Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (14 page)

‘Doesn’t Mr Limonides usually do that?’

‘He does, but I’ve got a special project I want him to work on.’ Berger raised one eyebrow. ‘Now, let me give you an idea about this cargo. It’s going to be rather special . . .’

For the next few days Maria immersed herself in putting together the manifest, and by late Thursday evening she was glad to be finished with it. She had been so busy working that she hadn’t even realised Katherine Ball had gone back to London.

Maria and Berger had agreed that she would be careful to keep the details of the new shipment secret. She wouldn’t talk about it and she would make sure that all paperwork concerning it was carefully locked up. Manifests should always have been handled in that way but it seemed very likely, given the relaxed atmosphere in the office, that these rules had not been followed.

This shipment was as special as Berger had indicated. The drugs alone were worth a fortune and included large amounts of liquid morphine and a pharmacist’s range of codeine-based painkillers. More field-hospital kit was going out as well, with surgical apparatus enough to equip a decent-sized hospital. There were three high-end Range Rovers, and, most temptingly, $100,000 in cash. Maria carefully noted and valued all of this. None of it was being documented in UCSO’s London office, so that if any information leaked out, it would be clear that it had come from Athens.

The most important fact about the cargo which Maria had spent the week working on was that it did not actually exist. The details had been planned purely to tempt any spy inside the organisation. The actual cargo of the next UCSO shipment to pass the Horn of Africa would be much less attractive, consisting as it would of foodstuffs – powdered milk, sacks of grain – and vitamins by the gross. Desperately needed by its eventual recipients, but of only of modest resale value and thus not worth the attention of Somali pirates – unless they had been told the cargo was something else altogether.

Maria picked up her working sheets and the finalised manifest and put them in the top right-hand drawer of her desk. Then she locked it carefully, with the key that she always kept safely in her bag; Berger had had a new lock installed, and the only other key was with him.

On Friday morning Maria was late into the office – her bus had hit a dog (which, miraculously, had survived); the dog’s owner had threatened the bus driver; the driver had blamed the owner; a crowd had formed; someone had called the police, who took twenty minutes to arrive and then insisted on interviewing the passengers. It all seemed very Greek to Maria, and it was almost ten o’clock when she got to work.

There was no sign of Mr Limonides. He was probably outside having a fag, thought Maria as she sat down at her desk and checked the drawer. It was still securely locked. She opened it with her keys and checked the pages of the manifest. All present and correct.

Hers was a new desk, a modern one made of wood laminate and metal, its top a single sheet of laminate supported by the two upright sides. As she unlocked the drawer, the desktop rocked very slightly and slid a little to one side. Puzzled, she pushed one end of the desktop with both hands. It gave again, almost imperceptibly. Odd.

Maria got up, walked to the door and looked down the corridor. No one in sight. Out on the rear fire escape Mr Limonides stood by himself, mournfully smoking an Egyptian cigarette.

She returned quickly to her desk. Down on all fours, she peered up at the overhanging desktop. It was attached to the sides at each corner by metal brackets, held in place by two screws. One screw in the corner nearest her was loose and hanging halfway out of its hole; looking more closely, Maria could see fresh scratches in the laminate. Someone had been fiddling with the screws.

Then she understood. Removing the brackets had freed the desktop; removing the desktop left the top drawer exposed from above. The intruder could have read the papers in the drawer, put them back safely, apparently untouched, and then replaced the desktop. No one would have been any the wiser – if the screws had been put back properly.

How clever, thought Maria, then felt suddenly chilled as she realised that this must mean there really was a spy here in the Athens office of UCSO.

Maria went straight away to Berger’s office to tell him about her discovery. But to her dismay she found that the American was taking the day off – he had gone on a long weekend to one of the islands. So, with some hesitation, she rang Bruno Mackay at the embassy, but was answered by his secretary, who explained that Bruno, too, was away for a long weekend. The secretary offered to get Mr Mackay to telephone Maria back but she didn’t want to seem panicky, so she said no, it could wait till Monday.

