Illegal Action

by Stella Rimington

  Roland Phipps was bored. Really, he thought, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Tony Caldecott had warned him that though the lunch would be top-notch, the conversation might not be scintillating. Too true, but this one really was the pits. You had to hand it to Russian officials—only they could bore you until lobster and Puligny-Montrachet tasted like cardboard and cold pee—and this at Wiltons.

  He and Tony went way back together—to the second rowing eight at Winchester to be precise, which was enough to keep them twice-a-year friends. He’d gone into Lloyd’s after Winchester and Tony into the military. They’d never quite lost touch and then Tony had resurfaced in the City, with an investment bank, channelling venture capital into Russian gas exploration.

  “It won’t be too bad, old man. Strictly social,” Tony had said. “My friend Vladimir at the Trade Delegation’s got some bigwig in tow that he needs to impress. I need you for local colour.”

  Well, Tony was a pal, but my God, Roland had earned this expensive blowout. He didn’t mind Russia in principle, even though his partnership had taken a bit of a bath after Chernobyl. He didn’t even mind bores—there were plenty at Lloyd’s. But Tony hadn’t prepared him for just how boring these two chaps were going to be.

  One—Rakov? Rykov? Who knew? Who cared?—spoke English well, so well in fact that he never seemed to shut up. But the other fellow was a nasty piece of work—a sinister-looking Slavic bastard, straight out of a James Bond film, barely said a word. It didn’t make for a lively exchange of views.

  Another thirty minutes maybe, thought Roland, sneaking a look at his watch. Would Tony’s hospitality stretch to a largish brandy with the coffee? Now, there was a pretty girl at the table just behind the Russians—pity she’s not with us, thought Roland. He wondered if it would be rude to go for a pee, then thought the hell with it and offering his excuses made his way rearward to the gents.

  It was on his way back to the table—he’d taken his time—that he noticed the young fellow sitting with the really splendid girl. There was something familiar about him, and then it clicked.

  “Excuse me,” he’d said, leaning over the table, emboldened by several glasses of Wilton’s best and a strong desire to delay his return to his deadly luncheon companions. “Aren’t you Geoffrey Fane’s boy?”

  The boy blushed and the girl looked surprised at the figure leaning over their table.

  “I’m Michael Fane,” said the boy quietly. He seems shy, thought Roland, not at all like his father. Geoffrey had always been smoothly self-assured, polished, even at school.

  “Roland Phipps,” he said amiably. “Sorry to interrupt. All well with your father?” The boy just nodded. “Well, give him my best then,” said Roland, and nodding benignly at the pretty girl, clapped the boy on his shoulder and went back to his table.

  “Remember Geoffrey Fane?” he asked, as Tony came to the end of some lengthy remark about bond issues. “That’s his boy over there. I met him at Lord’s with his papa, years ago.” He nodded. “Pretty girl he’s got there. Chip off the old block.”

  He turned to the voluble Russian. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve seen the son of an old acquaintance.” He paused, wondering if he was about to be indiscreet. No, not these days. “We’ve always thought his father was a spook.”

  When Rykov looked at him blankly, Roland explained. “You know, the Secret Service.” He gave the stolid Ivanov a glance. “James Bond. That sort of thing.”

  And for the first time Ivanov’s eyes lit up. Yes, he understood. How amusing, his smile seemed to suggest.

  Jesus, thought Roland, another half-hour to go.

  37

  From Rome, Scusi replied at last to Peggy: he was very sorry not to have answered earlier but he had got married ten days before and been in Umbria on his luna di miele. Unfortunately his colleagues had been unable to locate Marco Tutti. As a courtesy, he attached a list of people in the Italian art world who had been convicted of offences in the last ten years.

  Peggy sighed, wondering just how she could provide enough information about Tutti to have Scusi run background checks. She was confident a request for A4 surveillance would get turned down, and in any case there was no reason to think it would uncover anything criminal about the Italian.

  She looked idly through the list of names Scusi had sent. Nothing there even remotely resembling “Marco Tutti.” Near the bottom was another list, of people deported from Italy, presumably for more than average bad behaviour—smuggling antiquities out of Italy, she knew, was almost commonplace. She looked at a virtual smorgasbord of international surnames: Erickson, Goldfarb, Deschamps, Forbes…she stopped and looked again. Harry Forbes, expelled from Italy.

