Clarke could feel his cheeks burning with anger. Behind him in the Cabinet Room, as well as the PM, he had left the Foreign Secretary, the cabinet secretary and that man Gaunt: Sir Horace now, since the publication of the New Year Honours List. Conscious of the private secretary’s gaze, Clarke bent his head in a poor attempt at camouflage and made a show of looking at his watch.
It was exactly two minutes past three. Twenty-four hours from now he might no longer be Home Secretary. In fact, almost certainly not; this prime minister never backed down.
He hurried across the hall, grateful to be out of the private secretary’s gaze, and tried to recover his composure as he descended the stairs.
He could still hardly believe what he had just been told. It wasn’t so much that they had made the decision without involving him, though that was bad enough; after all, he was supposed to be responsible for Gaunt’s filthy operation. No no, far more awful was the nature of the decision itself, the action, as Gaunt kept calling it. God, how could they even contemplate such a thing!
In the downstairs hallway his two Special Branch minders were waiting for him. The private secretary had presumably alerted them that he was on his way. They fell silently in step and accompanied him outside.
George, his driver, was already holding the door of the black Jaguar open for him.
‘Copperfields, Home Secretary?’ he asked, referring to Clarke’s home in Buckinghamshire. At this time on a Friday it was their usual destination.
‘No. Queen Anne’s Gate.’
Clarke got in. One of the Special Branch officers, a man called Fielding, climbed into the front seat; the other went to a black Rover that had drawn up behind them.
The short drive passed in silence, neither George nor Fielding trying to engage in small talk; Clarke’s mood, he supposed, was obvious to them.
Ten minutes later he was in his office, with his secretary sitting before him. She too had sensed his mood. She waited patiently, knees demurely pressed together and pencil poised above the shorthand pad on her lap, while he gazed unseeing through the window. Eventually he swung around to face her.
‘This letter is highly confidential.’
The secretary lifted her eyebrows imperceptibly; she regarded everything in her work as falling into that category.
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You’ll hardly want to type this then, but that’s when it’s being written. Date it accordingly. To the prime minister.’
Her pencil jotted the date at the top of her pad, scratched some more, then was still.
‘“In the absence of any satisfactory response to my request of yesterday … I am obliged, with immediate effect and the deepest regret … to resign my appointment as Secretary of State for the Home Office.” Not too fast for you, I trust?’
The secretary shook her head. Her pencil scratched busily on, as unperturbed as if he were dictating the weather forecast.
Bloody civil servants, Clarke mused, and gathered his thoughts for the rest of the letter.
‘Now for the reasons why.’
*
He left the office as soon as the letter was ready and settled himself moodily in the back seat of the car. As usual Fielding was in the front, beside George. The early edition of the evening paper had a story about bomb threats against the OPEC conference; it would have nothing that Clarke didn’t know already but he scanned it anyway as they picked their way through the traffic.
Hyde Park Corner was well and truly snarled up. George made the Jaguar weave through every gap as if it were a Mini. But instead of heading up Park Lane they swung off towards Knightsbridge.
‘It’s because of Lancaster Gate, Home Secretary,’ George explained. ‘The OPEC jamboree. Starts Tuesday, doesn’t it? There’s been all those bomb hoaxes so they’ve closed off a bit of Bayswater Road and some of the streets behind the hotel. It’s a mess and no mistake. Best to avoid the whole area.’
‘I see.’
‘Arabs,’ George muttered. ‘Don’t know why we let them come here, sir. Them and their conference. Clogging up our traffic.’
Fielding looked out of the window and tried to suppress a smile, and Clarke returned to the newspaper. They cut through Shepherd’s Bush and picked up their route from there. By then Clarke had switched off his reading light and was just staring out at the people and the traffic, lost in his thoughts.
Again no one disturbed him.
*
Buckinghamshire
Two hours later he had eaten and showered. He sat naked at his dressing table, letting the warmth of the bedroom dry his skin where the towel had missed. The papers on which he was working came from a red box with a gold-leaf crest that lay open by his elbow. There was another one on the nearer of the room’s two twin beds, locked shut. The leather that covered both boxes was scuffed with age and use.
Outside, a rising breeze foretold rain. It rustled the leafless branches of the clematis that covered the south-facing wall of the house. Twigs scratched at the bedroom window like fingernails. The small sound, muted as it was by the curtain, was enough to distract Clarke’s attention. He shifted in the chair, irritated at his own edginess.
Finally he went to the window and drew the curtain aside. In the dark glass there was only his own naked reflection. He pulled on a dressing gown, then, leaving the curtains open, he crossed the room and switched out the lights. The moon was high in the sky, full and rich, though soon to be obscured by the scudding clouds. The wind stirred the clematis again and he glanced down at the source of the sound. His focus shifted to the flagstoned terrace where a uniformed policeman stood gazing up at him. Clarke lifted a hand to signal that everything was all right; the officer saluted and turned away. Clarke watched until he disappeared across the dark lawn, his uniform merging with the night. There were men in the woodland too.
