Deep Blue

by Alan Judd

  ‘Pretty permanent. We lost touch. She married a banker.’

  ‘Better off than with you, then. The Turnips did her a favour. So, why does the mighty C want to know about her brother?’

  Charles told her of Michael Dunton’s question about Deep Blue. ‘I am right in thinking that’s what it was, aren’t I?’

  ‘I think you are, but I don’t think we ever worked out what they planned to do with it, did we? It didn’t seem to fit with anything else they aspired to, like bringing down the capitalist system. Unless they just wanted to cause mayhem.’

  ‘If Michael were here I could simply ask him to get someone to check that volume of the file, the one we don’t have, and then hand the case over to him. But I’m reluctant to brief Simon Mall on it because—’

  ‘Nothing will happen.’

  ‘Precisely. Jam and that whole episode is missing from our files because by the time he got involved it had become a joint case under Director K and all the paperwork was on your MI5 file, supposedly copied to us but that didn’t always happen. I think there was a fair bit on Jam’s activities at the time which may be relevant again now that he seems to be involved with Triple A. And of course a complicating factor where Simon Mall is concerned is that Melanie Stokes – now of your parish – is shacked up with Jam. Simon would be too frightened of his own shadow to go anywhere near either of them.’

  Sue’s eyes widened. ‘But she must be twenty years younger than Jam, at least. He’s an old man, isn’t he? About your age.’

  ‘Thanks. And, quite apart from Simon’s legendary caution, if I approach your service officially about him it could get back to her.’

  ‘So you want me to smuggle papers out?’

  ‘No. It’s got to be done officially, in a way that’s accountable if it comes out.’

  ‘Trouble is, the old K Branch doesn’t exist any more and all that Cold War stuff is archived. I’d have to have a reason for asking for it.’

  ‘How about a vetting query from our vetting section? We feel we should brief Melanie Stokes now that she’s doing whatever she’s doing with you and wanted to check her clearances, in the course of which we’ve come across references to file traces on Jam, held by you. So we’ve asked you what they are and you’ve kindly dug them out and copied them to us.’

  Sue’s eyes widened again. ‘Not bad. You might have made a half-decent MI5 officer if you’d transferred to us. Which would have spared you getting locked up by your predecessor. Tell me about that. Is it true that she . . . your wife . . .’

  ‘Sarah.’

  ‘ . . . used to be his wife?’

  Once again, Charles produced an edited version of the events that had brought him and Sarah together, though for Sue he provided more detail than usual. They reminisced until their glasses were empty again. She refused another because she had to get back to her family. ‘Won’t Sarah want to know where you are?’

  ‘She works longer hours than I do.’

  On the way out she paused at the top of the steps overlooking Pall Mall. ‘I always felt bad about Janet. I mean, I know you and I weren’t . . . at that point, anyway – but because of the fact that I’d been in your flat that day and she couldn’t believe there was nothing going on between us. She must have been very upset.’

  ‘It didn’t make for a good night.’

  ‘And then we made you get back in touch with her about her brother.’

  ‘It would have ended anyway.’

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘She doesn’t know how lucky she was.’

  Sarah was still at work when he returned to their house in the quiet street behind Westminster Abbey. Not trusting him to choose dinner, she had left written instructions about lasagne and the microwave, with vegetables only left to his initiative. He poured more wine and began laying the table, recalling the night Sue had mentioned, the night following her visit to his flat and their meeting the Melburys on the stairs.

  The 1980s

  The curry in Kennington had been fine, with Janet chatting about her week and some gossip about mutual friends from Oxford. When they went to bed in his flat, however, she refused his attention, turning on her side and pulling the bedclothes almost over her head.

  ‘I just don’t want to,’ she said in a small voice, resentful and stubborn.

  ‘OK. Any reason in particular?’ He propped himself up on his elbow and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Look, if there’s something wrong you may as well say so. I can’t do anything about it unless I know what it is.’

