Illegal Action

by Stella Rimington

  Wetherby sighed. He was thinking that things had to be dire indeed when Geoffrey Fane apologised.

  55

  We’d better be going,” Brunovsky announced, looking at his watch anxiously. “Jerry, get the car round. We’ll be with you in a moment.”

  But before Jerry could get up, the door opened. Liz found herself staring at what, at first sight, could have been an apparition. It was an old lady, with flowing hair the colour of snow. She wore a long embroidered cotton nightdress and slippers that scuffed the floor as she walked into the drawing room with slow regal steps. Her grey-blue eyes were blank, her lips set in a rigid smile. She’s mad, thought Liz.

  In a pure high voice, more English than Irish, the apparition spoke. “Welcome to Ballymurtagh. We do not often see visitors nowadays, but please make yourselves at home.”

  Liz noticed Brunovsky looking at Greta with astonishment. “Tonight,” the old lady was saying, “we shall have music. There will be dancing for those who like…” A girlish coyness crept across her face.

  Greta signalled to Dimitri, who went over to close the door, just as Svetlana ran in, her handsome Slavic face drawn and frightened. “I am sorry—she got away from me,” she said, and started towards the old lady, reaching for her arm. But her target skipped forward out of reach. “Ha ha,” she cried with delight, and Liz realised she was back in the nursery.

  Greta moved quickly as if to grab the old lady, but it was Svetlana she was aiming for. The Danish woman approached the girl with her hands by her sides, then suddenly her right arm swung up and crack, with her open hand she struck Svetlana on the face. The noise was like a pistol shot. And Svetlana reeled back. In the utter silence that followed, the only movement came from the old lady, twirling her index finger into her hair.

  Greta shouted something in Russian to Svetlana, pointing to Miss Cottingham. She was visibly struggling, but failing, to control her anger. “Go on, move!” she hissed. “Move.” To Liz there was something oddly familiar about her intonation.

  Svetlana was terrified, paralysed, crouching on the floor, and Greta moved again. She seized her roughly by the shoulder, trying to lift her to her feet. Dimitri came across the room to her side, and Miss Cottingham took the opportunity to scamper behind a chair, as if she were enjoying herself. For an old lady she was remarkably agile.

  Dimitri and Greta approached her from opposite sides, trying to corner her, but the old lady had played this game before and she darted nimbly behind one of the sofas. Safe for an instant, she began to sing, in a high quavering voice, “You can’t catch me, you can’t catch me.”

  With everyone’s eyes focused on Miss Cottingham, Liz saw her opportunity. She moved sideways to Jerry Simmons’ chair. “Jerry,” she whispered urgently, “give me your phone.” Evidently mesmerised by the spectacle, he turned to her with an expression of disbelief, and she had to jab him hard with her finger to focus his attention. “I work with Magnusson,” she said, relieved to have remembered Michael Fane’s alias. “You know…MI5. I need your phone.”

  Meanwhile, Dimitri and Greta had with difficulty seized hold of Miss Cottingham. She was resisting with surprising strength, and singing at the top of her voice. Jerry’s eyes, widening, were fixed on the old lady, but cautiously he reached into his jacket pocket, and the next thing Liz knew the phone was lying in the palm of her hand. As she closed her fingers on it, Dimitri picked Miss Cottingham up with both arms and carried her to the door and out of the room.

  Svetlana was still sobbing. Greta, leaning down to the crouching girl, told her sharply to get out and see to her charge. Brunovsky, who had not moved a muscle since the beginning of the drama, rose to his feet and looked at his watch, for all the world like the chairman of a meeting declaring it closed. “Okay,” he said. “Time to go. He won’t be long now.”

  Greta hissed a word and it came sharply to Liz just where she’d heard that voice before. Move! Greta had shouted at Svetlana. Don’t move! the mugger had ordered Liz on the darkened Battersea street. There was no mistaking that voice, with its menacing hiss. It was Greta who had attacked her, Greta who had wielded the Stanley knife. Greta, therefore, who had killed Marco Tutti.

