Agent Running in the Field (12 page)

He rounds on me in Russian outrage and barks:

‘He is not my summer partner! He is the friend of my heart!’

‘Well in
that
case,’ I say, ‘he sounds exactly the sort of friend
you need and we must find a way to keep him happy.
Not in London, but we’ll think of something. Is he a student?’

‘He is postgraduate. He is
kulturny
—’ and for my better understanding: ‘He is cultivated in all artistic subjects.’

‘And a fellow physicist perhaps?’

‘No. For English literature. For your great poets. For all poets.’

‘Does he know you were a Russian agent?’

‘He would despise me.’

‘Even if you are working for the British?’

‘He
despises all deception.’

‘Then we have nothing to worry about, do we? Just write down his name for me here on this piece of paper.’

He accepts my notepad and pen, turns his back to me and writes.

‘And his birthday, which I’m sure you know,’ I add.

He writes again, rips off the page, folds it and with an imperious gesture hands it to me. I unfold it, glance at the name, slip it into the padded
envelope with his other offerings and recover my notepad.

‘So, Sergei,’ I say, in an altogether warmer tone. ‘We shall resolve the matter of your Barry in the next few days. Positively. Creatively, I’m sure. Then I won’t have to tell Her Majesty’s Home Office that you’ve ceased collaborating with us, will I? And by doing so violated the terms of your residence.’

A fresh torrent of rain sweeps
across the windscreen.

‘Sergei accepts,’ he announces.

*

I have driven a distance and parked under a clump of chestnut trees where the wind and rain are not so ferocious. Seated beside me, Sergei has adopted a pose of superior detachment and is pretending to study the scenery.

‘So let’s talk some more about your Anette,’ I suggest, selecting my most relaxed tone of voice. ‘Or shall we go back
to calling her Anastasia, which is how you knew her when she lectured you? Tell me more about her talents.’

‘She is an accomplished linguist and a woman of great quality and education and most skilled in conspiracy.’

‘Age?’

‘I would say, perhaps fifty. Fifty-three maybe. Not beautiful, but with much dignity and charisma. In the face also. Such a woman could believe in God.’

Sergei also believes
in God, he has told his debriefers. But his faith must not be mediated. As an intellectual he has no love of clergy.

‘Height?’ I enquire.

‘I would say, one metre sixty-five.’

‘Voice?’

‘Anastasia spoke only English with us, in which she was clearly excellent.’

‘You never heard her speak Russian?’

‘No, Peter. I did not.’

‘Not one word?’

‘No.’

‘German?’

‘Once only she spoke German. It was
to recite Heine. This is a German poet of the Romantic Period, also a Jew.’

‘In your mind. Now, or maybe when you were listening to her speaking. How would you place her geographically? From what region?’

I had expected him to ponder ostentatiously, but he came straight back:

‘It was my impression that this woman, by her bearing and dark eyes and complexion, also from the cadence of her speech,
was from Georgia.’

Dull down, I am urging myself. Be your mediocre professional self.

‘Sergei?’

‘Please, Peter?’

‘What is the date of your planned holiday with Barry?’

‘It will be for all of August. It will be to visit on foot as pilgrims your historic British places of culture and spiritual freedom.’

‘And your university term begins when?’

‘September 24th.’

‘Then why not postpone your
holiday until September? Tell him you have an important research project in London.’

‘I cannot do this. Barry will wish only to accompany me.’

But my head is already spinning with alternatives.

‘Then consider this. We send you – just for example – an official letter on, say, Harvard University Physics Faculty notepaper congratulating you on your great work in York. We offer you a two-month
summer research fellowship on the Harvard campus in July and August, all expenses paid, and an honorarium. You could show that to Barry, and as soon as you’ve completed your spell in London as Markus Schweizer the two of you can pick up where you left off and have the time of your lives using all those lovely dollars that Harvard will have given you for your research project. Would that play? Well,
would it or not?’

‘Provided such a letter is plausible and the honorarium is realistic, it is my belief that Barry would be proud for me,’ he announces.

Some spies are lightweights pretending to be heavyweights. Some are heavyweights despite themselves. Unless my inflamed memory deceives me, Sergei has just promoted himself to the heavyweight class.

*

Seated in the front of the car, we debate
as two professionals the sort of replies we will be sending to Anette in Copenhagen: a first draft of the under-text assuring Centre that Sergei will comply with its instructions, then the cover text, which I propose to leave to his erotic imagination, stipulating only that, together with the under-text, I approve it before it is sent.

