“Of course,” agreed Fane. “Even Adler would admit the story was vague. But why spread it around? What’s the object? All it’s done so far is cause alarm.”
To his surprise, Liz gave a light spontaneous laugh. “Are you alarmed?” she asked.
“I’m never alarmed,” he said with false gravity, then laughed too. “But I can’t say the same of the Foreign Office. Do you know Henry Pennington?”
“Only by name,” she said.
He nodded, amused by the rare pleasure which lay in store for her. “Well, Henry is alarmed. In fact,” he went on, thinking of Pennington’s anxious twittering, “I would say he’s absolutely panicked.”
“Really,” said Liz noncommittally.
He admired her calm. Brian Ackers would be pacing the room by now, he thought. He was pleased that he’d decided to approach Liz first. If he could interest her in this, he was confident Ackers would let her take the case. “I’m tempted to say that as a rule the Foreign Office opposes anything happening at all, but in fairness, I think they’re worried that an incident would damage our joint efforts to combat terrorism.”
Liz nodded. So far, so good, thought Fane, but here comes the tricky bit. There was no point trying to disguise it. “And that, Elizabeth, is where you come in.”
“Me?”
Her surprise seemed entirely genuine. “Yes,” he said firmly, “the FCO wants to be certain that this plot never gets off the ground. They want us to find out what is being planned, and then to make sure it doesn’t happen. I already have half our Moscow Station trying to find out more.”
He spoke with assurance, keen to make it all seem obvious. But he saw that Liz was having none of it. “Wait a second, please,” she said, and he groaned inwardly. “Why isn’t the FCO talking to us directly, since we’re talking about an incident that’s supposed to take place on British soil?”
“Oh, that’s simple,” said Fane. “I offered to be the intermediary in the first instance as I was the one who received the information.” Which was partly the truth, he reassured himself.
“All right,” she said, her tone making it clear she wasn’t sure it was. He sensed she was digging her heels in. “But why are you talking to me? Shouldn’t you first be talking with someone more senior? Brian Ackers, if not DG?”
Fane shrugged. “Think of this as a strictly unofficial chat.” He continued confidently, “You and I have worked together in the past. You see, I need somebody who can get things done discreetly.”
He paused, wondering how indiscreet he could afford to be. To hell with it, he thought; this Carlyle woman played such a straight bat that he might as well level with her. If she baulked, he could always revert to the orthodox channels. There seemed nothing to lose. “Look,” he said, though not aggressively, “if I brief Brian Ackers first, chances are he’ll go charging in and try and get someone arrested or expelled. And then all hell will break loose. That’s exactly the kind of diplomatic fiasco the FCO wants to avoid.” He looked at her almost beseechingly. “You do see that, don’t you?” he said.
And watching her, he could tell that she did—no flies on her. But he also sensed that she was never going to criticise her own boss in front of him. So he waved what he hoped was an understanding hand. “I know, I know. You can’t possibly comment. I’ll speak with Brian, of course. So will Pennington. But I wanted to forewarn you that we’re both going to ask that you be the one to deal with this.”
“How thoughtful of you,” she said expressionlessly. He shrugged, controlling his annoyance. Didn’t she appreciate the opportunity she was being offered? If she sorted this out, she would have the eternal gratitude of the FCO and MI6. Well, not perhaps eternal. She thinks she’s being set up, Fane decided, but then conceded to himself that in one sense she was absolutely right. For it was not normal practice for an MI6 officer to choose which MI5 officer was going to work with him. Or to try (and this he fervently hoped wasn’t so obvious) to control what should be, at the very least, a joint operation.
“I wish we had a little more to go on,” said Liz finally. “There are at least thirty oligarchs in London who could be targets.” She thought for a moment. “If they’re focusing on someone politically active, that helps to narrow things down. But we still have at least half a dozen possibles. Matrayev—he says they’ve already tried—Obukhov, Morozov, Rostrokov, Brunovsky, Meltzer, Pertsev…I’m sure there’re several others who could be eligible.”