  And it was Greta who was in charge here, not Brunovsky. Whatever she was, she was no Danish art expert. She was a Russian. No wonder the Danes had found oddities in her background, no wonder Peggy couldn’t trace the ownership of her magazine. Greta must be the Illegal, a Russian intelligence officer. That was why Brunovsky was deferring to her. But what was she doing here? Who were they waiting for? And why did Brunovsky want to leave before the visitor appeared?

  Liz looked at Brunovsky. “I need the ladies’ room before we go. I’ll be quick. I’ll meet you out front.”

  Brunovsky nodded impatiently, reluctantly, and ignoring Greta, Liz left the room. From the rear of the house she heard snatches of song from the old lady, then Svetlana pleading with her to be quiet.

  But she had no time to reflect on the bizarre aspects of the scene. Off the main hall she found an ancient bathroom and, going in, she carefully closed its tall door behind her. There was no lock. In the dim light she saw a cracked washbasin on a stand, a lavatory with a cistern high on the wall, its long chain ending in a porcelain handle. She turned on one of the taps and water gushed loudly. She must be quick. Brunovsky was impatient to be gone, and so was she. She needed to get out of the house quickly before Greta began to suspect that her cover had been cracked.

  She looked down at the phone. Would she get a signal here? The display lit up, then showed SEARCHING for what seemed an eternity, until at last to her relief it registered. She dialled Peggy’s Thames House extension, but almost immediately heard “The person at this extension is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.” She hesitated, but this wasn’t a time for messages. She needed urgent action. But who to call? Not Brian Ackers. Even if he were there, he’d tell her to calm down and report back later. Dave Armstrong, her friend and former colleague in Counter-Terrorism? He’d do something sensible but she might have no better luck reaching him.

  She had no time at all, and her mind raced. Who could she count on to be there, to understand the urgency and to be able to act? Yes, there was someone.

  The Kingston number rang twice and then a woman’s voice answered. Liz spoke as loudly as she dared. “Hello, Mrs. Wetherby? It’s Liz Carlyle. Is Charles there? It’s urgent.”

  There was a pause. “Oh, Liz. He’s at the office. I thought you’d know. He’s gone back.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m in Ireland.” She thought of ringing off, then realised this was her one chance. “Please listen: I’m in trouble and I can’t get through to the office. Please get hold of Charles and tell him Greta is here—G-R-E-T-A. Tell him she’s Russian and I’m sure she’s the Illegal. Brian Ackers can tell him what it all means.”

  “But it’s Brian Charles is standing in for,” said Joanne. “Didn’t you know? Brian’s gone on leave.”

  Thank God, thought Liz. But there was no time to rejoice—she had to go. “Okay. Tell him that I am at a house called Ballymurtagh, B-A-L…oh, you’ve got it? I’m leaving soon for Shillington airport. Yes, that’s right—Shillington. We need the Garda here and at the airport, and they need to be armed. Can you tell him right away?” She tried to sound calm and decisive. “It’s urgent.”

  “I’ll call him now,” Joanne said. “Take care.” It was then that Liz remembered that Joanne had been a member of the Service herself. Twenty years ago; she’d been a secretary. That was how she and Charles had met.

  But would she get through to her husband? Liz could hear nothing from the hall. It occurred to her that she might have time to text a message to Peggy and laboriously she began to compose one. She had entered BALLYM with her thumb when suddenly the bathroom door flew open and in the doorway stood Greta. She was holding a short-barrelled handgun, and it was pointing at Liz.

  “Give me that,” Greta demanded. Her voice was terse, emotionless. Liz held the p
hone out immediately.

  Greta reached for it without taking her eyes off Liz or moving the gun from its focus just above her left eye. Keeping her foot in the door, she stepped back slightly and glanced at the mobile. “Have you sent this?”

  “No,” said Liz, “I’d just started. I need to let my boyfriend know where I am and that I’ll probably be late for dinner,” she added, trying to smile credibly.

  Greta ignored her. She motioned to Liz to follow her into the corridor and with a grim “Move or I’ll shoot,” she backed off a couple of paces.

  Liz had no choice. They walked back down the corridor, Liz leading. Once she tried to speak but “Shut up,” was the terse response. In the drawing room they found only Brunovsky, standing impatiently. When he saw the gun in Greta’s hand his face whitened with shock.