  Her silence was heavy with the implication that he ought not to need telling. ‘You’ve had another woman here.’

  Because he hadn’t, in the sense she meant, and because he had been conscious of the possibility with Sue, his denial was too prompt and unequivocal.

  ‘I could smell her scent when I came in. She’s been in this room.’

  He had an instant to decide whether to maintain his denial or whether to retract and explain – that a woman had been in the room but not in his bed, that it was a professional visit by an MI5 officer in connection with an operation he was helping with, that he wasn’t in the Foreign Office at all and that he had misled her all along as to the real nature of his career.

  ‘I haven’t had any other woman here. I’ve not been unfaithful.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  It wasn’t until just before dawn that they slipped into deep and independent slumbers. As it was Saturday there was no hurry to get up. Charles was awoken by knocking. He wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door to Stephen Melbury, this time wearing checked trousers and a blazer and tie. His smile showed a mouthful of unnaturally white and even teeth. ‘My apologies for disturbing you, Charles. I may call you Charles? Thank you. We’re off to Kew for the day, Diane being something of a botanist, but we’d be very pleased if you could join us for a drink this evening. Along with your young lady, of course, whose name I didn’t catch when we met yesterday.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Stephen, I’d love to. It’ll be just me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Great. About seven.’

  Janet was in the bathroom when he returned. He put on the kettle, loaded the toaster, laid out the cereals. She came into the kitchen fully dressed, her bag packed, her short dark hair precisely brushed, her expression determinedly neutral. ‘Goodbye, Charles.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘I heard every word that man said. You’ve clearly had someone here. You lied to me. You’ve been lying all along for all I know.’

  Her small regular features seemed prettier than ever now, as if clarified by determination. He went to her. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said.

  ‘Look, yes, there was someone here but it’s not what you think.’

  ‘So you did lie? And now you’re lying again, I’m sure.’

  ‘Sit down. Let me explain.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear. I told you, I’m going.’

  ‘I lied because I had to.’ He told her he wasn’t in the Foreign Office, that he was in MI6 and helping with an operation, that the female visitor was a work colleague assessing his flat for possible use, that it was nothing personal.

  She was unmoved. ‘How very convenient. But since you’ve lied to me about everything else all along, I suppose it makes no difference if you lie about this too. There’s no point, Charles. We – it wasn’t going anywhere, anyway. There’s no point. There never was. Goodbye.’

  She walked out, her voice and self-control intact. He followed her to the door and called out as she descended the stone stairs but she neither paused nor answered. He respected her for that, and stood waiting to hear the front door close. Not for the first time, he was struck by how a relationship which had not felt like a burden swiftly became one in retrospect, as if it always had been. He suspected that that suggested something not very pleasant about himself, but was spared further introspection by the phone.

  Hookey never bothered with preliminaries. ‘Your friend is in town an
d I have his programme. All meetings and whatever except for this afternoon when he’s going to a football match, Arsenal versus Manchester United. Keen on football, apparently, and the Foreign Office had to bust their guts to get tickets at nil notice. They’ve got three in the VIP box, one of which will be taken by their escorting desk officer. No idea who’ll have the other but you must get there and make contact. Up to you how you do that. Five have agreed to provide a small SV team to follow him from the hotel to the ground so they can put you alongside him if there’s a chance. Don’t forget your shorts and dubbin for your boots. If anyone does that now.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Couldn’t I just ring him at his hotel?’

  ‘You won’t know who’s with him when he picks up the phone. He’s got to see and recognise you and you’ve got to leave him with a way of contacting you. I’ve got you a dedicated operational number to give him which will come straight through to the switchboard here who’ll put it through to you wherever you are. Ring me back when we’ve finished speaking and I’ll give it to you in a separate call, along with another number which is a Five number for you to RV with SV. OK?’

