter these days, or jokes, particularly practical jokes. Perhaps it was his age, perhaps Elaine’s generation were having a rollicking good time which they suppressed in his presence. He hoped so. Laughter and jokes were good for any organisation. Irresponsible sometimes, time-wasting maybe, but good for morale. He would ask her. He wouldn’t bother asking his board of directors, whom he doubted could spell ‘fun’.

  The budget meeting ended late on a predictably cheerless note. He would talk to the heads of the other agencies, with whom he both competed and cooperated over the single Intelligence vote. But who did that mean in MI5 now? Simon Mall would have complete command of all the details but it was hard to imagine him standing up to the Treasury. Had Melanie Stokes been sent to clip MI5’s wings or would she become its doughty defender against cuts?

  Elaine was still at her desk in his outer office, seeing it as part of her job to be there when he arrived and when he left unless he sent her home. She tore off a sheet from her pad and held it up. ‘The lady you were asking about, Sue North. She’s still there, runs their vetting section. This is her number.’

  ‘You should go home, there’s nothing else for tonight.’

  ‘You’re tucking up in bed with your old files again?’

  ‘Only an hour or so. Or two.’

  Chapter Six

  The 1980s

  ‘But he wouldn’t come here. He couldn’t. You put him in danger just by asking.’ Charles had said it to Josef three times now and wondered whether he was being too patient. ‘Look, Federov has a very busy schedule, he’s flying to London the day after tomorrow, it would take half a day to come here to Marchemont, see you and get back. He’d have to explain his absence to his delegation, which is bound to include a KGB minder, and even if he feels secure enough to be honest and say he’s seeing his old friend, he’s taking a big risk. Something that would be used against him by enemies on the Central Committee and elsewhere. And he has enemies, we know that. And he’s very cautious, which is how he’s survived. He won’t come, he can’t. You’ll have to go to him.’

  They were in Josef’s kitchen, a high-tiled room, spotlessly clean. Yvette had made coffee and was sitting silently at the end of the table.

  Josef raised his hands in a gesture of theatrical helplessness. ‘How can I go to him? I am not a pilot or an aircraft maker. Where would we meet? I cannot stay in the George the Fifth, the most expensive hotel in Paris. No. I must ring him and say, “Oleg, it is I, Josef. Come and see me.” He will come, I promise, Mr Thoroughgood.’

  ‘He won’t, he can’t. He lives in a goldfish bowl. The only way to see him is for you to jump in with him.’

  Josef looked comically serious and spoke in lowered tones. ‘Mr Thoroughgood, forgive me, please. You were not in the camp with us. When he hears my voice, he will come. You will be here and I will introduce you and he will spy for you. You see. I will ring now.’ He stood.

  Charles stood. He hoped Yvette wouldn’t laugh, because if she did he knew he would. ‘If you do, I’ll go.’ Neither moved until Charles sat again. ‘Sit down, please. I have a plan.’ He waited while Josef slowly sat. Yvette stared at her husband. There was silence. Charles continued quietly, hoping that Josef’s need for theatre was satisfied. ‘You will ring the George the Fifth and book yourselves in for tonight and tomorrow night, both of you. You will wait in the bar or restaurant or reception until Oleg Federov comes in and, ideally, sees you. If he doesn’t see you, you approach him.’

  ‘You will pay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘For us both?’

  Charles nodded. Hookey had not mentioned a budget but it was too late to worry now. ‘You try to get some time alone with him over coffee or a drink, in his room or wherever, and you—’

  ‘I tell him about you. I say you will meet him.’

  ‘You don’t mention me. You talk about him. You find out whether there is anything he wants that we can do for him. You offer help and you try to establish a discreet means of contact. If he’s not alone, or if he seems awkward, you don’t push it, you simply be nice and—’

  ‘If we do not meet you wi
ll still—’

  ‘We will still pay. Everything. Have a nice time there. Look upon it as a bonus to your pension.’

  There was a pause. ‘I have never been to the George the Fifth,’ said Yvette.

  The next evening, Charles strode into the hotel with an attempt at confident familiarity, looking neither to his right nor left. He knew Josef’s room number and didn’t want to draw attention to him by asking reception. Had he looked about he would have noticed the gathering of people to the right and the taped-off area to the left, attended by police and security guards. One of the latter stretched out his arm and shepherded Charles into the taped area, which contained a small crush of resentful hotel guests. Important visitors, somehow identified to the police, wandered unhindered to the throng on the right. Every so often, after checking by the security guards, one of his fellow captives was released to the rest of the hotel. As he queued for his pre-release interrogation, resigned to having to give Josef’s name after all, he gathered that the party was for VIPs from the air show. More of them arrived.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ At first there was more puzzlement than affront in Angus Copplestone’s face.

  ‘Visiting my girlfriend.’ It was an impromptu cover. He should have thought before. Always have an explanation for wherever you are or whoever you’re with, his trainers used to say, again and again.

  ‘Some girlfriend, if she’s staying here.’

  ‘International lawyer. The clients pay.’

  Angus half-turned as the party he was with veered towards the throng on the right. His movement caught the ambassador’s eye as he was enumerating to a man Charles assumed to be Federov the advantages of buying Rolls-Royce aero engines for civil airlines. Federov, who had tired dark eyes and greying black hair, looked bored and indifferent. The ambassador was distracted. ‘Charles, I thought you’d gone back.’