  “What is going on?” he said. “We should have been gone ten minutes ago. Jerry is waiting with the car.”

  Greta moved away from Liz towards Brunovsky, keeping him out of her line of fire. “It’s too late,” she said. “I found her trying to text someone. She’s already made a call.”

  Brunovsky was clearly agitated, looking to Greta for direction. Gone was the confident air of the tycoon used to having his own way, gone the boyish swagger.

  Liz tried to stay calm, her mind racing to take in this new situation. So Brunovsky was part of the plot, not its intended victim. But their plan, whatever it was, had come off its hinges.

  Greta spoke in Russian, gesturing towards Liz. Brunovsky replied in short staccato sentences. Clearly they were discussing what to do with her now the scheme for Liz to leave with him had gone awry. Brunovsky was asking questions and from the look on his face, he was not liking the answers he was getting. Liz noticed that he didn’t look at her.

  Would they kill her? She considered the possibility as dispassionately as she could, and rejected it. It would be impossible to cover it up, even if they put her corpse in a brick-filled trunk and dumped it in the lake.

  Victor Adler had been right. There was a plot, but it had nothing to do with harming Nikita Brunovsky. There was some other target—presumably the person they were waiting for. But why on earth had Brunovsky wanted her with him in this remote part of Ireland, to see a painting that he surely already knew was a fake?

  Then she understood. Brunovsky was a decoy to attract someone else. The plan was that he’d show up here, with Liz, reject the painting and then fly back to England. Whatever happened after that could not be blamed on him. Liz was to be his witness—who better than an MI5 officer, with him through the whole of his brief stay in Ireland?

  Liz watched as the full scale of the disaster struck Brunovsky. Serves you right you bastard, she thought. It’s goodbye London, goodbye the high life. Even goodbye Monica, though probably he wouldn’t miss her much. You clever, clever bastard—only you don’t look so clever now.

  When first she heard the sound, it was so dim she wondered if she were imagining it. Then she thought it was just the pipes rumbling somewhere in the walls of this crumbling mansion. Phut-phut-phut. It was becoming more distinct, a noise from outside that was coming closer. Phut-phut-phut. Something up above, something in the air. Then the noise was so clear that of course it was a helicopter.

  Greta said something abruptly to Brunovsky and without a word he left the room. Greta looked at Liz coolly. “We have a visitor.”

  “So I gather,” said Liz, lifting an eyebrow skywards. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s Harry Forbes. Have you killed him as well as Tutti?”

  “Tutti panicked,” Greta said, then seemed to regret her words.

  “Was it the same Stanley knife you held on me?” Greta did not reply, so Liz went on. “I couldn’t understand how you got on to me. Only Simmons knew where I lived, but he didn’t know anything else about me. Perhaps he told Rykov my address, but why did you suspect me?”

  “Rykov is a fool,” said Greta, spitting the words. “He got in the way. I already knew about you.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Liz, starting to understand how early her identity had been betrayed. “It was you at the hotel in Cambridge, wasn’t it? Trying to frighten me off. I suppose it wasn’t hard to engineer a meeting between me and Dimitri.”

  Greta gave a small hard smile. “You didn’t seem to mind,” she sneered.

  “So Brunovsky told you about me from the start.”

  “Brunovsky is a child,” she said, and Liz realised the full arrogance of the woman. I suppose an Illegal needs that kind of self-confidence, thought Liz—how else could you put up with years of isolation, not even knowing for sure your long-term deception will get put to use? Hadn’t Greta been tempted, after the fall of the Soviet Union, to pack it all in and get herself a life?

  Liz was trying to keep Greta talking, anything to delay the moment when she and Simmons would be dealt with, in whatever way had been decided. She wanted desperately to know who they were waiting for and why. Clearly she had not been supposed to know anything about it—by this time she and Brunovsky were meant to be back at the airport.

  “I can’t hear the helicopter now,” said Liz.

  “It’s landed,” Greta said sharply as if Liz were another simpleton. “Keep quiet. Understand?”

  Liz nodded. Greta’s gun was still trained on her.

