Deep Blue

by Alan Judd

  She rang as he got in the door, panting. ‘No good ringing me about heart attacks, if that’s what you’re having,’ she said. He described what had happened. ‘Did you get any photos?’

  ‘Not of the DLB episode. The other team may have taken some, later.’

  ‘Pity, they’re useful evidence. But what good news, well spotted. Interesting to hear what they have to say about their afternoon in Kew.’

  He went down to their flat that evening with a welcoming bottle of champagne, unsure whether that was too obviously overdoing it or whether it was claimable as an operational expense. He compromised by taking as cheap a bottle as he could find, then felt uneasy about that.

  Stephen Melbury opened the door wide, with a smile to match. ‘I like a man who’s punctual, Charlie.’ He held on to Charles’s hand. ‘Forgive me, I should sort this out now. Are you Charles or Charlie?’

  Charles hated Charlie. ‘Usually, Charles but I answer to either.’

  ‘That’s fine. It’s like my name, Stephen or Steve. Mostly, I’m Steve, but no big issue.’ He took the proffered champagne. ‘Hey, you didn’t need to do this. Hey, sweetie, look what Charlie’s brought us. Puts us to shame.’

  Diane emerged from the kitchen with bowls of crisps and peanuts. She was wearing glasses this time. ‘Oh my, what a treat. We should open it right now. It’s better than the wine we’ve got.’

  ‘I’ll do it. You take him through, sweetie, keep him going on nuts and crisps till I come with the bubbles.’

  Their flat was larger than his, with two bedrooms, and differently configured. All rooms opened off a long hall with fitted bookshelves. The kitchen, at the far end, was more or less under his but bigger. The sitting room was on the left, facing the road and furnished with two armchairs, a sofa, a folding table and television. Along the near wall packing cases were stacked shoulder-height.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ said Diane. ‘It’s books, books, books with us. The spare bedroom is full of them and until we get more shelves up the overflow is in here.’

  Steve appeared with the champagne and glasses on a tray. ‘How long have you lived here, Charlie?’ He laughed. ‘Sorry, Charles.’

  Conversation flowed predictably, with polite questions about Charles’s background and life and no sign of undue interest when he trotted out his usual Foreign Office cover as a desk officer in the Southern Africa Department. He in turn asked polite questions about the book business and why they had left Canada: ‘We figured London’s a bigger market and once you get known here you get to hear of things before they come on to the market.’ Their cover was as uncontentious and well-rehearsed as his own, he reflected, confident that if he asked they would doubtless talk convincingly about sales and purchases just as he could say which room he notionally worked in, name his colleagues and talk with seeming authority about African affairs.

  ‘How was Kew?’ he asked, holding out his glass for a refill.

  ‘Wonderful, just wonderful,’ Diane said promptly. ‘I’ve not seen anything like it in the whole of Canada. In fact, I’m not sure there is anything like Kew anywhere.’

  ‘Diane is into plants,’ said Steve. ‘Big time.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘Me? Sure, I like them, like looking at them. But I don’t know what I’m looking at and she tells me and I forget. Goes right out of my head. I got no head for plants. And you?’

  ‘In your camp, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Wonderful, those glasshouses they got there, just wonderful.’

  ‘Easy journey, too.’

  ‘Fine, fine, no problem on those trains. Diane specialises in rare books and plants. That’s her speciality.’

  ‘Since I was eight,’ she said. ‘That’s when I got interested.’

  It would have been easy to say they’d changed their minds about Kew, had tried to go to a football match instead but couldn’t get in. Anything clandestine was always best interleaved with truth in case chance or a watchful security service caught you out, as now.. Eventually, after more talk about London and its transport problems, he said he’d better go.

  ‘Off out tonight, Charlie? Saturday night with a great city like London at your feet?’

  ‘Doing something with your girlfriend?’ asked Diane.

  ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. Early night for once.’