  She picked up the phone and dialled Rome. Pronto, a voice declared and by the time she was put through, after a succession of non-English-speaking secretaries, Peggy was almost regretting the call.

  “Signor Scusi, I am sorry to bother you again, but I know one of the names of the deportees on the list you sent me. Harry Forbes—it says he was expelled from Italy for involvement in an antiquities smuggling ring. What I’d like to know is if anyone else was involved.”

  “Uno momento.” She could hear him ruffling through pages. “Si. Two other men were caught. But they were not deported.” He gave a small derisory snort. “They went to jail because they were Italian citizens. Their names are Camurati and Marcone.”

  Peggy could not have explained her next request—she was operating solely on instinct now. “Could you send me the details on these two men?”

  Four hours later she was examining Scusi’s latest message. She walked into Liz’s office and put one of the attachments on her desk.

  “Why are you showing me a picture of Marco Tutti?” asked Liz.

  “Because his real name is Luigi Marcone. He was convicted of art fraud in Italy and spent three years behind bars in Sicily. The authorities also arrested Harry Forbes, but he was only expelled from the country. Both were accused of helping tombaroli—tomb raiders—smuggle gold coins out of Sicily for American collectors.

  “When he got out of prison, Marcone changed his name to Tutti and moved to England. Though from what you’ve said his interest in art is as strong as ever.”

  Liz nodded, then mused for a moment. “I can’t see how this makes him a threat to Brunovsky. Except to his pocket of course. He’s obviously cheating Brunovsky in some way or another but there’s no reason to think he has any Russian connections.”

  “I know.”

  “Still, he’s worth keeping an eye on. Along with Harry Forbes.”

  “What I can’t understand,” said Peggy, “is why the FBI didn’t turn up Harry Forbes. They must have a record if he was expelled from Italy.”

  “Two departments not speaking to each other, I expect,” replied Liz. “Anyway, I don’t think they’re interested in anything except terrorism nowadays.” She fixed Peggy with a look. “I’m impressed you’ve found this,” she said.

  “The Italians are very good,” said Peggy modestly.

  “Actually,” said Liz, “so are you.” And Peggy felt her face turn bright red.

  There was a tap on the open door, and Michael Fane loomed in the doorway. “Could I have a word, Liz?” he asked. He glanced at Peggy. “In private please.”

  Peggy got up. “Speak to you later,” she said to Liz. As she left she noticed that Michael did not seem his usual confident self. He looked worried. Oh good, thought Peggy uncharitably, maybe he’s screwed up.

  He had. His account of following Rykov to lunch in Wiltons emerged haltingly, but when he had finished Liz could not conceal her astonishment. “You total idiot,” she exclaimed.

  He hung his head like a runaway dog come home.

  “What on earth possessed you?” she demanded.

  “I couldn’t believe A4 was pulled off.” He lifted his head now, and scratched his cheek while he tried to marshal his defence. “I thought somebody should watch Ivanov. And I wanted to show some initiative.”

&nbs
p; “That wasn’t initiative, Michael, that was stupidity.” She cupped her chin firmly in her hand, and he could see she was trying to control her anger. “Look,” she said sharply, “why didn’t you ask me before you did it?”

  “I thought you’d say no.”

  “You were right—I would have. And saved you from the mess you’ve got yourself into. Michael, what you’ve got to understand is that we do things here for a reason. A4 are the surveillance professionals, not you or me. They know how to avoid being seen. You don’t, as you’ve proved. You always have to remember, Michael, that in an investigation you only know a part of what’s going on. Has it occurred to you that you may well be looking at the Rykov-Ivanov connection from the wrong angle? There may be something going on completely different from what you think, and by acting so stupidly you’ve given away information. They know now that we’re interested. Just think about that,” and shaking her head with exasperation, she reached for the phone.

  “Does that mean I’m in trouble?” he asked.

  But Liz was already speaking. “Brian, I need to see you urgently. Yes, I’ll be right down.” When she hung up she got to her feet without looking at Michael.