  “Remember,” said Greta. “Whatever happens, you say no word and you do not move. Afterwards we shall see.”

  She returned her pistol to her shoulder bag, keeping her hand on it.

  56

  As Michael emerged into the arrivals lounge at Cork airport he saw a tall, casually dressed figure with the obvious air of a police officer standing waiting. “Maloney,” said the officer, offering his hand. “You’ll be Mr. Fane.” Michael felt like a visiting dignitary as he walked out of the airport behind Maloney, into the clear Irish light and climbed into an unmarked police car parked outside. In the driving seat was a much younger officer who introduced himself as Rodrigues. In spite of his Portuguese name, Garda Rodrigues had hair the colour of a satsuma and a face of freckles. Maloney was clearly in charge. Michael was relieved to see the message from London had got through and that, exceptionally, both Garda men were wearing side arms.

  “Now, Mr. Fane. How can we help you?” Maloney asked and Michael realised with a sinking feeling that they had been given no background briefing, just the general instruction to take him where he wanted to go. He was in charge and he didn’t feel ready for the responsibility.

  “We need to go first to Shillington airport,” said Michael in a voice more confident than he felt.

  Maloney gave a mild groan and explained that he and Rodrigues had just come from near there. “Never mind,” he said with a wry smile. “They also serve who only sit and drive.”

  Let’s hope that’s all we have to do, thought Michael.

  As they drove along, the two Gardai sitting in the front of the car, Maloney pointed out local landmarks while Rodrigues drove in silence. The countryside they were travelling through had a wild, undomesticated aspect, made harsher by the bright light filtered through banks of high grey clouds. Crumbling stone walls ran along the edges of the fields, with the occasional rusting iron bedstead blocking up a gap. This was hinterland Ireland, Michael realised, a world away from the Cork coast one read so much about, the Republic’s new Riviera.

  Then Michael’s phone rang. It was Peggy, speaking fast. “Where are you?”

  He asked Maloney, then relayed their location to Peggy.

  “Listen carefully,” she said. “Liz has got a message through. She’s at a country house called Ballymurtagh but she said they’re leaving soon for Shillington airport. Try to get there before they go. Greta Darnshof is there. She’s turned out to be a Russian—we think she’s probably the Illegal we’ve been looking for. She’s dangerous, and she’s armed. The Garda are sending more officers to cover the airport and to the house. But you’ll probably be there first. Try and get Liz out of it in any way you can. But be careful.”

>   She rang off and Michael, his palms damp where he was holding the phone and his stomach churning painfully now, explained the change of destination.

  “Ballymurtagh?” asked Maloney incredulously. “That old place?”

  “That’s what they said. And we’ve got to hurry. How far is it from here?”

  Maloney shrugged. “About ten miles. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

  Rodrigues spoke up. “Less than that if I use the siren.” He looked questioningly in the rear-view mirror.

  Michael shook his head. “Better not. There’re other people there, and they may not be friendly.”

  Rodrigues gave a sideways look at Maloney and raised an eyebrow.

  Michael explained. “I’m here to collect my colleague. She’s called Liz Carlyle, but she’s using the name of Jane Falconer. There’s also a Danish woman there named Darnshof, who is really a Russian, and some other Russians. According to the call I just had, they may not want my colleague to leave. At least one of them is armed. There could be trouble.”

  Rodrigues blew through his teeth and looked at his partner again, this time with alarm. “No one said anything to us about Russians.”

  “It’ll be fine,” said Maloney to his younger partner, but when the older man turned towards Michael his face was sombre. “What exactly do you want us to do? Is the priority getting your colleague out of there, or dealing with these other people?” he asked.

  “Getting my colleague,” he said, remembering Brian Ackers’ orders. But Michael, just fending off panic now, realised they might have to do both.

  As they changed direction and turned on to another road, the radio crackled. Maloney answered and, listening to the transmissions, Michael realised that this was turning into a major incident and he was at the centre of it.

  A pulsating sound overhead, a shadow, and then a helicopter passed over the car, barely 500 feet above the ground, and flew off into the distance. “Is that one of yours?” asked Michael, pointing through the windscreen.