Inside Enemy (23 page)

His words and tone were calculated to set the terms of the relationship he was about to have with Mr Mayakovsky. Given the political culture they had grown up in, Katya and her sugar-daddy were
bound to overestimate the power of his position. They would never really believe that the Chief of MI6 had no executive powers outside his own organisation, nor that the implied menace of his
remarks was incapable of fulfilment.

‘I can ring him now, yes,’ replied Katya, no longer gushing but picking her way carefully. ‘But perhaps it would be better to meet him at his house, more
private—’

‘Your office in one hour,’ said Charles.

The atrium in Portcullis House, the newer parliamentary offices linked by tunnel to the Victorian chambers, was a palace of light and talk. With the recess about to end, MPs, officials and
visitors thronged the benches and coffee tables, people hurried through, greeting or avoiding with a wave of the hand. The controversially expensive trees forming the centrepiece were now taken for
granted. Charles, once through the glass security tubes, recognised two ministers emerging from the escalator to the tunnel before he had hung his visitor’s pass around his neck. Katya, who
met him, was breathlessly explaining that Mr Mayakovsky was here already, sitting at one of the tables, and that they would collect him and go up to her office.

‘This will do, we can talk here.’

Mr Mayakovsky was at one of the round tables near the trees, reasonably distant from the others. A good choice, thought Charles, though the hubbub of conversation would make overhearing
difficult anyway. Mr Mayakovsky looked self-possessed. He rose without a smile and his handshake was limp, as Sarah had said.

‘My office is on the next floor,’ said Katya. ‘It’s very private, we can easily—’

‘This is fine.’ Charles sat.

Mr Mayakovsky did the same after a glance at Katya, who was hovering. Not entirely self-possessed after all, thought Charles.

‘Shall I get some coffees?’ asked Katya.

‘Not for me.’ Charles leaned forward, elbows on the table. Katya hovered another second or so, then sat. Almost everyone who passed glanced at her. He stared unblinkingly at Mr
Mayakovsky’s thin lips, knowing it would appear he was looking him in the eye. ‘I have a message for your people in Moscow.’

Mr Mayakovsky raised his hands, looking from Charles to Katya. ‘I am sorry, I am not understanding—’

‘You understand English perfectly well, Mr Mayakovsky. I am sure you will also understand the implications of what I am about to say. I know exactly what you do here, I know all about your
business and your relations with important people in Moscow who sometimes ask you to do things, such as talk to my wife. I know all about that. I have an important message I want you to pass to
Moscow as soon as you leave this building. Whether you do it directly or via your contacts in the Russian Embassy is up to you. But it must be done quickly and accurately. If it is not, or if you
prefer not to do it at all, I advise you to pack your bags and book your flight tonight, before my colleagues in the organs of state security take a serious interest in you and your
business.’ He turned to Katya. ‘That applies to you, too.’

It was nonsense, of course; he could do nothing about either of them and MI5 would not recommend deportation to the Home Secretary without a serious case. He also knew nothing of what they were
doing, beyond surmise. But they both stared solemnly back at him, Katya in surprise and shock, a rabbit in the headlights, Mr Mayakovsky like a dog that would like to bite but daren’t.

‘The message is simple. A department in Moscow has intermittent access to a computer here which in turn has access to sensitive government systems. Your specialist people outside Moscow
have used their access to the first computer to get into these British government systems.’ He held up one hand as if to forestall questions. ‘Don’t worry, we have known about it
all along – and you can tell them, by the way, they are wasting time with their submarines –
Beowulf
is safe and on her way home. But mainly you must tell them we are closing
this operation down because the Chinese also gained access and are proving very disruptive. You must also tell your Federal Guard Service – FSO, I think you call it, your computer security
people – that we have reason to believe that the Chinese are, by some clever reverse engineering, attempting to access your own systems. The origin of these attempts is People’s
Liberation Army unit 61398, based in a twelve-storey building in Shanghai. Moscow will know about that unit but you may wish to note it.’

