Disorderly Elements (6 page)

“I thought I was handling the situation calmly,” he said. “But it's obviously hurt me more than I suspected. I admit I'm very confused at the moment. You…you touched a nerve, I'm afraid.”

“I'm sorry.”

Wyman waved his hand impatiently.

“Forget it,” he said. “How's Cecilia?”

“Mum's fine. She asks after you.”

“Give her my regards. And how's that fool she's living with?”

“He's fine too,” Richard grinned.

“Never mind.”

“Bitchy as ever.”

“All dons are bitchy. It's their prerogative.”

“I agree with the first half of that, but I'm not too sure about the second half. Anyway, you're not a don any more.”

“No, I'm not. It will take getting used to.”

“However distasteful the idea may sound,” Richard smiled.

Wyman laughed and stood up.

“I'm afraid I have to go,” he said. “I have a lot of unfinished work to clear up before I leave the Firm, so I probably shan't see you again for some time.”

Richard nodded.

“Let me know when you're free,” he said. “Perhaps we can meet for a drink—you, me and Margaret.”

“That would be nice,” Wyman said. “Goodbye, Richard.”

“Thanks for coming. And…congratulations.”

T
HE MINISTER'S CLUB in Pall Mall served a class of men who were no longer supposed to exist. It was comfortable, oak-panelled, leather-furnished and very, very expensive. The same could be said of its members.

The Minister escorted Owen into the entrance hall and smiled benevolently at the hall porter.

“Good evening, Whitehead,” said the Minister. “I believe the Russell Room is booked in my name this evening.”

“Yes sir,” said the porter. “The port's been put out for you. Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, that will be fine, thank you.”

The Minister walked regally up the circular stairs past faded paintings of past members. Owen followed him and noted that the club always smelled of cigars and brandy. When they arrived at the second floor, the Minister opened a large door and led Owen into the Russell Room.

“Do sit down,” said the Minister. He poured two glasses of dark, viscous port and handed one to Owen.

“Good health,” said the Minister.

“Good health,” Owen said.

They sank graciously into two leather armchairs.

“So,” said the Minister. “You have something to tell me.”

Owen explained Wyman's discovery, and its awful implications.

“Good grief,” exclaimed the Minister. “This is ghastly.”

“Monstrous. You agree that we must act?”

“Definitely. How dare they not decant the port!”

“I was speaking about Wyman,” Owen said.

“Ah, yes. What are you doing about it?”

“I've had to put Wyman in charge, as you can appreciate. It is imperative that as few people hear of this as possible.”

“Quite. However, it's all a bit embarrassing under the circumstances, what with Wyman being eased out and all that.”

“I know,” Owen said. “But that can't be helped. I must say, Wyman is being very sporting about the whole thing.”

“Glad to hear it. The last thing we need is acrimony.” The Minister poured out two more glasses from another decanter, and sipped his appreciatively.

“That's better,” he said. “Damn good vintage, isn't it? So what is Wyman going to do?”

“He's going to Europe. Inquiries are going to have to be pursued discreetly, so he's going to look up a few old contacts. Back-door inquiries.”

“Yes,” said the Minister suspiciously. “Sounds expensive.”

Owen's moustache twitched with embarrassment.

“I know. But that can't be helped. Under the circumstances.”

“Mmmm.” The Minister frowned. “I really must get a case of this stuff for my home. Listen, Owen, I can't afford to subsidize Wyman's old-boy reunions if they don't bear fruit. That will have to be made clear to him.”

“It has been,” Owen said reassuringly.

“Thing is,” the Minister said, “there are little goblins whispering impure suggestions into the PM's ear. One of them is that your place should be shut down.”

“Shut down?” Owen looked horrified.

“Well, that isn't the term they're using. They're talking about merging you with another Division. It amounts to the same thing.”

“That's terrible,” choked Owen.

“I know. I'm defending you to the death, old boy. Rest assured of that. The problem is that my words count for less and less nowadays. It's the humidity situation in the Cabinet, you know.”

