Faithless (26 page)

             
"No, I work for the Government."

             
Graeme smiled. "Very shifty. So do many folk. The dole office folk work for the government but they don't have that look in their eyes they tell you. Are ye yin o they spies? Sneakin' aboot like James Bond shootin' folk an a'?"

             
John laughed. "I've never shot anybody. Don't have a gun. Very boring really. Just paperwork."

             
Graeme laughed. "So ye say. But ye'd no tell the truth anyway. I ken that weel. I have a bus to catch. How long ye up for? Fancy a pint one night?"

             
"We're only up for a couple of nights. So probably not this time."

             
Graeme laughed. "You've probably got too high and mighty to spend time in a pitman's company anyway."

             
John shook his head. "No way. Next time, I'm up for sure. Give me your phone number."

             
Graeme shook his head. "Don't have a phone right now. Just let Karen's ma know. She's a friend of oor Jeanie's. She'll get word to me."

             
Graeme clapped him on the back. "Anyway, I've got to get off. People to meet, places to be, ken?"

             
John let him go. "Good luck Graeme. I hope it works out ok."

             
Graeme called back. "We're a' in the hands o' the wicked witch noo. She dis whit she wants."

May 1985, London:
John was back in K3's office in Gower Street with Philip. He had been in K3 two days since he'd finished the agent running course after his velvet ejection from K4.

On the day he packed his desk, Sue look
ed triumphal - all dyed red hair and bad skin. Her pleasure wasn't so much that he'd gone to K3, in some sense the move could be seen as a promotion, it was because she'd barked and those in power had listened. John was under no illusion that if she could do him further harm she would - but for now she was pleased with her little victory.

             
John and Philip had been out to meet N134391 who was a British businessman who had dealings with the Soviets. He ran the company that serviced the lifts at the Embassy. He was friendly enough but  limited in his conversation.

             
"Lovely man," said Philip as they returned to the Office.

             
"He knows a lot about lifts."

             
"A lot."

             
"A bit boring though."

             
"He's helping his country."

             
"Of course," said John.

             
"And he's all yours now," said Philip.

             
"Thanks."

             
"There are many other such men I will introduce you to over the next few weeks."

             
"When do you leave K3 anyway?"

             
"I've got another month."

             
"And where are you going exactly?"

             
Philip tapped his nose. "Not supposed to reveal this to you 5 types but to the Targeting and Counter Intelligence section in the run down hovel that is Century House."

             
"A good move?"

             
Philip grimaced. "Bah, I'd hoped to go back to Moscow."

             
"Really?"

             
Philip looked wistful. "Actually yes, the dreary bleakness has its own charm. The Russian soul - the Moskva River - Gorky Park. The vodka of course."

             
"Don't know if I'd ever want to go back," said John.

             
"Well you can't of course. Big Brother won't let you."

             
"I know."

             
Then Philip shrugged. "The world might change and we all might live as friends one day."

             
"Don't let them hear you saying that. Thatcher and Reagan will think you've gone soft and have you killed."

             
"I don't think Maggie and Ron have much interest in lowly old me. Anyway, I'm off to see Personnel Department among my own folk back at 6. I won't be back today. Tomorrow. We're meeting N73421. As his number suggests he is venerable."

             
"A secret, reliable and well placed source?"

             
"As they say. Another crashing bore I'm afraid though."

             
"I thought this was supposed to be James Bond work?"

             
"Sadly not. Hasta luego til tomorrow."

Philip left and John at his desk trying to draft a contact note for the agent they'd just seen. He was attempting to think
what information of value they'd managed to glean from their two hour lunch at a tucked away Italian restaurant in Soho. He turned his head to see the entry of a tall blonde woman dressed in an elegant black dress and expensive looking high heels. She walked over to the mirror on the wall and began to reapply her lipstick. When she finished doing that she brushed her hair and looked at herself in the mirror, apparently checking whether she was still beautiful. She still didn't speak. John went back to his work. Then she went to a desk to his right and sat down. She got out a piece of paper. As if racking her brain she jotted down a few words. John spoke to be polite.               "Hello, I don't think we've met."

             
She looked up and smiled. In a cultured accent she said, "No, but you're the new boy from K4."

             
"Yes. " He smiled. "I'm attempting a contact note?" he said. "You too?"

             
She shook her head, still smiling. "No, I'm writing down a shopping list for Fortnums."

             
"You look like you've been to a funeral," he said.

             
"Very perceptive of you. I have."

             
"Oh I'm sorry."

             
She laughed. She had a low voice for a woman. "No, it was all a fake. Typical of this world we inhabit. But
lux in tenebris lucet
we must hope."

             
"You're a Latinist?"