  “If you’d kept your eye on the intelligence, instead of trying to be James Bond, you’d see that Rykov’s suddenly being sent home,” she said as she left the room. “Why don’t you go back to your desk and try to work out what that might mean?”

  38

  Brian Ackers’ office, like Charles Wetherby’s, faced the Thames, but unlike Charles, or anyone else with an office on that side of the building, Brian had positioned his desk so he had his back to the view. What sort of a person would do that? thought Liz, as she walked into his office. Sitting in the chair in front of his desk she could see over his shoulder that the bright sun had turned the river lapis blue. A speedboat slowly puttered through the light chop, towing a wetsuited man on a surfboard with a charity banner floating out behind him. Look, Brian, she almost said, but seeing his expression, she changed her mind.

  His desk was preternaturally tidy, with a clean pad of A4 centred on the blotter and a neat stack of files to one side. The only adornment was a green marble pen holder he never used; it had been given to him, he’d explained with ironic appreciation, by the KGB on their first visit to Thames House at the end of the Cold War. On the wall he’d pinned an enormous map of the former Soviet Union, so vast it must have come from a military operations room; facing him against the far wall were floor-to-ceiling shelves, crammed with a lifetime’s collection of Sovietology.

  Liz gave a brief account of Michael Fane’s home-made surveillance operation. From Brian’s pursed lips as she talked, she could tell that he was not inclined to go easy on the young man. Her own initial anger had subsided—Michael had been foolish and impulsive, his mistake was serious rather than fatal. She wanted to keep Brian from overreacting.

  “What Fane’s done is grounds for dismissal,” he said when she’d finished.

  “I know,” she agreed. “But I do think there are mitigating circumstances.”

  “Really? What could conceivably excuse his running off halfcocked this way?”

  “Nothing could excuse it,” she agreed, “but he thought he was doing the right thing.” She added quickly, “Obviously he wasn’t. Believe me, he knows that now. I’m confident he won’t do anything so foolish again. Frankly, I think the problem is he’s just so young and inexperienced, and he takes too much responsibility on himself.”

  “Well, we can soon change that,” said Brian, returning to disgruntled mode. “A transfer back to a support role in Protective Security where he came from might just do the trick for our Mr. Fane.”

  “Of course,” Liz said placatingly. “But there’s no guarantee he’d be replaced, is there? Not with the current situation.”

  Brian nodded grudgingly. “That’s true. And I suppose even Fane is better than no one. Do we think he’s done any real damage?”

  “I hope not,” said Liz, whose concern had been just that—that the Englishman in the restaurant might have mentioned Geoffrey Fane’s MI6 connection to Rykov and Ivanov; that the Russians would immediately fear that whatever they were up to had been blown. “What’s really bothering me,” she went on, “is that Rykov has suddenly been sent home. We’ve had a report from one of his contacts that he’s rung him up to say goodbye. He sounded almost hysterical. Apparently he’s going back under a cloud. I can’t help wondering whether all this is connected.”

  Brian sat forward in his chair, an owlish look on his face, his hands clasped primly on the desk. “I don’t suppose so. But even the fact that you’re having to wonder about it, shows how stupid young Fane has been. What are we going to do about him?”

  “I’d leave it to be honest, Brian. It will come up at his next review, and I’ll certainly let him know that he’s on thin ice. Hopefully he’ll learn from this.”

  Brian considered, and for a moment Liz feared he would overrule her. Finally he said, “He’d better,” and reached for the stack of files on his desk to show the meeting was over.

  As she left Brian’s office, somewhat relieved, Liz was turning over in her mind what this chain of events could possibly mean. Brian was prepared to accept the proximity of Rykov’s departure and Michael’s impetuous mistake as coincidence, but Liz wasn’t so sure.

  39

  You on for a drink?” It was Monica, suddenly appearing behind Liz as she peered at her laptop.

  “Sure,” Liz said slowly, masking her surprise.

  “I’m going upstairs to change. Why don’t I collect you in half an hour?”

  Liz nodded and watched Monica as she moved towards the stairs. She wore designer jeans and a silk shirt that showed half an inch of navel. Casual but trendy. Liz felt positively frumpy, in her M&S skirt and a favourite lilac blouse that she wouldn’t claim was on the cutting edge of fashion.