  ‘Does the Foreign Office—’

  ‘Not yet but they will. Won’t be best pleased, of course. Don’t suppose you know anyone with any VIP box tickets you could scrounge?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Well, good luck, old son. I shall be sailing in Suffolk this afternoon, contactable this evening. Ring as soon as you’ve got news.’

  Charles shaved and showered, breakfasting at the table he had laid for two. He was tempted to ring Janet and say sorry. Sorry for what, she might ask? Being what he was, principally, and since he wasn’t going to do anything about that, there wasn’t much point in apologising. He still wanted her to know that he hadn’t been lying. Yet, essentially, he had. The lie was in allowing her to think he might want her more than he did, and in taking advantage of that. Spying, which people associated with lying, was relatively straightforward and clear: you lied for truth, you deceived in order to discover hidden truth. It was in his personal life that the distinction became blurred, too deeply embedded to disentangle. He would have to report to the Office that he’d made her conscious to himself as SIS, and why. It would go on his security file.

  ‘Farther to your left, next entrance but one. VIP entrance. They’re heading for it now.’

  Brian cocked his head to listen before murmuring into the lapel of his donkey jacket. ‘We’ve just come from there. Must’ve passed them. Sure it’s them?’

  ‘Walking three abreast. Target in the middle. Just passed the hot dogs.’

  ‘On our way.’

  Brian nodded to Charles and they turned about. It was not easy to cut across the crowd streaming into the stadium. They had followed Federov and his party in cars from their hotel, a straightforward job until the Russians left the Foreign Office car and driver some streets away and joined the crowds on foot. The fast-moving crush made it difficult to keep them in sight without getting too close. The aim was to position Charles close enough to speak to Federov if he became separated, however briefly, without being noticed by the two others.

  They found the trio as they joined the short queue for the VIP entrance. Federov wore a smart camel coat and a black fur hat. His embassy colleague, a balding, sad-looking man, wore a grey raincoat. Their Foreign Office liaison, wearing jacket and jumper with no tie, was looking uneasily about him as if unsure they were in the right queue.

  ‘Want to be in the queue behind them?’ asked Brian.

  Charles nodded. ‘Not too close.’ He had no idea what he would do, just that he had to be close enough to take advantage of any opportunity that offered. That happened unexpectedly quickly. The liaison desk officer, looking increasingly anxious, rifled through his jacket pockets. He stopped moving with the rest of the queue, the others stopped with him, and the people behind moved round them. Charles and Brian had to do the same and found themselves approaching the barrier sooner than Charles wanted. There were only four or five people ahead when the Foreign Office man found the tickets and his party rejoined the queue behind. As he approached the barrier Charles slowed and looked obviously about him. ‘Still no sign of Pete,’ he said, loudly enough to be heard. ‘We’ll have to step aside if he doesn’t come. Won’t get in without his ticket.’

  Brian caught on. ‘Can’t you leave it with the blokes at the turnstile?’

  ‘Doubt it.’ Charles made sure his gaze traversed those behind him. The Foreign Office man was passing a ticket to Federov’s colleague. Both had their eyes down. Charles caught Federov’s eye. It was only a moment but there was recognition, and uncertainty. Charles looked away as the queue moved forward. They were next but two now. He felt in his jacket pocket for the slip of paper with the operational number, then turned back again and, addressing Brian, pointed across and behind them. ‘Isn’t that him over there? Bloody idiot, what’s he doing? Look at him.’

  His straightened arm was an inch or two from the Foreign Office man’s nose. For a couple of seconds all those behind looked where Charles was pointing. He stepped backwards out of the queue and slipped the paper into Federov’s coat pocket. ‘He’s going the other way, the bloody fool. Better get after him.’ He and Brian hurried away.

  ‘Hope he knows you’ve stuck it on him,’ said Brian.

  ‘I gave a tug at his pocket. I was worried someone might think I was picking it.’