  ‘She’s some girl. I wouldn’t let her out of my sight if I were you.’

  He took his time leaving, trying to note the placing of furniture and concluding that the phone must be in the kitchen. As soon as he was back in his flat he sketched everything he remembered and reconciled himself to the early night he had predicted. That at least was true.

  Chapter Nine

  The Present

  When the house phone rang in Cowley Street that night Charles had to search for it, so rarely was it used. He answered without checking the number, assuming it was Sarah, working even later than usual. But it was Melanie Stokes.

  ‘Charles, hi. So glad I caught you. Something else I meant to say but it clean went out of my head when we met at the NSC the other day. We were being so serious and work-orientated.’ She laughed. ‘Are you and your wife – Sarah, isn’t it? – free to come to dinner on Friday?’ She left him no time to reply. ‘I do hope so because James, my partner, is an old friend of yours and he’s dying to meet up again.’

  That was hard to believe but Charles pretended not to know who James was, simulated pleasure when she told him and said he would need to check with Sarah. Marriage had its uses. Although, the more he thought about it, the more he was inclined to accept.

  ‘Do hope you can, it would be so lovely to meet Sarah. Nothing formal, just a kitchen table supper. We’re not a million miles from you. Notting Hill.’

  She had got his number from MI5, she told him. ‘You must give me your mobile. They didn’t have that.’ Sarah’s name she could have got by googling him.

  When Sarah got home she pulled a face at the news. ‘I was going to suggest we go down to Swinbrook on Friday night. The house really needs using, at least heating up a bit. I suppose we could go straight on afterwards, if it’s not too late? I’m surprised you want to see them, given what you’ve said about the Wicked Witch.’

  ‘I don’t, but there’ll be a reason she’s doing it and I’d like to know what it is. It won’t be purely social.’

  ‘Were you friends with her partner?’

  ‘Hardly, but we knew each other. He used to think I was a stuck-up fascist pig. I went out with his sister.’

  ‘Another one I haven’t heard about?’

  ‘On the rebound from you, as it happens. He’s called James Micklethwaite and he used to be deep into the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament as well as some other anarchist outfit. Now he’s mixed up with Triple A.’

  She looked up from the pile of circulars and special offers on the kitchen table. ‘James Micklethwaite. That’s the man who was emailing me before I offloaded the Triple A case. Kept saying how much they were looking forward to working with me. He writes literate emails, better than most of my clients. Is it wise, mixing with people like him, in your position?’

  ‘Probably not, but there’s something I want to find out.’

  ‘I don’t think you should go. We can get out of it. Just say we’re going to Swinbrook.’

  ‘It’s to do with an old case and something called Deep Blue. Somehow. Except that I’m not sure how it all fits. That’s what I want to find out.’

  ‘Your passion for the past will be the undoing of you, Charles Thoroughgood.’

  ‘It got me married to you.’

  Smiling, she swept the circulars into the bin. ‘Maybe that’s what I mean.’

  Lying awake again that night, waiting for Big Ben to strike, he tried to recall every detail of that other night many years ago, the one following the brush contact outside Arsenal’s old stadium and his drink with the Melburys.

  The 1980s

  He had been in a deep sleep – he slept better in tho
se days – when roused by his phone at 1.10 a.m. It was in the kitchen and he got up without switching on the light, blundering into the doorpost in the dark. At first, no one spoke, then a voice, quiet and accented, said, ‘This is Igor. I am in room four-six-seven. We can meet now. Do not ask at reception. You know hotel?’

  ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’

  There was no point in rousing Hookey, assuming he ever went to bed. He could only say, hear what he has to say, make no commitments and report back. Charles took pen and notepaper and cash for a taxi. It might have been quicker to drive but parking in Kensington was difficult. Anyway, he might have to drink a lot.