Well, he told himself, tomorrow night they’d be gone. All apart from two, who’d stay with him for the rest of his life; that was how it had to be in these terrorist-ridden days.
A sudden, more forceful gust of wind rattled the clematis against the window again, harder this time. Large drops of rain splattered the glass. He blinked, sighed and went back to his seat and the red box.
‘Last one,’ he said. He squared his shoulders and added, ‘Probably ever.’
He read on for about ten minutes, jotting an occasional comment, then peered at his watch where he’d dropped it on the nearer bed. He strapped it on his wrist and stared blankly at the work that still waited, then at the envelope containing his resignation, propped against the dressing-table mirror. He would deliver it personally to Chequers tomorrow, where the PM was spending the weekend with King Fahd and some of the OPEC delegates. Unless he heard from the PM first. No chance.
With that he made up his mind.
There were two telephones by his bed. He rose from the dressing table and picked up the ivory-coloured one. To his surprise he found that the number he wanted was still in his memory. He tapped it out and waited. It was answered after just a couple of rings.
‘This is Edmund Knight,’ said the voice at the other end.
‘Edmund. Bill Clarke here –’
But Knight’s voice carried on. ‘I’m sorry I’m not here at the moment.’
‘Damn.’ Clarke slumped down on the bed and waited for the voice to finish.
‘Please leave your message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thank you.’
Clarke waited for the end of the warning tone.
‘Edmund, it’s Bill Clarke. I need to talk to you. Sooner the better, really. In confidence, Edmund. I’m at home this weekend. Could you call me the first chance you get?’
He rang off and sat staring at the receiver for a minute or two, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He became irritated again. Inaction was even worse than dubious action.
He picked up the phone again and tapped in another number. This time it rang for quite a time before being picked up.
‘Mr Br
ook?’ said Clarke.
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Mr Williams. I’d like to call by this evening. I realise it’s very short notice.’
There was a silence while the receiver was muffled, a lengthy pause, then the voice returned.
‘Nine o’clock, Mr Williams.’
It was a statement, not a suggestion: take it or leave it. Clarke replaced the handset and got back to the box, determined to get it out of the way.
Some minutes later Marion came into the bedroom. Seeing the red boxes, she offered no greeting to disturb him. As she was slipping out again he looked up.
‘Did I mention I have to go out this evening?’
‘No.’
He saw the slight tightening of expression that was the only sign of her anger and disappointment. Over the years she’d learnt to control the signs. She had to.
‘I have to see someone,’ he went on. ‘Just came up this afternoon. Meant to mention it earlier. Might be back a bit late.’ He initialled a paper and began to read rapidly through the next one. Pen in mid-air, he glanced up and flashed her a quick smile. ‘Don’t wait up.’
Then his head was down again and poring over the page. Marion shut the door softly as she left.
He read through another paper or two before picking up the pale-blue telephone. This time he only had to tap out three digits. It was answered at once.
‘Home Secretary?’
‘George, we’ll be going out about eight thirty. I forgot to warn you earlier.’
‘All right, sir.’
‘We’ll be back about one.’
‘Very good.’
‘Who’s on duty tonight?’ Now that he was at home only one of the Special Branch officers would be taking what they called the graveyard shift.
‘Fielding, sir.’
‘Let him know I won’t be requiring him. Your company will be sufficient.’
‘Home Secretary –’
‘Thank you, George. Front door, eight thirty.’
At eight fifteen he finished the box and dressed. As he descended the wide staircase he saw Fielding waiting by the door. The Special Branch officer moved across the hall to speak, but Clarke stole the initiative from him.
‘Sergeant, just the man I want to see. There are two boxes in my bedroom. I’ve finished with both of them. Please fetch them in the course of the evening and see they’re safely looked after.’
‘Certainly, sir. Home Secretary –’
But Clarke was already under George’s umbrella and climbing into the back of the Jaguar. George closed the door after him and walked around to the front of the car. Clarke saw the resigned face he made at Fielding as he folded the umbrella and opened his door. The officer turned away and walked back into the house.
The car picked up speed when they reached the minor public road that bordered Copperfield’s forty acres. They came downhill into Chalfont, almost empty of people and cars, and headed north-west. George knew the best cross-country roads to avoid the Friday evening traffic.
The rain was pelting down now.
*
The turning into the lane was very tight and the lane itself narrow. George practically had to stop the Jaguar dead to negotiate it. His headlights picked out the two signboards for a moment. The larger one said ‘Thomson’s Nurseries, Suppliers to the Trade’. The smaller board on the other side said ‘Brook Cottage’.
George took it slowly along the lane; here and there untrimmed hedges scraped the side of the large car. The rain had stopped but overhanging branches of the trees that fringed the lane dripped water onto the windscreen.
After about a hundred yards the cottage came in sight. Two lights were burning: one downstairs, bright and yellow through the open curtains, and one upstairs, reddish-orange and shaded behind drawn blinds.
George nosed the car into the short spur that led off the lane to the cottage. Clarke got out without a word and went through the gate in the fence to the cottage door.
