Deep Blue

by Alan Judd

  The two-man MI5 team arrived at Charles’s flat the following afternoon, carrying toolbags and looking like the electricians they essentially were. Telecheck had shown that the Melburys had booked themselves on a train to Glasgow.

  ‘Sue’s coming later with the CEs,’ they said, unpacking an array of tools and drills. ‘Clandestine entry team. They’re having a butcher’s in the flat. Give us a chance to confirm we’re getting it right, too. What’s all these wires in this cupboard?’

  ‘New HT leads for my car. I haven’t fitted them yet.’

  Discussion of Charles’s car occupied them until Sue arrived, slightly breathless from having hurried up the stairs. ‘The CEs are in now. Downstairs.’

  ‘How?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Lock-picking. They’re good at that. Domestic targets like this take about thirty seconds.’

  ‘What if the Turnips return unexpectedly?’

  ‘We’d get plenty of notice. There’s an SV team with them on the Glasgow train.’

  ‘Late bath for them, then,’ said one of the team.

  ‘Bags over overtime, though.’ She turned to Charles. ‘D’you want a quick look when they’ve finished searching and before they lock up?’

  By the time they went down about half an hour later, the team had drilled through Charles’s floor in two places, one above the Melburys’ sitting room and the other above the hall. They inserted diminutive probe microphones and connected them to recording equipment in his bedroom wardrobe. ‘Dump your running kit, HT leads and any other clobber on top of it,’ they said. ‘If your girlfriend asks about it tell her it’s an old answerphone system you’ve hung on to in case the new one packs up. It’s designed to look like that. Except you haven’t got a new one, have you?’

  ‘No. Nor a girlfriend, any more.’

  ‘Nothing to do with us, I hope?’ asked Sue.

  ‘Not fundamentally.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Tell you later.’

  The CE team comprised a man and a woman. Everyone talked in whispers. ‘Nothing of obvious interest,’ said the man, ‘except a client list and purchase and sales records, which we’ve copied.’ He nodded at the document-copying camera and small tripod held by the woman. ‘There’s some keys we can’t identify – nothing to do with the flat – so we’ve copied them. But we can’t do a proper job on the place unless we go through all these books, which would take about a month.’

  ‘No sign of SW stuff or messed-about-with radios?’asked Sue.

  The man shook his head. ‘Nothing that could be used for secret writing unless they’ve got a method we don’t know about. Radio and TV normal. Lots of Ordnance Survey maps, though, different parts of the country. Got a list of their numbers, nothing marked on them. Nothing handwritten anywhere, no notes, scraps, lists, nothing. Very tidy couple.’

  The woman led them through to the kitchen, where the telephone was in pieces on the table. ‘This is why we didn’t need a mike in here,’ she said, holding up a piece of the dismantled receiver. ‘This is now our mike. Picks up anything in this room and sends it straight back down the line to us.’

  Sue came back to his flat while the team finished off and left.

  ‘Supposing someone had caught us down there today and called the police?’ he asked. ‘Are you legally covered?’

  ‘Home Sec warrant. Signed by himself. We have to for break-ins. May I have a look outside?’

  He opened the French windows on to the small balcony at the back, overlooking private gardens surrounded on four sides by nineteenth-century red-brick apartment buildings. From his top-floor balcony, they looked straight into the tops of plane trees.

  ‘Wonderful. You’re so lucky.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Balham.’

  ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘Yeah. Could be more Balham.’

  He was tempted to ask whether alone or with anyone but instead told her about the EC threat assessment paper. ‘If whoever’s doing it in your service could let me see a draft, just to make sure we don’t conflict . . .’

  She laughed. ‘So you can copy it, you mean? Top and tail it, insert MI6 for MI5?’

  ‘I might add a few words of my own.’

  ‘God, you live up to your reputation, you lot. Or down to it. All right, I’ll ask our liaison people to wing a draft over to you. I suppose the Brits need to present a united front. In return, you can tell me what’s happened with your girlfriend. Haven’t pushed her off this balcony, have you?’

  He explained as succinctly as he could while they stood sipping tea and gazing into the treetops.