Fane nodded sagely, but inwardly he was pleased to see her already at work on the problem they faced. She can’t help herself, he thought, and he knew he was just the same. What had Adele said the first time she’d left him? “When your job takes you over, I might as well not be here. So I won’t be.”
“Anyway,” said Liz, “I’ll wait to hear from Brian about this.” She glanced at her watch. “If that’s all, please excuse me. I should get back.”
Fane was slightly irked by the suggestion she had more pressing things to do, but realised that this was all he could expect at this stage. He stood up to shake her hand, saying, “You and I will need to work together on this.”
She nodded—was it reluctantly? He hoped not. “I’ll ring you,” she said. “That is, if Brian gives me the case.”
“Never fear, Elizabeth,” he said lightly, hoping to end the meeting on a friendly note. But he suddenly realised she was cross.
“It’s Liz,” she said sharply. “People call me Liz.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, annoyed that he felt it necessary to apologise. God, he thought as she went out of the door, she is prickly.
But at least she had a sense of humour, unlike so many of her po-faced colleagues in Thames House. And Fane found himself looking forward to her phone call, and to working with her. When he glanced out the window, he saw that the sun was shining, the tide was coming in and the river held a hint—just a hint—of blue.
13
As he approached the house in Belgravia, a beautiful white stuccoed mansion just off Eaton Square, Jerry Simmons kept his eyes peeled, which was what he was paid to do. But there was nothing unusual on the street.
A month before there’d been a man sitting in an electric blue Audi saloon car, two days in a row, within view of the house. Each day he’d disappeared by mid-morning, though once Jerry thought he’d spotted the car, further down the street, at dusk.
Jerry reckoned that the man had been there on Rykov’s orders, probably to confirm where Jerry worked. Certainly since then there’d been nothing unusual, although Tamara, the PA, had been jittery lately. But then she’d always struck Jerry as highly strung, neurotic even. One day she’d grilled him after a substitute postman had made the delivery. Had he seen him? Did he look genuine?
Jerry’s daily routine was straightforward. He’d come out from the Underground in his standard blue chauffeur’s suit, do up his tie and walk across the park in time to reach the house by eight o’clock. There he’d collect a mug of tea from Mrs. Grimby in the vast basement kitchen, then retreat to the Bentley Arnage, and wait, reading the Mirror he’d brought along with him on the Tube. By eight-thirty the Russian would come out and get into the back seat, and Jerry would drive him to the gym, an expensive place with a pool down near Chelsea Harbour. Then on to any appointments, and perhaps a restaurant for lunch, after which the Russian liked to be in his house.
On those mornings when Brunovsky stayed in, Jerry might go out and top the car up with petrol, get it washed or take it for its quarterly service; otherwise, he killed time by waxing and polishing the car until it gleamed, by making himself useful around the house (he was good at DIY) or just by reading.
It could be a long day sometimes, especially when there was an evening engagement, but his weekends were usually free, since Brunovsky liked to spend them in the country where he kept a Range Rover which he drove himself. And the money was good enough, so he wasn’t complaining, especially now that he had the generous top-up from Rykov.
He had had two more meeti
ngs with Rykov, though they had been brief. He’d given accounts of his employer’s comings and goings, and supplied what little information he had about where the man might be going next. It had seemed skimpy even to Simmons, but Rykov had not complained. And he’d paid him well.
Still, it violated what Simmons knew should be his professional code: a man had one employer, and therefore one loyalty; less clearly, it also stirred some unease, since Jerry was well disposed to the Russian and it seemed obvious that Rykov’s close interest in him was a threat of some sort.
Not that he knew his employer very well. He was small and wiry, but seemed a cheerful bloke. His English was excellent, and he always said hello to Jerry in the morning and asked how he was. He would apologise if his schedule changed unexpectedly, or if he had to go out suddenly in the evening. But they didn’t have much other conversation, and when he was on his mobile, which seemed most of the time, or Tamara was with him, he spoke in Russian.