George reversed into a three-point turn to face the car down the lane again. As he was swinging around he saw the porch light come on and the door open. The man he’d seen on Clarke’s previous visits appeared for a moment, then Clarke and he went inside.
George waited until he was parked before flicking the telephone in the car’s central console onto standby and punching in the number of the security unit at Copperfields. Its ringing tone was relayed through the car’s hi-fi speakers. When the call was answered George picked up the handset and Fielding’s voice – Fielding who should have been there with them – came through on the receiver.
‘We’re here,’ George told him.
‘Where?’
‘Where the hell do you think? The man’s a pain.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, George.’
‘You’ll have to report it this time. If you don’t and somebody finds out, we’ll both be for the high jump.’
‘I know, I know.’
George put the handset down. ‘I bloody well hope so,’ he muttered, and switched on Radio 4.
16
Three hours earlier, Viktor Kunaev’s four-year-old son, Andrei, was playing in the hallway when Viktor got home to the cramped flat in Porchester Gardens. The boy cried out in delight and ran to embrace his father. Viktor scooped him up and made his way carefully through the strewn toys to the kitchen.
Anna was scrubbing vegetables in the sink. As soon as she saw Viktor’s face she dried her hands on the dishcloth and took Andrei from him.
‘You finish playing, my love,’ she said gently to the boy. Her eyes never left Viktor’s face. ‘I’ll read you a nice story after I’ve talked to Papa. Then it’s bedtime.’
She sent Andrei back to the hallway and set the door ajar before turning to Viktor.
‘What’s happened? I thought your shift didn’t finish until midnight.’
Viktor took off his duffel coat and let Anna drape it over her arm.
‘Aren’t you well, Viktor?’
His face expressionless, he crossed to the other side of the kitchen. As he passed the washing machine he reached down and swung its door shut. Then he drew a stool out from the breakfast corner and sat down to wait for her.
Anna knew now what it was about. She started the machine, empty though it was, and sat down beside him. They waited in silence while the drum filled with water. Only when it started churning noisily back and forth did he look up.
It’s tonight,’ he whispered. ‘I have to do it tonight. I know we wanted more time, Anna, but we can’t have it. I do it tonight and we go in the morning.’
She sat forward, leaning her arms on his folded coat. ‘What’s happened?’ Her voice, as quiet as his own, was calm.
‘Major-General Valyukev. You know he’s been with us from Yasyenevo this week?’
Anna nodded. The FCD’s top brass were forever making inspection visits on field staff in the embassies. Viktor said they liked the travel perks.
‘The pressure is on for my recall,’ he went on. ‘Now that my father’s dead and neither of us has family in the USSR they’ve lost their hold on us. They don’t like that.’
‘It’s just as Genrikh warned us, God rest his soul. But why such a rush now – tonight? Do they want us to catch the first flight tomorrow?’
‘No, no. We’ve got a month as far as Yasyenevo is concerned. The urgency is because of something I overheard this afternoon.’
‘An important thing, obviously.’
He nodded. ‘Information that I don’t entirely understand, but it should go across with us. I still want to take the other material as well. That’s why I have to go back to the embassy. I said I was feeling ill, so that I could come here to give you some warning and get myself ready.’
Now she straightened up and patted the palm of her hand on his coat. ‘So. God’s will.’
She fell silent, trying to adjust to their new situation. Her eyes roved around the little kitchen, part of their home for the last eighteen months and now ne
ver to be seen after this night.
Viktor understood her feelings; it was the same turmoil that he’d been through in Moscow while his father lay dying: the difference between planning and doing. They both knew they were leaving more than this flat behind: for all Moscow’s shortcomings, there had been good things about their lives there as well. Friends, special places, the emotional currents of a society that didn’t put material values first; Anna and he were leaving all of that behind.
He reached across the table and took her hand.
‘I know it’s such short notice, my love. But it’s what we planned. The timing is all that’s being forced on us. The decision itself was always our own.’
His words seemed to strengthen her and she tightened her grip on his hand. ‘Then maybe we shouldn’t even wait for morning. Why not go tonight, after you get back here? Especially if what you heard is so urgent.’
‘Too dangerous. You know they watch this place. Most of the apartments in the building are the directorate’s, so we’re easy to keep an eye on. Better to leave it until morning and it’ll look as if we’re just going shopping.’
She pursed her lips as she thought this over. Andrei came in with a problem about one of his toy cars; the battery had fallen loose.
‘The money,’ Viktor whispered, putting the child on his lap and taking the car. ‘Where is it?’
‘Where you put it.’ She smiled. ‘As you said, at least KGB apartments don’t get burgled.’
She took a plant down from a small shelf and handed it to him. Some five- and ten-pound notes lay curled between the plastic pot and its glazed container. The amount was less than a hundred pounds at the last count, but it was more than enough for food and tickets to where he had in mind. He was glad that they’d had the foresight to set it aside. The banks were closed.
‘And the things I need tonight?’
Anna went to a drawer and took out a pair of kitchen scissors, a roll of adhesive bandage and a large handkerchief. She rolled the scissors and bandage up in the handkerchief and put them in his duffel pocket.
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