Having concluded – not least for my own convenience – that
Sergei is likely to be more at ease with a female handler, I inform him that he will henceforth be working to Jennifer, aka Florence, on all matters of routine. I undertake to bring Jennifer to York on a get-to-know-you expedition and discuss what cover best befits their future relationship: perhaps not girlfriend, since Jennifer is tall and good-looking and Barry might take offence. I will remain
Sergei’s controller, Jennifer will report to me at all stages. And I remember thinking to myself that whatever had got into Florence on the badminton court, here was the gift of a challenging agent operation to restore her morale and test her skills.

At a petrol station on the outskirts of York I invest in two egg-and-cress sandwiches and two bottles of fizzy lemonade. Giles would no doubt have
produced a Fortnum’s hamper. When we have finished our picnic and cleaned the crumbs out of the car together, I drop Sergei at a bus stop. He attempts to embrace me. I shake his hand instead. To my surprise it is still early afternoon. I return the hire car to the depot and am lucky to catch a fast train that gets me to London in time to take Prue to our local Indian. Since Office matters are off-limits,
our dinner conversation turns on the shameful practices of Big Pharma. Back at home, we watch Channel 4 News on catch-up and on this inconclusive note go to bed, but sleep comes slowly to me.

Florence has still not responded to my phone message. The Treasury sub-committee’s verdict on Rosebud, according to an enigmatic late email from Viv, is ‘due any moment but still
pending’. If I do not find
these augurs quite as ominous as I might have done, that is because my head is still rejoicing in the improbable chain of connection that Sergei and his Anette have revealed to me. I am reminded of an aphorism of my mentor Bryn Jordan: if you spy for long enough, the show comes round again.

Riding on the tube to Camden Town early that Wednesday morning, I took a clear-headed look at the competing tasks awaiting me. How far to take the issue of Florence’s insubordination?
Report her to Human Resources and instigate a full-blown disciplinary tribunal with Moira in the chair? Heaven forfend. Better to have it out with her one-to-one behind closed doors. And on the positive side, award her the fast-developing case of agent Pitchfork.

Letting myself into the dingy hallway of the Haven, I am struck by the unusual silence. Ilya’s bicycle is there, but where is Ilya?
Where is anyone? I climb the stairs to the first landing: not a sound. All doors closed. I climb to the second. The door to Florence’s cubicle is sealed with masking tape. A red ‘No Entry’ sign is pasted across it, and the door handle sprayed with wax. But the door to my own office stands wide open. On my desk lie two printouts.

The first an internal memo from Viv informing addressees that after
due consideration by the competent Treasury sub-committee Operation Rosebud has been cancelled on grounds of disproportionate risk.

The second is an internal memo from Moira informing all relevant departments that Florence has resigned from the Service as of Monday and that full severance procedure
has been activated in accordance with HO rules of disengagement.

*

Think now, do crisis later.

According to Moira, Florence’s resignation occurred a mere four hours before she showed up for the foursome with Ed and Laura at the Athleticus, which went a long way to explaining her aberrant behaviour. What had caused her to resign? On the face of it, the cancellation of Operation Rosebud, but don’t rush your fences. Having read both documents slowly for a third time, I stepped back on to the
landing, cupped my hands over my mouth and yelled:

‘Everybody out, please.
Now!
’

As my team cautiously emerges from behind closed doors I piece together the story, or as much of it as anybody knows or is willing to say. Around eleven on the Monday morning, while I was safely tucked away in darkest Northwood, Florence had informed Ilya that she had an appointment with Dom Trench in his office.
According to Ilya, normally a reliable source, she appeared more worried than excited by the prospect.

At one-fifteenish, while Ilya was upstairs covering the communications desk and the rest of the team were downstairs having their sandwich lunches and reading their phones, Florence appeared in the kitchen doorway having returned from her appointment with Dom. Scottish Denise had always been
closest to Florence in the pecking order and had routinely taken over her agents when Florence was tied up or on leave.

‘She just stood there, Nat, like for minutes, staring at us like we were all crazy’ – Denise, awestruck.

‘Had Florence actually
said
anything?’

‘Not one single word, Nat. Just looked at us.’

From the kitchen Florence had gone upstairs to her room, locked the door on herself
and – back to Ilya – ‘five minutes later came out with a Tesco carrier bag containing her flip-flops, the photo of her dead mum she kept on her desk, her cardie for when the heating’s off, and girls’ stuff from her desk drawer’. How Ilya managed to see all this collection at one glance eludes me, so allow for poetic licence.