Tamara was not so friendly. Frosty, fortyish, dyed blonde hair, she spoke English with an accent that got on his nerves, though that was nothing compared to her manners, which were high-handed and officious. She wasn’t Russian herself, but from some country Jerry could not identify. Macedonia? Montenegro? Something like that, though you would think she had been born on Park Lane the way she behaved. Her demeanour suggested that although she too worked for the Russian, she was not a mere employee—which someone like Jerry, who was a mere employee, should not forget.
Yet she was the only unpleasant note in the household, which had a sizeable retinue—Mrs. Grimby the cook, a housekeeper named Warburton who didn’t say much but was friendly enough, a series of temps who helped Tamara when she found typing beneath her, a young maid, two gardeners and Monica, Brunovsky’s girlfriend. She was nice, Monica—a looker of course, but not stuck up. He was sometimes asked to chauffeur her on shopping expeditions, though most of the time she seemed happy to drive herself. Who wouldn’t, given an Audi 6 coupé and licence to knock up as many parking fines as they wanted?
This morning he was collecting his tea from Mrs. Grimby when he heard voices in the corridor upstairs, speaking in Russian. He was used to the voices of Tamara and the boss, and today there was a strain to their exchanges, which Jerry could detect without understanding a word.
“Is he going to the gym today?” he whispered to Mrs. Grimby. Stout and white-haired, she wore an apron around her ample waist and was opening a canister of flour.
“I don’t know,” she said equably, “though he’s here for lunch. But I think something’s upset him.” She raised her eyes; upstairs, voices continued in an agitated staccato of Russian. Suddenly he heard the noise of clacking heels come down the stairs, and Tamara swept into the kitchen.
“Jerry,” she said shortly, “when did you get here?”
“Just a minute ago,” he said. She looked even tenser than usual. “Is something wrong?”
Tamara ignored his question and turned on her heel. Leaving the kitchen to go upstairs, she called back over her shoulder, “Sir will be down shortly.”
Sir, thought Jerry sarcastically, who was happy enough to address his employer that way, but was buggered if he’d use the expression when the man wasn’t even there. He looked at Mrs. Grimby. She and her late husband had run a pub in South London, then a boarding house in Poole; Jerry couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen a thing or two. “What’s got into her?” he asked.
“Takes all sorts,” said Mrs. Grimby philosophically, starting to sift some flour.
Jerry picked up his mug, then went outside, where the car sat in a narrow cul-de-sac, next to the small garden between the back of the house and a mews house which the Russian also owned. It was going to be a fine day, he thought, watching as the sun began to eat up the early-morning haze, and the dew on the close-cropped lawn began to dry.
Ten minutes later, he had worked his way to the sports page when Brunovsky came out. Jerry put the paper down, got out and opened the back door. “Morning,” said his boss. Usually he was openly cheerful, even expansive if the day was fine. But this morning he looked preoccupied, and got into the car quickly.
Jerry had just backed up the car to turn around and leave, when there was a sudden exclamation from the back seat. “Bozhe moi!”
“Sir?” said Jerry tentatively, stopping the car.
The Russian had his computer open on his lap and had opened a copy of the FT. He raised both hands to his head in a parody of despair. “I’ve left my folder.”
“Shall I run in and get it, sir?”
“Please do.” Brunovsky gestured to his lap and made a gesture of helplessness. “It’s right on the desk in my study.”
Jerry turned off the engine and got out. In the kitchen Mrs. Grimby was rolling out pastry on a butcher’s block. Jerry went straight through and climbed the stairs to the ground floor, two at a time. In the front hall, two storeys high and boasting a splendid curved staircase to the upstairs bedrooms, he turned and strode down a thin corridor lined with watercolours of Russian landscapes.
At the back of the house he found the door of Tamara’s office open. He walked through it into the study where his boss worked, a cosy room with vivid scarlet wallpaper, two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at one end and a small sofa and TV at the other. Between the bookshelves hung a large oil painting of a Cossack bestride a horse—normally, that is, for now the Cossack picture was on the floor, leaning upright against the wall. In its space was a square wall safe, its door wide open.