  ‘That’s quite funny, really,’ she said. ‘But not for her. You don’t sound exactly heartbroken.’

  ‘I wonder if I should get back in touch and try to explain more.’

  ‘I’d leave it if I were you, if you’re not really interested. Don’t raise her hopes again. Mind if I use your phone to ring the Office?’

  He washed and dried the mugs.

  She put the phone down. ‘They’ve lost them. The Turnips.’

  ‘On a train? How?’

  ‘When they got off, stupid. They went to the nearest car-hire place in Glasgow and hired a car. The team – there were only two of them, pretending to be a couple – couldn’t hire their own in time to follow them. They’ve got the car details and we’ll have to get Security Branch to get details from the hire company. They’re on the train back now. The team, that is.’

  ‘Fancy a drink, pizza or anything?’

  ‘Another time. I’ve got to go. But thanks.’ She stopped. ‘Really, another time.’

  A week or so later, Charles recalled, he was sent to France again. They had heard from the heart surgeon that Federov had made an appointment, tagging it on to another trip to Paris.

  ‘Either it illustrates that he’s right about his ability to fix things,’ said Hookey, ‘or it’s evidence for Security Branch suspicions that he’s being played against us. Trouble with so many of these cases is that, in the early stages particularly, almost everything can be argued either way.’ He laid the tip of his middle finger on the handwritten pink memo on his desk, the only paper there apart from the Green Book, the Diplomatic Service list. ‘The Russians are tying up this engine deal with the French. He was right about that, anyway – they’re not buying Rolls-Royce engines. You must see him in France, not here. He must be squeaky clean while he’s here. Get your access agent to set up something for you and ideally then get him out of the way. This time you must get more to satisfy the doubters. It’s a big thing, what we’re doing for him, and it’s a big risk he’s taking. We need him to tell us something important, verifiable and new. Ideally, something on which we can act.’

  ‘Should I warn Angus – H/Paris – in case I run into him again? I got away with it last time, but only just.’

  ‘Of course, H/Paris, our new Controller Europe-in-waiting.’ Hookey smiled at some thought he wasn’t sharing. ‘I’ll have a word with his about-to-be predecessor, the current C/Europe, let him know we’re poaching, but not what.’ He spun the memo round with his finger. ‘Meanwhile, I hear your neighbours are up to something in Scotland. Enough to get MI5 excited, anyway.’

  ‘I know they went but haven’t heard what for. The tech-op’s working, anyway.’

  ‘Get over and see them this morning. Say I’ve asked for you to be briefed. Harold can spare you, I daresay.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sue, ‘I’ve been on leave. Someone should have briefed you, in outline anyway; although, strictly speaking, you don’t need to know.’

  Charles shrugged to show he didn’t mind. ‘So long as we can have that pizza.’

  ‘Today, now? Right. Let me fill you in before we go.’ She pushed her hair back behind her ears and leaned forward, elbows on the desk. Telecheck had confirmed that the Melburys had returned two nights after eluding surveillance in Glasgow. Special Branch had established from the hire company that they had travelled
270 miles in their hired Ford Fiesta and that the sole driver was Mr Melbury, who had shown a British driving licence with his London address. The company had a record of its number.

  ‘Like to know how he got that so quickly and whether it’s real,’ Sue said. ‘We’re checking with Swansea.’

  They had paid by credit card from their business account, saying they were spending a couple of days sightseeing in the Highlands. Further SB enquiries had shown they had spent one night in a hotel in Faslane and had driven round to Coulport.

  ‘It could of course just be coincidental that Faslane is where our nuclear subs are based,’ said Sue, ‘and that Coulport on Loch Long is where the nuclear warheads are stored and loaded. But an interesting coincidence.’

  ‘Why would they want to go there, what could they learn? Satellites can surely do all the reconnaissance.’

  ‘Meeting someone? Clearing or filling another DLB? Birdwatching? Let’s have that pizza.’

  Charles was back in Century House when Josef rang. He was excited and it was impossible to get him to be discreet on the phone. ‘It is done. We meet for drink. Already I have room in same hotel.’