Florence then ‘kisses me like three times Russian-style’ – Ilya, in
full flood – ‘gives me an extra hug and tells me it’s for all of us. The hug is. So I say, what’s all this about then, Florence? because we know not to call her Flo. And Florence says, it’s nothing really, Ilya, except the ship has been taken over by the rats and I’ve jumped.’

For want of further testimony, these then were Florence’s parting words to the Haven. She had had her parley with Dom,
handed in her resignation, returned from Head Office to the Haven, collected her possessions and by approximately 3.05 p.m. was back on the street and unemployed. Within minutes of her departure, two tight-lipped representatives from Domestic Security – not the rats who had taken over the ship, but Ferrets, as they were commonly known – arrived in a green Office van, removed Florence’s computer
and steel cupboard and demanded to know of each member of my staff in turn whether she had entrusted any article to them for safekeeping or discussed the reasons for her departure. Having received the required assurances on both counts, they sealed her room.

*

Instructing everyone to get on with their work as normal, a forlorn hope, I step back into the street, turn down a side alley and walk
hard for ten minutes before settling in a café and ordering myself a double espresso. Breathe slowly. Get your
priorities sorted. I try Florence’s mobile once more on the off-chance. Dead as a dodo. Her Hampstead phone number has a new message. It is delivered by a young, contemptuous, upper-class male: ‘
If you’re calling for Florence, she’s no longer at this number, so get lost.
’ I call Dom and
get Viv:

‘Unfortunately Dom has back-to-back meetings all day, Nat. Can I be of any help at all?’

Oh, I don’t think so, thanks, Viv, no. Are his back-to-backs on home ground, would you say, or are they out and about town?

Is she wavering? Yes, she is:

‘Dom is not taking calls, Nat,’ she says, and rings off.

*

‘
Nat
, my dear fellow,’ Dom says in a tone of high surprise, indulging his new habit
of using my name as a weapon. ‘Always welcome. Do we have an appointment? Would tomorrow suit? I’m a bit snowed under, to be frank.’

And he has the papers strewn across his desk to prove it, which only tells me that he’s been expecting me all morning. Dom doesn’t do confrontation, which is something we both know. His life is a sideways advance between things he can’t face. I drop the latch on
his door and sit myself down in a prestige chair. Dom remains at his desk, deep in paperwork.

‘You’re staying, are you?’ he enquires after a while.

‘If that’s all right with you, Dom.’

He picks another file from his in-tray, opens it, absorbs himself intently in its contents.

‘Sad about Rosebud,’ I suggest after a suitable silence.

He can’t hear me. He’s too absorbed.

‘Sad about Florence,
too,’ I reflect. ‘One of the best Russian officers the Service ever lost. Can I see the report? Maybe you’ve got it there?’

The head still down. ‘Report? What are you blathering about?’

‘The Treasury sub-committee’s report. The one about the disproportionate risk. Can I see it please?’

The head up a bit, but not too far. The open file in front of him still matters more.

‘Nat, I have to inform
you that, as a provisional employee of London General, you are not cleared to anything
like
the appropriate level. Do we have any further questions?’

‘Yes, Dom. We do. Why did Florence resign? Why did you pack me off to Northwood on a fool’s errand? Were you planning to make a pass at her?’

On the last, the head comes up with a jolt.

‘I’d have thought
that
possibility rather more in your line
than mine.’

‘So why?’

Lean back. Let the fingertips find each other and form their wedding arch. They do. The prepared speech may now begin.

‘Nat, as you may suppose, I did receive, on a strictly one-to-one confidential basis, advance warning of the sub-committee’s decision.’

‘When?’

‘That is neither here nor there as far as you are concerned. May I go on?’

‘Please do.’

‘Florence, we both
know, is not what you and I might call a mature person. That is the core reason why she was held back. Talented, nobody contests that, least of all myself. However, it was apparent to me from her presentation of Operation Rosebud that she was emotionally – I dare say
too
emotionally – engaged in its outcome for her own good and ours. I had hoped that by giving her an informal heads-up ahead of
the official announcement of the sub-committee’s decision I might mitigate her disappointment.’

‘So you sent me to Northwood while you dabbed her brow. Very considerate.’

But Dom doesn’t do irony, least of all when he is the butt of it.