  Suddenly a shout came from Brunovsky’s study. “Tamara!” Liz heard scurrying footsteps and the secretary appeared, dressed in a black sweater and skirt, heading breathlessly towards the back of the house while Brunovsky yelled again—“Tamara! Idite siuda!”

  Tamara’s arrival in his office did not appease the oligarch, for he continued to shout, in an uninterrupted torrent of Russian. Eventually Tamara came back along the corridor, her usually cold, passionless face crumpled in unhappiness. Tracks of mascara-stained tears ran down one cheek.

  Liz was tempted to console the woman, but seconds later Brunovsky himself came through and began to yell at her again. Monica reappeared, still wearing the same clothes. She gestured towards Tamara’s office. “Maybe we should go now.”

  “Okay,” said Liz with relief.

  “When he gets like this,” Monica said wearily, “it can take hours for him to calm down.”

  It was called the White Palace, though the large Georgian town house in Knightsbridge was of burnt-orange brick. As they entered the softly carpeted foyer with its massive overhanging chandelier, a dark-haired man in a dinner jacket came forward to greet them. “How nice to see you again, Miss Hetherington. And how is Mr. Brunovsky?”

  “In fighting form,” said Monica, winking at Liz. “We’re just here for a quick drink, Milo.”

  She led Liz down a cast-iron spiral staircase into a vast cellar with a brick vaulted ceiling and a sunken floor of bleached oak. Tables were positioned in alcoves against the walls, lit by recessed spots. Monica picked a corner alcove, and they sat down on a cushioned banquette. “Whew!” Monica exclaimed. “I’m glad to get out of there.”

  Liz looked around the half-empty room, and noticed that almost all its occupants were female. Well-dressed stylish women, but noticeably different from the Sloane Rangers recuperating after an exhausting afternoon shopping in Harvey Nichols, who could be found in the coffee shops of this part of London. Most of these women had a slight but discernible foreignness: a Roman nose, high Slavic cheeks, gaudy jewellery that was more Budapest than SW1. “Is this a private club?” she a
sked Monica.

  “Not really—you just have to be introduced to Milo. This early in the evening it’s mainly wives of the Russians who come here. You won’t see any men.”

  “I noticed—it’s like an upmarket Women’s Institute.”

  Monica laughed. “Later on, the singles come in, searching for Mr. Right. Or should I say Mr. Russian? It’s a bit of a pickup joint for the oligarchs. That’s why I don’t let Nicky near the place. No point putting temptation in his way, is there?”

  “No,” agreed Liz, wondering if this had been where Monica had met Brunovsky.

  A waiter came and Monica ordered a bottle of Cristal—over Liz’s protests that she only wanted a glass of wine. “Go for it, girl,” said Monica, and gave her diamond bracelet a shake, like a high roller at a craps table. With Brunovsky absent, Liz realised, Monica was a different girl—outspoken, high-spirited, even wild.

  “This is my shout,” Monica announced. “Well, let’s be honest—it’s Nicky’s.” She gave a satisfied smirk, then pointed across the floor at two women entering the room. They were both tall, slim and blonde—looking rather louche, in dresses a size too tight and sharp stiletto heels. “See those two? They’re looking. But it’s too early. There won’t be many Russian men in until later.”

  “So they’ve miscalculated?” said Liz a little dryly.

  Monica misunderstood her. “They’re dressed a bit tarty, I know, but it’s what Russian men like.” She thrust her chest out and wiggled seductively, in a parody of a bathing-suit contest entrant, and Liz laughed, but a more doleful look spread over Monica’s face. “At first that’s all they’re looking for, but then it changes. ‘I want you to be an English laa-dy,’” she said in an uncanny imitation of Brunovsky’s voice. She looked at Liz. “You’re lucky: you don’t have to try.”

  I suppose that’s a compliment, thought Liz, pushing her hair back self-consciously. Monica stared at her. “Ah,” she said, still looking at Liz. “I thought it was a shadow, but it’s not. You’ve got a wicked bruise on your forehead. How did you get that?”