  Charles recalled the previous bill. ‘That’s not necessary. You can visit him there or arrange to meet somewhere else.’

  ‘It is booked. He wishes me to be there so he comes to my room at night when others are sleeping. He telephone me and say please be there. It is open between us, you see, that I know what he is doing. And it is better for you because you can see him when he come to me.’

  ‘OK.’ There was nothing to be done now. A way of doing it without Josef would have to be found for future meetings.

  ‘Yvette, she does not come. The drinking is not good for her, I tell her. Only I come.’

  Charles was in Paris two days later, travelling by the Newhaven-Dieppe ferry rather than fly and risk Russian monitoring of airline passenger lists which could – conceivably – show that wherever Federov travelled, so did someone they knew or believed to be a British MI6 officer. This was largely to mollify Security Branch, who had wanted him to travel under alias until he pointed out that he had worked with the French security service in his own name. He might still – just – get away with saying he was there to visit his girlfriend.

  ‘And what if they ask who she is or want to interview her?’

  ‘A married lady, wife of a colleague. I refuse to compromise her.’ A greater secret could often be hidden beneath a lesser. ‘Or I could actually take someone, someone conscious and trustworthy. In fact, I know a woman in—’

  ‘Dirty weekend in Paris at taxpayer’s expense, eh, Charles? Nice work if you can get it.’

  He booked into a modest tourist hotel in Montmartre, remaining in the small green room with its small mirror, small bed and small framed photograph of Notre Dame only as long as it took to unpack. He always found small hotel rooms depressing, as if all life, all hopes and strivings, had come down to this. Places in which to die obscurely, not to live. He spent the afternoon in a café, reading an Iris Murdoch novel and watching the street life, keeping clear of central Paris in case he ran into anyone from the embassy.

  At six-thirty he strode with assumed confidence through the foyer of the George V, carrying the Murdoch in which were folded a couple of blank sheets of A4. He preferred note-taking to recording. He reached the lifts unchallenged.

  There was no answer to his knock on Josef’s fifth-floor door. He knocked again, waited, listened for voices and reluctantly concluded he’d have to check the room number with reception. Then the lift opened to reveal Josef wearing a brown leather jacket and a white baseball cap. He was smiling and his tie was askew. ‘Mr Thoroughgood, I come for you. I am with him. We wait for you. Now you come.’

  Charles held the door open and checked there was no one else in the corridor. ‘We agreed your room. Why are you in his?’

  ‘I wait for him. He does not come. So I go to him. It is OK. He had delay. We go to him now. He is expecting.’ He swayed slightly.

  A door along the corridor opened. Charles stepped into the lift. ‘Which floor?’

  Federov’s room was a suite, smelling of drink. A black overcoat lay on the floor behind the sofa, there was a half-full bottle of vodka and two empty wine bottles on the coffee table and a glass on its side beneath. Fedorov, wearing suit and tie, stood by the desk. Josef went straight to the fridge and took out a bottle of champagne.

  Charles addressed Federov. ‘This is not a good time or place. We could be interrupted. You go to London tomorrow?’

  Federov nodded very slightly. His dark eyes were doleful. He’s as plastered as Josef, Charles thought. Josef said something in Russian and Federov pointed to the glass on the floor. Josef missed a step and almost fell as he went to pick it up.

  ‘We can’t talk now, like this,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll see you in London, but only if we can do it safely. You still have the number I gave you?’ Federov nodded again. ‘Ring me from your hotel. We must talk.’

  There was a groan, a thump and a crash from behind. The champagne bottle rolled across the carpet, unopened. The coffee table was upended and Josef lay on his side between it and the sofa. Charles moved the table and bent down to him.

  ‘He is drunk,’ said Federov.

  He was, but there was something else. He lay on his side, eyes and mouth open, lips and cheeks tinged blue. ‘I think he’s had a heart attack,’ said Charles.