“Humidity?”

“Yes. No one likes wets any more.”

“Ah. Yes. I see.”

“So,” the Minister went on, “the case for your continued existence must be based upon your willingness to function on a much tighter budget. No more of these ridiculous expense accounts. Wyman's a bit of a
spender
, isn't he?”

He made it sound like an accusation of homosexuality.

“I'm afraid so,” Owen confessed. “But he is good.”

“More to the point, he's leaving. Just make sure he doesn't burn up too much cash before he goes. I really must ask where they get this port from. I can't get hold of anything this good.”

“It is a very fine port,” Owen agreed. “What happens if Wyman finds anything—an infiltrator I mean?”

“I'm not convinced that there is an infiltrator. But if there is—well, I thought you chaps knew how to handle that sort of thing. Surely, the problem consists simply of finding the blighter. Just keep it all discreet, will you? We can't afford another Bettaney fiasco.”

“There seem to be a lot of things we can't afford,” Owen observed.

“Too right,” said the Minister. “There's a recession on, you know.”

B
ETWEEN HALF PAST SEVEN and nine o'clock on weekday mornings, East Croydon railway station is thronged by commuters. Trains run from there to two destinations in central London: Victoria and London Bridge.

The morning of May 10 was no exception. Among the plethora of stockbrokers, clerks, secretaries, accountants and civil servants stood a well-dressed man in his late thirties called Anatoli Bulgakov.

Bulgakov was short, good-looking and permanently cheerful. His geniality was matched by excellent manners and a fine sense of humour, and his warm, open laugh won over almost everyone who met him. Ostensibly, he worked at the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce. In fact, he was a major in the
Komitet Gossudarstvennoi Bezopastnosti
, the KGB.

His peers regarded Bulgakov with mild suspicion. They mistrusted his fondness for Savile Row suits, Rolex watches and other trappings of Western decadence. Only Bulgakov's superiors knew better. Despite his relatively low rank, he had been given a free hand to do whatever he pleased throughout Europe: his freedom from bureaucratic restraint ensured the safety of countless operatives in his care. His record was one of unblemished excellence.

Bulgakov boarded the 9.05 train for Victoria and sat in the window seat of a second-class smoking compartment with his attaché case and a pocket romance entitled
Love's Revenge
by Bernadette Williams. Books like this baffled Bulgakov. He failed to see why the British working people should devote so much time and money to prose of this sort:

Vera's heart throbbed in anguish as Milo held her in his passionate embrace. She felt his warm, sweet breath, and panic surged within her.

“No, Milo,” she breathed. “We mustn't. The Count will be here soon.”

“Hush,” Milo whispered. “I will deal with Count Adolfo when he arrives.”

He kissed her tenderly and stared deep into her azure eyes. A tear rolled down her face, and he brushed it away with a gentle sweep of his finger.

“We will never be parted,” Milo said.

Bulgakov suppressed an urge to vomit all over the page, and he reflected that Marx's dictum on the opium of the people could be fruitfully applied to areas other than religion. Indeed, it was a mystery to Bulgakov how Marx, who had written his great works in London, could ever have drawn inspiration from the British proletariat. Judging by the contents of
Love's Revenge
, the Anglo-Saxon workers had a long way to go.

He shut the book in disgust and put it beside him. The train rolled into Clapham Junction Station, and more passengers got on. A vast, wrinkled woman in an orange floral dress sat beside Bulgakov. She too had a copy of
Love's Revenge
. Unlike Bulgakov, she found the saga of Milo and Vera enthralling.

Bulgakov stared at the woman in horrified fascination. All his doubts about the English proletariat were summed up by this menopausal monstrosity. What would Marx have made of such a creature, with her blue-rinsed hair, butterfly spectacles and huge plastic earrings shaped to resemble bunches of grapes? Could the Revolution truly begin here?