Mr Mayakovsky’s expression did not change but he took out a notebook. Charles repeated the details. ‘I will try to pass message but of course I know nothing of these
matters.’

‘Of course you will pass it and of course you know nothing. I think we understand each other. Your people will also wish to know why we are doing them this favour, this enormous
favour.’ He paused until Mr Mayakovsky looked up again. ‘They know that their former agent, my old friend Peter Tew, is out of prison. I suspect they also know it is through his and
Jeremy Wheeler’s computers that they get access to our systems. They wish to find Peter Tew, as you know. So do we. It would help us if they could tell us the coordinates of the computer he
was using when they last accessed it. He is engaged in other criminal activities and we are bound to catch him but we will do so sooner if they help us. If they do help, they can have him when we
find him. We know how much it is a question of honour for them to recover any spies who are caught. Especially as he has been useful to them again recently. That is my message. Do you
understand?’

Mr Mayakovsky asked only to confirm the spelling of Tew. ‘I need to know today,’ said Charles. ‘Otherwise I cannot guarantee that they can have him.’ He could not
guarantee it at all; it was so far beyond his authority as to be incredible to anyone who did not come from a system where people holding positions such as his could indeed make such promises. But
problems arising from that could be dealt with later. ‘I will give you and Katya my mobile number. One of you can ring me. Have you any questions?’

Mr Mayakovsky looked as if he were full of questions, but none he felt he could ask. Charles left without waiting to be escorted out.

H
e was back. She could hear him coming down the brick steps and could sense, beneath the rim of her hood, a slight lightening of the dark. He was
moving about in the next room, probably with a candle again. She was hungry and thirsty, having had no water since breakfast, and still cold, though not as cold as during the night. She shifted on
the bed, carefully lifting the chain so that it did not clank against the metal frame. One end of it was padlocked to the pair of metal handcuffs on her wrists, the other to the frame. The
handcuffs weren’t too tight but they still chafed. Her back was stiff and it hurt to change position. Thank goodness she had worn jeans to the office yesterday evening, nothing that mattered.
Although her captivity had been only a night and part of a day – one day, surely, though it was impossible to know how much of it in the dark – she felt demoralisingly dirty, her head
itched and she feared she was starting to smell. She would ask if she could wash. Perhaps he would let her brush her hair – there was a brush in her bag, assuming he still had her bag. It
would be heaven to brush her hair. The thought of it made her feel she was going to weep again.

She heard the lock turn and sensed a further lightening from beneath her hood, much more than when he had come before. ‘Food and drink, Sarah,’ he said. ‘And some exercise
afterwards. I hope you haven’t perished with cold? I’ve got another blanket for you.’

He put something down and moved closer. She bent her head submissively as she felt his hands around the back of her neck, undoing the hood. He was physically gentle with her – had been
throughout, once he’d got her into the car – and spoke in the tones and terms of normal social intercourse. That was at once reassuring and difficult. If she responded in kind she felt
she was colluding, whereas if she didn’t she felt – however absurdly – ill-mannered and ungrateful. Also, not responding might prompt him to become nastier. She said as little as
possible, confining herself to matters of fact.

When he eased the hood off she winced at the brightness of the hissing gas light on the floor. She could see much more of the room now. It was all rough, discoloured, damp concrete –
walls, floor and ceiling – and there was no furniture apart from the iron bed to which she was chained. There was an iron door in each side wall, at the far end. He had come through the one
on the right where, she remembered, there was another room. They had come down steps into it. The other door led to a room like her own, unfurnished save for an uncomfortable bucket contraption
which, he said, was a chemical loo. She had used it twice while he stood holding the candle in the doorway, looking away from her but able to glance back if he wanted.

He had a plastic tray with a plastic mug of water, an apple and a Yorkie bar of chocolate. He pointed at the chocolate and smiled. ‘They used to have “Not for Girls” written on
them but I thought that wouldn’t worry you.’

She got into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and held out her chained hands to receive the water. It was almost like taking communion.

‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to talk to me. But you do have to listen.’ He took the cup as from a patient and unwrapped the chocolate. ‘Eat this first. It’ll
give you energy. Then the apple to clean your teeth.’

She didn’t realise how hungry she was until she bit into the chocolate. He squatted on the floor before her, watching. ‘When you’ve finished we’re going for a walk in the
woods. Not far, just far enough to get a signal on your phone so that you can ring your husband again to arrange a hand-over meeting.’

‘Hand over what?’

‘You. You for him.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to talk to him.’

‘What about?’

‘Friendship and betrayal. The ethics of using people. Responsibility and justice. Big things.’

The chocolate seemed to have given her energy already. She felt more confident. ‘Why? Do you blame him for what happened to you?’

‘Not wholly, and not only him. There were others too.’

‘So you blame others for what you did?’

She was more used to the glare of the gas lamp now and could see that he hadn’t shaved. The light put his eyes in shadow but showed up his teeth and the lower half of his face. ‘I
don’t so much blame them as want them to face up to their share of the responsibility. As I have mine for the past many years.’

‘And what are you going to do to Charles if he agrees to meet you?’

‘I told you, talk to him.’

She bit on the two last squares of chocolate. ‘Not kill him?’

He smiled. ‘It would give me no pleasure to kill Charles Thoroughgood, Sarah. We were friends.’

‘And what if he won’t meet you?’

He took the chocolate wrapper from her and passed the apple. ‘I think he will.’

She raised her eyebrows as she bit into the apple. The longer they talked the better, she thought. It established a relationship, perhaps making it harder for him to do anything unpleasant.
Perhaps. But given what he’d done already, nothing could be guaranteed. It also gave Charles and the police more time to find her.

He folded the chocolate wrapper into a precise square. ‘He wouldn’t want to risk receiving one of your ears in an envelope, still less a second ear.’

Later, he stood in the door while she squatted on the repulsive chemical loo. He had taken the handcuff off one of her wrists to enable her to wipe herself and he watched, with clinical
dispassion. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking of her at all, she thought, as she stood and fastened her jeans. Perhaps he was thinking about what he would say to Charles, or do to him. She tucked in
her blouse, reflecting that there was one thing to be said for this regime: the longer it went on, the better for her figure. After rubbing her hands in the bucket of water he had thoughtfully
placed near the loo, she held them out for him to refasten the handcuff. Then, without a word, he took hold of the chain linking the cuffs and led her out.

They went through her chamber to the one containing his camp-bed, some clothes and other bits and pieces she couldn’t identify before he extinguished the gas lamp at the foot of the brick
steps. Still without speaking, he led her up. It was completely dark and she had to feel with her feet from one step to the next until he told her to stop. He let go of her handcuffs and she could
hear him unbolting something above, then suddenly there was light. He carefully lowered a pair of metal trap-doors and waited, listening. Immediately above them was a roof of brambles with patches
of blue and white sky showing through. She could hear birdsong and the sound of an aeroplane. The light was wonderful, too much for her eyes at first, and the cool air on her face soothing and
enlivening.

He stood looking down at her with his backside pressed against the dirty rough wall. ‘Follow me and keep quiet. Don’t try to run because you won’t get out.’

They crawled on their hands and knees through a winding tunnel in the brambles. She’d done it the night before, blindly, and again it was difficult with handcuffs because she could move
each hand only a few inches at a time. Brambles in the ground hurt her while those above caught her hair. She lowered her head and followed the soles of his trainers. Everything smelt damp but
fresh, beautifully fresh, after the bunker. They reached a curtain of ferns where he paused to listen before continuing through a narrower tunnel of green. When they reached the end he took hold of
her handcuffs again and stood, pulling her up beside him.

They were in a small clearing among broad-leafed trees, the ground covered by ferns, young birch and brambles, some of the latter above head height. Lying immediately before them was the
elephant-grey trunk of a beech tree that had come down. Sarah’s jeans were wet on the knees and her hands hurt. He led her around the fallen tree and uphill to the edge of the wood. He walked
at a pace, causing her to stumble several times.