Then Mr Limonides returned, and began quietly working on the special report about UCSO’s overheads that Berger had commissioned, while Maria wondered what to do next. There seemed no point in moving the papers in her drawer to a safer place. In one sense the damage had been done; in another, of course, the bait had been taken. But what was supposed to happen next? And how was she meant to narrow down the list of possible suspects?

Chapter 20

Anastasia and Falana were waiting for her at a table in the bar. They’d already acquired a pitcher of sangria, and Falana poured out a large glass for Maria as soon as she sat down. The place was noisy, filling up quickly with young people celebrating the start of the weekend. In the background techno dance music throbbed. Not much chance of serious conversation here, thought Maria.

She had agreed to meet the two girls after Anastasia had bumped into her at lunchtime and asked if she’d join them that evening; caught on the hop, and distracted by the discovery that her desk had been tampered with, Maria had said yes. All afternoon she had kicked herself for agreeing, but having said yes, she didn’t see how she could get out of it without being gratuitously rude.

She had gone home first, showered and changed into tight jeans and a sparkly top – she was expecting to find the girls done up in their latest finery. She swapped her office shoes for strappy sandals, and her handbag for a little shoulder bag, then she closed the windows, put down the blinds and left her flat.

‘Do you always come here?’ Maria now asked.

Anastasia nodded. ‘We usually have something to eat in this place, then go on to the clubs nearby.’

They stayed in the bar for an hour or so, sharing various small plates of
meze
, which were plonked on the table from time to time by passing waiters. The sangria jug gradually emptied and another was acquired. Maria tried to steer the conversation towards their office colleagues but UCSO Athens was devoid of eligible men and the girls had little interest in talking about anything in it beyond Katherine’s clothes. They shared a gentle laugh at the old-fashioned ways of Mr Limonides and they all spoke with envy of Claude’s travels, but beyond that neither of the Greek girls said anything to provide Maria with additional insights into the staff of UCSO.

After one false start in a new nightclub, which turned out to be for men looking for other men, they moved on to a place called Broadway, which had an enormous dance floor. By the bar, girls gathered in small packs, eyeing groups of young men who were eying them. Maria had been brought up rather traditionally and found all this a bit unnerving. Anastasia and Falana met some friends in the club, most of them young enough to make Maria feel ancient. She nursed a glass of wine while Falana talked with a succession of youths who seemed barely old enough to shave. Anastasia turned out to have a steady boyfriend, and stayed clinched with him on the dance floor. When a small pimply youth offered to buy Maria a drink, she decided it was time to go home.

Outside the club there was no sign of a taxi, but the doorman pointed out a bus stop a little way down the street and, though it was almost one o’clock, assured her the buses were still running. Before long a half-full bus arrived and she climbed on and sat down in the comparative peace and quiet with a sigh. What a waste of an evening, she thought. Nothing new learned and only a raging thirst and a headache to show for it. At least she had done her bit for good relations with the girls. They had been happy that she’d joined them. Hopefully a repeat performance would not be expected.

Maria was the only one to get off the bus at her stop. The small shops in the street were closed up and deserted. The night was still, the air heavy. All she could hear was the occasional distant whoosh of a passing car, and the slapping of her sandals against the pavement. Then she heard another sound behind her. It took her a minute to realise it was someone else’s footsteps.

She was still a good ten minutes’ walk from her flat. As she went on she continued to hear the steps. She turned round once, but couldn’t see anyone. Perhaps they were too far back. But when she stopped to listen, the footsteps stopped as well. Could it have been an echo? No. When she started to walk again, the other footsteps were not in synch with hers.

Tock tock tock
. Still the other steps rang out, but no one caught her up. Maria tried to find this reassuring; if someone were following her, wouldn’t they be drawing closer? Yet she found herself growing alarmed.