Bulgakov forced himself to look away from the woman. He could face tortured suspects with equanimity, he was indifferent to the sight of demonstrators being shot, and the faces of arrested dissidents left him wholly unmoved, but this—this was too much. There were limits to what even a KGB officer should be expected to witness.

The woman continued to read
Love's Revenge
with avid interest. As the train entered Victoria Station she put the book down and dipped into her handbag for her ticket. Having found it, she shut the bag, picked up Bulgakov's copy of
Love's Revenge
, and got off the train.

Bulgakov watched her go, and noted that her stockings were full of holes, exposing tufts of hair and varicose veins. He shuddered and picked up her copy of
Love's Revenge
. Stapled to the inside back cover were some folded documents. He put the book in his attaché case and left the train.

Inside Victoria Station is a branch of the National Westminster Bank. Bulgakov entered it, took £400 in cash from his attaché case, and paid the money into the account of Mrs J. Hobbes. He then left the station and hailed a taxi, which took him to the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce, 2 Lowndes Street, SW1.

“D
O COME IN,” Owen said. His tone was glacial. Wyman closed the door and sat down in front of Owen's desk.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“The Minister was not pleased,” Owen said solemnly.

“You know, I had a vague suspicion that he wouldn't be,” Wyman smiled.

Owen gave a disdainful sniff.

“Like myself, the Minister is not entirely convinced by your conjectures.”

“Indeed? Then how does he account for the fate of Dovetail and his network?”

“He doesn't. It is for us to explain these things.”

“Quite,” Wyman said. “So what exactly is going to be done about it?”

Owen looked downwards and toyed pensively with his moustache. He was one of those people who believe that long theatrical pauses can make the most mundane speeches sound impressive.

“The Minister has one overriding preoccupation. It is one I share. We are both concerned that this matter should not prove to be unduly expensive.”

Wyman smiled cynically. “In medieval times there was a fashionable view to the effect that everything had a ‘just price'. This notion seems to have been revived recently. What exactly is the just price of weeding out a Moscow infiltrator?”

Owen sighed wearily.

“Please don't be difficult. We are all under immense pressure with regard to money.”

“So I've heard.”

“My only concern is to keep the cost of this work to a minimum. There is no question of a ‘just price'. We will pay whatever the job requires, within reason.”

“Splendid,” Wyman said. He suspected, however, that his idea of what was “within reason” would not correspond to Owen's.

“Hence,” Owen said, “you may take a week's leave to pursue unofficial inquiries.”

“A week?” said Wyman incredulously. “This could take months! What could I possibly achieve in a week?”

“You will at least be able to confirm your suspicions about the Dovetail network.”

“They do not require confirmation. As far as I am concerned, we simply need to establish the identity of the KGB plant without delay. If I had a month, I think I could do it. In a week I could only begin my inquiries.”

“Very well,” said Owen. “Begin them. Your success or otherwise in the coming week will determine how we will proceed after that.”

Wyman nodded. Clearly, Owen and the Minister were trying to persuade themselves that there was really no infiltrator in the Department. If Wyman returned with empty hands after a week, that would “prove” that his suspicions were unfounded.

“You said you would be making ‘back-door inquiries',” Owen said. “But you weren't very specific about them. Perhaps you'd like to tell me now.”

“I'd prefer not to. All I will say is that obviously we can't afford to tell this story to people who currently work for us or for the CIA. Hence, I will try to see what can be obtained from people who are no longer directly involved in intelligence work, but who still have some field contacts. I also have one or two personal connections who may be able to help.”

“I see. Do impress upon these people the need for absolute secrecy. We can't—”

“I think they are quite capable of understanding the problem,” Wyman said sardonically.

“Good. May I ask where you are proposing to make your inquiries?”

“I will need to go to Rome, Paris and Vienna. As I only have a week, I will have no option but to fly to these places, regrettable though the expense will be.”

The irony in Wyman's voice had turned into mordant sarcasm. Owen, who was oblivious to sarcasm, gave a grunt of disapproval.