  Kensington in the early hours seemed no less busy than at any other time. The hotel was one often used by the Russian Embassy for visitors. There was no trouble with reception because it was thronged with drunken Welshmen singing ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer’. Their rugby team had triumphed at Twickenham that day, a game Charles would normally have watched. He slipped through unnoticed, took a lift to the ninth floor and walked down the fire escape to the fourth. The corridor was carpeted and silent. Federov’s colleagues would be in rooms nearby so he would have to knock softly, but there was no need. The door to room 467 was slightly ajar. He paused, listening for voices, then stepped in.

  Federov was sitting at the desk, writing. He wore a light-grey suit and did not look up until Charles had closed and locked the door. Then he stood and walked over, unsmiling, with outstretched hand. They shook and he gestured Charles to the nearer armchair. He took the other. Neither had spoken.

  ‘How can we help you?’ asked Charles.

  Federov’s moist dark eyes rested on Charles. Everything in the room was neat, ordered, contained, pyjamas folded, closed suitcase on the luggage stand, closed briefcase by the desk, papers neatly arranged. Uniquely, in Charles’s experience of Russian officials, there was no sign of a drink apart from a glass of water on the desk. The corner tray of cups and kettle was untouched.

  ‘Probably you cannot.’ Federov paused. ‘My heart is failing. Drugs can help but the doctors say I need a new heart. They could give me one in Moscow but really they have little success with such operations. They say the best doctors for this are here in London but it is very expensive. Also, it is difficult for Soviet officials to come here for medical treatment.’

  ‘Your government would not permit it?’

  Federov raised one hand from the arm of his chair and shook his head. ‘Sometimes it is possible to arrange things.’

  Although the gesture was economical and contained, like everything else about Federov, it reminded Charles of Josef’s extravagant protestations that everything and everyone in the Soviet Union was for sale.

  ‘But your security people—’

  ‘The problems are here, with you, with your Foreign Office. They would not give me visa. Just as we would not give them visa for such a thing.’

  ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘I do not want to risk refusal.’

  ‘You would like MI6 to try to arrange it? To use our influence?’ Charles’s choice of words was deliberate. Federov was unlikely to harbour any illusions but it was important to make clear that he was dealing with an intelligence service, not an individual or a public department of state.

  He nodded, once.

  ‘I can find out. If we were able to help, how would you explain it to your people?’

  ‘You must please understand, Mr Thoroughgood, that in Russia we live two lives, parallel lives. One life is our official life in which we speak and act correctly as good communists. Our other life is the life of how things work. I have done many important people many good favours, helpful things. If I ask a favour, it is usually granted.’

  It felt like dealing with another intelligence officer. Federov was not one but as a Party apparatchik and Central Committee member he knew how to work a system, how to trade. He would expect to pay a price. If this was to be considered a recruitment, it was the most relaxing one Charles had achieved so far, with no need to court or cultivate, to flatter, to cajole, to be circumspect. It was refreshingly honest. ‘You understand that we would expect something in return,’ he said.

  ‘State secrets. You want state secrets.’

  ‘And a regular professional relationship, meeting you whenever possible.’

  ‘Not in Moscow.’

  ‘When you come out, when you travel.’

  ‘What kind of secrets? Political secrets? Military secrets? Intelligence secrets? I am not member of special services.’

  ‘You know people who are, people who talk to you. You are on the Central Committee, you know people in the Politburo, you hear about policies—’

  ‘Josef has told you this?’ Federov smiled for the first time, shaking his head. ‘He exaggerates.’

  ‘We would want to know everything you know.’

  ‘And you would want me to tell you secrets first, before I have new heart. Because if I am better you might never see me again. But if I have told you something, you have hold on me. Yes?’

  ‘We want you to speak to us willingly and honestly.’

  ‘An honest spy?’

  ‘Yes.’ This time they both smiled.

  ‘And if I say no you will chase after me with your questions, try to blackmail me?’

  ‘No. But you have my number in case you change your mind.’

  ‘Josef would know. And his wife.’