This was not a neighbourhood for late-night revels; the surrounding apartment buildings were all dark. The streetlamps threw out only a weak, watery light. She could always scream for help – that would certainly wake people up. But doubtless the mysterious stranger behind her would turn out to be some teenager, walking home after a party. How embarrassing that would be.

She was now just a minute or two from the safety of her flat, but the footsteps were still echoing hers. Was the noise drawing any closer? She couldn’t tell. What should she do? She turned the final corner on to her own street, then quickly reached down and took off her sandals.

Then she ran, holding the shoes in one hand, barefoot along the pavement. At last she reached her building and stopped, breathless, at the front door to tap in the entry code. As she did so her back crawled and she tried to listen for the sounds of someone else on the street, but all she could hear was the drum-like thumping of her heart.

Inside the building at last, she closed the outside door firmly behind her. The light to the stairwell was on, which comforted her as she climbed the flight of stairs. She opened her door slowly, still listening.

Her flat felt stuffy and warm, and she remembered she had closed the windows and the blinds earlier. She went to the fridge to get some cold water, feeling rather silly about the fear she’d felt in the street, now that she was safe. Whoever had been behind her was probably sitting in their own flat around the corner now, blissfully unaware of the scare they’d given her.

Crossing the sitting room, she went to run a bath. When she flicked the switch just inside the bathroom door, the bulb popped and the room stayed dark. She turned to get another bulb from the kitchen, but the light in the sitting room had gone out as well, leaving the entire flat in darkness. Damn, Maria thought, the fuse must have blown. She edged back out of the bathroom to get the torch she kept in the sitting-room cupboard.

It was then that she heard a noise behind her. ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded, her stomach suddenly contracting with ice-cold fear.

Something moved in the darkness. She felt an arm encircling her throat. She choked, and found she couldn’t scream.

Or breathe.

Chapter 21

After five years, Peggy Kinsolving felt so much a part of Thames House that she often forgot she had begun her career in the other Service. She had applied for a transfer after being seconded to MI5 to work with Liz Carlyle on an investigation into a mole in one of the intelligence services. Peggy admired Liz; she liked her straightforward manner, which was such a contrast to the deviousness of some of the people she had worked with in the other Service. She’d felt from the start of working with Liz that they were a team: that Liz would take Peggy into her confidence, and give her credit for what she did.

And Peggy enjoyed her work. She was never happier than when she was following a paper trail, supporting Liz as she made her investigations. Peggy had started her working life as a librarian and loved the cataloguing, classification and retrieval of facts. That was her métier. She could sniff out information and make sense of what others saw as a meaningless jumble of unrelated facts.

Every three months or so, she was reminded of her original employers when she had lunch with her one remaining link to Vauxhall Cross, Millie Warmington. After Peggy’s secondment to MI5 and subsequent decision to join for good, the two women had kept in touch. They had been young trainees together and had got along from the start. Millie had a sweet nature and was a loyal friend. But she was also one of life’s complainers; Peggy privately called her ‘Millie the Moaner’. Today Peggy could have done without their long-standing lunch date, because she was busy trying to find out more about the
Aristides
and her crew while also investigating Amir Khan’s past in Birmingham. There was the further drawback that Millie liked to take her time over lunch. However simple the meal – they usually met in an Italian pasta place on the South Bank – she always managed to spin it out for at least an hour. Peggy’s efforts to move things along were never successful.

Today proved no exception. At first, they chatted for a while about their social lives. Millie had no steady boyfriend but seemed genuinely pleased that Peggy’s Tim, a lecturer in English, was still very much in the picture. Then the conversation moved on to work and their respective jobs. Peggy was always fairly discreet since she knew that Millie was a bit of a gossip. She also knew that her boss, Liz Carlyle, was the object of much interest on the other side of the river, and that plenty of MI6 officers would love to know more about her – both what she was working on and, in particular, her private life. Peggy was fiercely loyal to Liz and so diverted Millie’s probing remarks by asking her about her own work.