Jerry stared at the safe for a moment, then, overcome with curiosity, took two steps closer and peered inside. He saw a couple of large envelopes and a leather jewellery case. Not unexpected, nor was the existence of the safe—a man as rich as Brunovsky must have plenty of valuables he’d want to protect. What did take Jerry aback though was the sight of a small handgun, lying flat on the safe floor.
He turned quickly and went towards the large partner’s desk in front of the window overlooking the back garden, where he saw the file and picked it up. He was about to turn to leave when Tamara suddenly came into the room. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, almost shouting. Her eyes shifted towards the safe, then moved back, blazing, to Jerry.
He calmly waved the file, deliberately keeping his gaze on her, well away from the open safe door. “Mr. Brunovsky left this behind. He asked me to fetch it for him.”
There was nothing she could object to in this. “Go on then,” she ordered, and Jerry nodded and left the room. Christ, he thought, as he made his way downstairs and returned to the car. What sort of bloke am I working for? He could understand Brunovsky’s having a gun, but it was the type of gun that shook him. The Izhmekh MP 451 packed the punch of a .38, and was the weapon of choice for Russian detectives and intelligence officers wanting a compact weapon with maximum firepower. So lethal was this gun that private citizens there were not allowed to own them.
Damn, thought Jerry, for he had grown to like his peaceful chauffeur’s routine, and had almost forgotten that he was also being paid to protect his boss. Not peaceful any more, he thought, suddenly alert, recognising that if Brunovsky felt he needed an MP 451, then there must be something to protect him from.
14
Couldn’t we just show the photograph to the people at reception?” complained Michael Fane, drawing up a chair next to Peggy Kinsolving in the open-plan office. He held a sheet of paper in his hand, and flapped it irritably. “This is like searching for a needle in a haystack, when we could easily blow all the hay away. Whoosh!” He blew air like a mechanical leaf-blower.
Peggy shook her head. Michael must be my age, she thought, yet sometimes he acted like an undergraduate. He certainly looked like a student, with a boy’s thin build and unruly hair. There was no doubting his cleverness—not with a Double First from Cambridge—but he was also impatient and quick to criticise, even when what he took for stupidity was actually something he didn’t fully understand.
Peggy said, “Come on, get real.
If we start asking around, somebody in the building will talk. We’ve got to try it this way.” She pointed to her laptop, where the most recent Google search showed thirty-seven hits.
“Safer maybe,” grumbled Michael, “but pretty slow.”
So far, Peggy had to concede, Michael had a point. She looked at her list of the tenants in the building in Berkeley Square. She’d trawled through the register from Companies House and found three-quarters of the tenants; now she hoped Google would further illuminate the nature of their businesses.
But how could one tell whether the man A4 had followed had entered the offices of Stringer Fund Management or Piccolo Mundi, importers of fine Italian foodstuffs? Or gone into McBain, Sweeney and White, an up-and-coming ad agency, or Shostas and Newton, lawyers specialising in intellectual property law?
She looked at the next name on the list and typed “The Cartwright Agency” into the Google query box, then sighed. Doubtless another advertising firm, or a casting agency for films.
Almost a minute later, Michael Fane finally broke the silence. “What’s the matter, Peggy?” he asked, noticing she was staring at the screen.
He leant over and read:
The Cartwright Agency is a new consultancy but with veteran credentials, specialising in providing advice and other forms of assistance on matters of corporate and individual security.
“Where are you going?” he said, for Peggy was on her feet and already moving fast.
“I’m going to see Liz,” she called back over her shoulder. “I think we may have found our mystery man.”
Her appointment was at noon, and when Liz Carlyle emerged from the Underground at Green Park she had half an hour to spare. After a week of steady drizzle, the sky had suddenly brightened and the temperature was in the mid-sixties.
Mayfair must be one of the nicest places in the world to kill time, she decided as she strolled along New Bond Street looking in the shop windows. It was interesting to have the occasional glimpse into a world of people where money seemed to mean nothing (or was it everything?), but Liz had neither the time nor the inclination to follow fashion or to know who was who among the famous designer names in the shop windows. It was not that she had a puritan’s aversion to a life where what was fashionable mattered; she simply didn’t have the time—or the money.
Illegal Action Page 6