‘However, on the larger issue of her abrupt departure from the Office, we should congratulate ourselves,’ he continues. ‘Her response to the sub-committee’s
decision to disallow Rosebud for reasons of national interest was disproportionate and hysterical. The Service may count itself well rid of her. Now tell me about Pitchfork yesterday. A virtuoso performance by the Nat of old, if I may say so. How do you construe his instructions from Moscow?’

Dom’s habit of hopping from one subject to another as a means of avoiding unfriendly fire is also familiar
to me. However, on this occasion he has done me a favour. I don’t think of myself as sly in a general way but Dom raises my game. The only person who is ever going to tell me what took place between him and Florence is Florence, but she’s unavailable. So go for goal.

‘How do
I
construe his instructions? Better to ask how Russia department would construe them,’ I reply, with a loftiness to match
his.

‘Which is how?’

Lofty, but also firm. I am an old Russia hand pouring cold water on an inexperienced brother officer’s ardour.

‘Pitchfork is a sleeper agent, Dom. You seem to forget that. He’s here for the long haul. He’s been sleeping for precisely a year. Time for Moscow Centre to wake him up, blow the dust off him, give him a dummy run and make sure he’s still there for them. Once he’s
proved that he is, it’s back to sleep in York.’

He appears about to argue, thinks better of it.

‘So our tactic, on the assumption that your premise is correct, which I don’t necessarily accept, is
what
exactly?’ he demands truculently.

‘Watch and wait.’

‘And do we, while watching and waiting, alert Russia department that we are so doing?’

‘If you want them to take over the case and airbrush
London General out of it, now’s as good a time as any,’ I retort.

He pouts, looks away from me as if to consult a higher authority.

‘Very well, Nat’ – humouring me – ‘we watch and wait as you suggest. I expect you to keep me fully informed of all future developments, however trivial, the moment they occur. And thank you for calling by,’ he adds, returning to the papers on his desk.

‘However,’
I say, not moving from my chair.

‘However
what
?’

‘There is a subtext to Pitchfork’s instructions that suggests to me that we
could
be looking at rather more than just a standard dummy run to keep a sleeper on his toes.’

‘You just said the precise opposite.’

‘That’s because there’s an element to Pitchfork’s story for which you are in no way cleared.’

‘Nonsense.
What
element?’

‘And this is
no time to be trying to add your name to the indoctrination list, or Russia department will need to know the reason why. Which I assume you wouldn’t want any more than I would.’

‘
Why
wouldn’t I?’

‘Because if my hunch is right, what we
could
be looking at – subject to confirmation – is a golden opportunity for the Haven and London General to mount an operation with our two names attached to it
and no Treasury sub-committee to spike it. Do I have your ear or shall I come back when it’s more convenient?’

He sighs and pushes aside his papers.

‘Maybe you’re broadly familiar with the case of my former agent Woodpecker? Or are you too young?’ I enquire.

‘Of course I’m
familiar
with the Woodpecker case. I’ve read it up. Who hasn’t? Trieste. Their
rezident
, former KGB, an old hand, consular
cover. You recruited him over badminton, as I recall. He later reverted to type and rejoined the opposition, if he ever left it in the first place. Hardly a feather in your cap, I’d have thought. Why are we talking about Woodpecker suddenly?’

For a latecomer, Dom has done his homework pretty thoroughly.

‘Woodpecker was a reliable and valued source until his last year of working for us,’ I inform
him.

‘If you say so. Others might take a different view. May we come to the point, please?’

‘I’d like to discuss Moscow Centre’s instructions to Pitchfork with him.’

‘With
whom
?’

‘With Woodpecker. Get his take on them. An insider’s view.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Stark staring off-your-head mad. Woodpecker is officially graded toxic. That means nobody from this Service goes there without
the written personal consent of the head of Russia department, who happens to be in purdah in Washington DC. Woodpecker is untrustworthy, totally two-faced and an embedded Russian criminal.’

‘Is that a no?’

‘It’s an over-my-dead-body no. As of here and now. I shall put it in writing instantly, copy to the disciplinary committee.’

‘Meantime, with your permission I’d like to take a week’s golfing
leave.’

‘You don’t play fucking golf.’

‘And in the event that Woodpecker agrees to see me, and it turns out that he has an interesting take on Pitchfork’s
instructions from Moscow Centre, you
may
just decide that you ordered me to pay a call on him after all. And meanwhile I suggest you think twice before you write that rude letter to the disciplinary committee.’