  Federov moved for the first time, pushing the table aside and kneeling alongside Charles. At first they both hesitated to touch him, then Charles – unsure whether he was doing right – carefully pushed Josef’s uppermost shoulder so that he lay on his back. Federov lifted the leg that was crossed over the other and they pushed the sofa back out of the way. Charles felt vainly for a pulse in both wrists and then – because he had seen it in films – in the side of the neck. Then he felt Josef’s chest for a heartbeat.

  ‘Should we try mouth-to-mouth?’ He still half hoped that Federov might know what to do.

  ‘Mouth?’ Federov looked puzzled.

  Charles had practised on a dummy a couple of years before during an office first-aid demonstration of what was then thought to be the best technique, but wasn’t sure he remembered what to do. ‘You push on his chest,’ he said, indicating with both hands. ‘I’ll do mouth-to-mouth.’ He didn’t relish it and it took surprising effort to get Josef’s heavy head in the right position, then some fiddling to pull his tongue flat while all the time his arm was jogged by Federov’s energetic pushing on Josef’s chest. He could taste alcohol on Josef’s lips.

  After a minute or two they both stopped. Federov was flushed and panting. Charles remembered it was he who was supposed to have the heart condition. Explaining one body would be bad enough. ‘Can you feel anything?’

  ‘He is dead.’ They stared, each seeing the same thought reflected in the other’s eye, the same shameful absence of concern for Josef himself. Their thoughts were all of consequences. ‘It must not be here,’ said Federov. ‘He cannot die here. There would be questions, we could not explain.’

  Charles imagined police, an inquest, delay, publicity, questioning of Federov, questioning of himself, breaking it to Yvette. ‘We’ve got to move him, get him back to his room.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Carry him. I’ll carry him, I’ll pretend he’s drunk. If you help me lift him.’

  It was easier said than done. Josef was thickset anyway and had put on weight in later life. Charles took him by the shoulders, keeping the head upright against his own stomach, while Federov took the feet. The body sagged so much in the middle that it was difficult to lift it high enough to get it on to the sofa. Federov was panting again.

  ‘Rest,’ said Charles.

  Federov sat on the arm of the sofa, his face haggard. ‘Too heavy,’ he said. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘I’ll do it. Fireman’s lift.’ He had to explain that. ‘If anyone sees me I’ll say he’s drunk.’

  ‘You take the l
ift? It is two floors.’

  ‘Stairs. Less chance of being seen.’

  There was a glint of humour in Federov’s tired, dark eyes. ‘You are weightlifter?’

  ‘Only for tonight.’

  They both looked at Josef. ‘He would laugh,’ said Federov.

  ‘He would.’

  He had to kneel on the floor before the sofa to get Josef across his shoulders, then use his quadriceps to lift. He hadn’t carried anyone like this since he was in the army when they had to race each other, but then you were paired with someone roughly your own size and weight. Josef felt like two men and his head lolled heavily against Charles’s back.

  Federov opened the door slightly, then closed it. ‘People at lift.’

  Charles, stooped and staring at the carpet, nodded. He didn’t want to waste breath on words. Only when he felt Federov’s touch on the back of his right hand, the one hooked around Josef’s thigh, did he look up.

  ‘Mr Thoroughgood.’ Federov paused until Charles was looking directly at him. ‘I thank you for this. I will not forget.’

  Charles nodded again. It was an effort to hold up his head.

  Federov opened the door, looked out, opened it wider and stood back. As Charles stepped through, he spoke again: ‘Deep Blue.’

  Trying to manoeuvre Josef through the door, Charles could barely turn his head.

  ‘There is KGB plan to take it,’ said Federov. ‘They will put it somewhere and make confusion to kill and frighten people. Go now.’ He shut the door.

  By the time Charles reached the stairs at the end of the corridor he badly wanted to rest, but if he put Josef down he doubted he’d get him up again. The effort made him less deferential of his burden; he opened one of the double doors to the stairs with Josef’s feet and felt the head knock against the other as he turned. Two floors up meant four flights of stairs. His pauses between them lengthened as his thighs weakened. He stood bent and panting before the last flight, muscles quivering in his thighs and his knees threatening to buckle. He had done this and more in the army, not so very many years before, and felt no older now than then. But if anyone had appeared he wouldn’t have had the breath to explain.