  ‘I was going to offer to feign a heart attack at the turnstile. Had to do that once in Leicester Square. Worked a treat except that I had to spend half the night in A and E.’

  They headed for the team’s cars, parked some streets away, making slow progress against the tide. Charles thought they must be the only ones heading away from the ground until his eye was caught by another couple on the other side of the road, moving slowly against the high stadium wall, in parallel and slightly ahead. It was difficult to see them clearly because of the teeming people between and because they were both short.

  ‘Slow down,’ he said to Brian. ‘Couple ahead on the other side of the road, against the wall, going our way.’

  ‘Clocked them. The bloody Turnips. We was on them two days ago. Lot of hanging around for nothing. They haven’t come for the football, no more than we have. Know them, do you?’

  ‘My neighbours. I’m helping with the operation.’

  ‘Stop here and turn round, so your back’s to them.’ They stood by someone’s rickety garden gate. Brian took out his wallet. ‘You’re a tout and I’m buying a ticket. We’ll keep talking all the time I’ve got them in view. They’re up to something. Not looking across. It’s the wall they’re interested in.’ He spoke into his lapel, guiding the foot team that had put them on to Federov to move in ahead of the Turnips. ‘We’ll keep them in view till the others are on to them,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll drop out, since they know you.’

  Charles, keeping his back to them, took out his own wallet and pretended to search through it.

  ‘Iron stanchion up against the wall,’ said Brian. ‘They’ve stopped by it. She’s looking in her handbag. Bugger, people in the way. We’ll have to—’ He broke off, tilting his head again. ‘OK, the others have clocked them now. They’ve moving off, same direction but faster. They’ve done something, done a drop, I bet. Or cleared one. Hang on till they’re out of sight, then we’ll have a butcher’s.’

  The crowd was thinning, with latecomers walking more rapidly. The other team reported that the Turnips were heading purposefully towards the underground station. They went over to the great metal stanchion, which was almost as high as the stadium wall and bolted flat against it. The stragglers hurried past unnoticing as Brian inspected it closely.

  ‘Gap about shoulder height, see? Just enough for an envelope but it wouldn’t slip down because of the bolts beneath. Can’t see it unless you’re right up against the wall as I am, and she was. DLB, bet my bottom dollar.’

  Charles had never seen a dead letter box used in anger
, only on exercises. ‘Won’t they have left a signal to show they’ve emptied it?’

  ‘Probably but maybe not here. Safer to leave it somewhere else.’

  ‘There’s a chalk mark on the wall, look, about ten yards away.’ There was a single vertical line about six inches long.

  ‘That’s just where she was standing when he put his hand on her shoulder after they’d moved away. Too close, really, that mark. Not good tradecraft. Pity they’ve emptied it rather than filled it. The other way round we’d have had whoever it’s for.’

  ‘Better move, hadn’t we? In case whoever it’s for comes back to check.’

  ‘Guess so, though it could be days before he does. Wouldn’t have to come right here, he could see it from a car driving past.’

  They headed back towards their own car. Brian’s lapel reported that the Turnips were on the tube, surveillance still with them. There was a roar from the stadium. ‘Arsenal one down already, I bet,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll report to Sue, the desk officer?’

  ‘First thing Monday. No point calling her out now, the action’s happened. Anyway, they don’t like weekend work, desk officers. Not like us lucky sods.’

  Charles refused the offer of a lift back to his flat in case the Turnips saw him being dropped off. Instead, they dropped him near Piccadilly Circus to pick up a tube to South Kensington. The station was closed because of an IRA bomb scare so he walked back, musing on whether he should send flowers to Janet. Or take them. But, unable to explain to himself precisely why he would be doing it, and feeling it would compound his essential dishonesty, he did neither. He thought of ringing her when he got back to the flat but changed his mind and rang the Office switchboard. They put him through to the MI5 switchboard and he left a message for Sue to ring him in not less than an hour. He used that time to go for a run over the King’s Road and down to the river.