  ‘They don’t know we’re meeting. We could tell them we couldn’t get near you, or that we did but you refused. On the other hand, they could be very useful if they knew because we could make contact arrangements through them.’

  ‘Who else would know?’

  ‘My boss. And C, the Chief of MI6.’

  ‘And your boss’s secretary and your Chief’s secretary and the filing clerks who keep my file. And other people.’

  It was true. Even the most restricted cases were always known to at least a handful of people. If not always the agent’s name, enough for an effective counter-intelligence service to work it out. ‘They would know about your case but not necessarily your identity. You would be referred to only by a code-name or number. Even in Head Office here in London no one would say your name aloud.’

  There was a pause. ‘You do not ask why I am doing this.’

  ‘Your heart.’

  ‘That is part, yes. But nothing else, do you believe?’

  Looking at the impassive features and dark, steady gaze, Charles realised that they perhaps concealed more than they revealed. ‘You want me to guess your motives?’

  ‘That is part of your job, is it not? Always to assess, to decide whether I am true and not a double agent, I think you call it?’ He smiled, very slightly. ‘I wish to know what you think of me.’

  Charles hesitated. Agent motivation usually involved a plurality of motives, variable over time and context. Federov was an intelligent man who would be insulted by something glib from the training manual, or perhaps put off by too penetrating an analysis, supposing Charles were capable of it. ‘I once read of a fourteenth-century English judge who, asked to decide whether someone had really intended to commit a crime, declared, “The devil alone knoweth the heart of man.” You are asking me to read what is in your heart.’

  ‘I ask your opinion, that is all.’

  Charles hesitated again. If he got it badly wrong the case would be stillborn. He remembered what Josef had said about people released from the camps. ‘I think you’ve had enough and want to get your own back.’

  ‘Get my own back? Explain, please.’

  ‘To get revenge for what happened when you were young. Sent to prison for no good reason.’

  Federov nodded slowly. ‘Ten years, yes, the penalty for doing nothing. More if you had done something. That is partly true. What else, do you think?’

  Charles smiled. ‘I’m not a psychoanalyst. You tell me.’

  ‘If I spy for you and I am in danger of being discovered or if I have nothing more t
o spy on, I should wish to retire here in England with my family. To defect, I think you call it.’

  This was a decision for the Home Office and Foreign Office on recommendation from the defectors subcommittee. An open-ended commitment such as Federov wanted was most unusual and should in no circumstances be given without clearance. Charles struggled to remain a good bureaucrat. ‘If you work for us honestly and successfully, we can recommend it. Our recommendation will be taken seriously but I can’t promise an answer in advance.’

  ‘Of course you can make no commitment. I understand that.’ His face darkened. ‘But your organisation must also understand something. You are asking me to risk my life and the liberty and future of my family for a maybe, a perhaps, a possible. That is not enough. Do you understand that?’

  Clearly, this was make or break. ‘I do understand. I agree. I promise.’

  ‘You promise. What? To make a recommendation?’

  ‘I promise that provided you work for us and give good information you will be able to defect with your family.’ He would consider later how to present this in Head Office.

  Federov stared for a long moment, then stood and held out his hand. ‘I will take your word as a gentleman, Mr Thoroughgood. The word of MI6.’

  It was important not to show embarrassment at this unwonted formality. Charles stood and solemnly shook hands. ‘But I must take back some indication of what you can do for us,’ he said as they sat.

  ‘Of course. Is it sufficient if I tell you that your government’s attempts to sell Rolls-Royce engines for our civil aircraft cannot work? It is decided already that we will buy the French and my delegation is here only to show politeness and so that we can see London. The reason is not that the French engines are better but that we have a special relationship with the French minister of aviation, who will benefit privately. Your government may not like this but they will be interested, I think.’

  ‘Thank you, Igor, they will. One question: do you know of any penetration of any part of the British government or other NATO countries by Russian special services?’ It was always the first question, the one that had to be asked.