             
"Did it at school and what I know spills out of me at what I hope are appropriate moments. But the funeral was not for a friend. It was some LSE academic who made his name defending the Soviets' crushing of the Prague Spring. Various members of the Embassy and Trade Delegation attended and I hoped to get alongside one of them under my cover as the beautiful, weeping Isobel Parker - journalist and ex-student of the defunct Commie intellectual whose passing we were there to mourn.  The inference we were hoping they would draw was that he shagged me and that I therefore may be open to letting them do the same. But no dice. No bites. No little Soviet fishes nibbled at my line."

             
She sat back and brushed her hair, which she had been twisting round her finger.  "I'm sorry if I appeared preoccupied with my shopping. Very rude of me, but if I don't get the sausages my husband plays blue murder. Even though he works closer to Fortnum's than I do." She suddenly noticed a speck of mud on her elegant black shoes and sighed. She wiped the smudge off the toe with a handkerchief she took out of her sleeve. She said, "He considers shopping the woman's work."

             
"He's old fashioned then."

             
"He's Navy. They are. I'm Ailsa McInnes by the way -  née Fraser." She reached out and shook his hand very manfully.

             
"John Gilroy - born Fee."

             
"You're a Scot? From the accent."

             
"Aye. I am."

             
"So am I."

             
"You don't sound it," he smiled.

             
She shook her head. "Had it knocked out of me. Educated at Roedean so it soon went. One tired of being referred to as "haggis". The accent comes back a bit when I go home. My husband's Scottish too -  Duncan McInnes, a loon fae Aberdeen. Though he doesn't sound it either. Educated at Pangbourne."

             
"Been in K3 long? I haven't seen you around," asked John.

             
"Not really. About two months. We were in Moscow previously. Duncan was Naval Attaché and I was little wifey. The Russians don't expect female intelligence officers so my cover was perfect. As far as the KGB were concerned I was merely an Embassy wife."

             
"Operationally very tough though I bet."

             
"Oh yes. Moscow Rules. We hardly ran anyone. But I can't really talk about it. Sorry."

             
"Were the KGB that good?"

             
"The KGB were beastly to us. Awful. Provoking car crashes. Random harassment. Breaking in and making a pointless mess.  Awful.  We brought out a girl to act as housekeeper from England, well Scotland technically. A girl from Duncan's village. Her father was his father's mechanic. But she didn't last. Poor love, they followed her round and scared her to death. She had to go home."  She peered over at him. "What are you up to?"

             
"Trying to write a contact note." He smiled. "I did say."

             
She apologised . "Wasn't listening. What's the problem?"

             
He shrugged his shoulders. "There wasn't much said."

             
"No? How long were you with him?"

             
"Nearly two hours. Very dreary."

             
"Make it up."

             
"He went on a bit. Just rambled about lifts. I felt useless."

             
She sighed. " This game is all appearances. You'll just have to get on with it, useless or not. "  She smiled, "No offence."

"None taken."

He wasn't sure he liked her very much. She didn't look like would care that he didn't. She continued her work on her shopping list, brushing her hair back from her face, and chewing on the end of the pen. John imagined she was struggling with the difficult decision of whether to buy Oolong or Lady Grey.

             
But he spoke to her again. "You're SIS I take it?" he called across.

             
She looked up again, mildly irritated. "I hope it's obvious. No offence again. You're 5 I take it?" She smiled.  He nodded. She said, "I know you're not all boring little policemen. Some of my best friends are MI5 officers." She looked up and smiled at him again, a crooked asymmetric smile. Then she said, "Well actually that's not true. But just by accident not on principle. Perhaps you'll become my friend? Who knows?"

             
John said, "I have nothing against in on principle."

             
She looked at him as if she were noticing him for the first time. Her eyes were blue-green that day like the sea.  "Good. And if you need any help, just ask."

May 1985, London:
John and Karen got the babies ready to put into the car armed with nappies and pre-made bottles of formula milk. Karen looked grey and tired. "I don't really want to go you know," she said.

             
"It's a lovely day. You'll enjoy it."

             
"If the girls start to play up, it'll be hell."

             
"Well we don't need to stay long. But I have to show my face."

They had been invited over for a party by Canadian Joe and his wife Angie to their High Commi
ssion house over in West London. Joe had complained that he had an entertainment budget to spend and as the only people he mixed with were spooks he'd have to spend it on them. The drive over was uneventful. The girls stirred  in the back of the car but didn't wake.  Traffic was light on the North Circular because it was a Sunday. The only exception was the Hanger Lane Gyratory where there people were rushing to the DIY superstores. It took about twenty minutes to get to Joe's and they pulled into the drive of the expensive looking but bland house. He was there waiting for them in his polo shirt and clean pressed jeans. He greeted them effusively. "Long time no see Karen. Still looking pretty cute though." He tried to hug her which she accepted with bad grace.  "I don't feel cute," she grimaced as she handed Morag to John to hold while she got Eilidh out.

             
"Hey Angie, come and check out these adorable babies," Joe shouted to his wife. Angie appeared, a pretty red haired woman in a floating hippy summer dress. She hugged and kissed John and Karen even though they'd never met. She beamed and cooed at the babies and congratulated Karen on them.