Uncommon Enemy (24 page)

‘The office has changed so much, it’s not at all the organisation I joined,’ she said when they met. ‘Loyalty, care of agents, care of staff used to be paramount. Now
it’s all targets and timelines, health and safety, performance measurement, obsession with process and management dross.’

‘We’re getting old. They’ve changed, we haven’t.’

‘Maybe, but we used to ask ourselves whether something was right or wrong. Now we just ask whether it’s legal. Instead of a belief and ethic we have a target culture and monitoring.
They’ve tried to turn intelligence into a business, and the thing about business is that everything’s for sale. Now we’ve a salesman in charge. You’re right, we’re
old. I’m sounding like my father before he retired from the railway. Time I went.’

They were in the Fox and Hounds at Christmas Common, not far from Frieth, the Chiltern village where Charles had been brought up. It was after lunch on a Saturday of sleet and intermittent early
snow. Sonia was to visit her mother in Watlington, at the foot of the hills. Charles’s sister and her family lived in his parents’ old house, which was his cover reason to be in the
area. He had signalled this to anyone listening by ringing his sister and proposing he join them for dinner after a solitary pub lunch and an afternoon walk. He had parked the Bristol prominently
in Turville and walked up to Christmas Common along woodland paths he knew well enough to be confident he brought no surveillance with him.

His and Sonia’s clandestine communications had worked so far. They used a hotel not far from the SIA office. In the act of picking up a
Times
from the coffee table, she dropped her
spare Landcruiser keys into his open briefcase by the armchair, which he had left for the gents just before she entered the room. He arrived nearly an hour before and left half an hour after her,
having ordered tea for two and evidently, as he repeated to the waiter, been stood up. He spent the time reading the papers and watching the beguiling harpist, a young blonde woman in a long green
dress whose fingers seemed to caress rather than pluck sounds from her instrument.

They had arranged that Sonia would regularly have a sandwich lunch there, usually alone, sometimes with a colleague. Charles would go for tea in the afternoons. If, in the corridor leading to
the lavatories, he saw the first picture on the left slightly tilted he would correct it, go to Euston, get a return to Milton Keynes, check for surveillance, then take a London train back and get
off at Tring after dark. He would unlock the Landcruiser and take from beneath the previous day’s
Guardian
on the seat whatever note she had left for him. When he had anything to
communicate, he would leave his note there.

He learned from her that the search for al-Samit was intensifying, although his identity and whereabouts remained unknown even to the young plotters he coordinated. Contact was only one-way,
which – helpfully – led them to complain amongst themselves. A joint SIA/police operation was launched, unsurprisingly named Op Silence, with almost all surveillance resources diverted
to it. Sonia’s friend in the legal department told her that the police had been briefed that they need not hurry their investigation of Charles because current operations should take
priority; investigations of any further James Wytham leaks should be put on the back burner. There hadn’t in fact been any leaks since Charles’s arrest. Is there any way we could ID
Wytham? he had asked Sonia in his message.

Before she had time to reply he had signalled for the Christmas Common meeting. Most of the lunchers had left and they got a table by the fire. Two men at the bar were complaining about the
damage caused by muntjac.

‘I’ve told Stephen I’m seeing mum,’ she said, ‘but not you. I would have said but then I’d have to start explaining and I’d end up telling him
everything. Quite a treat, a weekend pub lunch. Stephen and I got out of the habit about fifteen years ago. What’s the news?’

‘I’ll tell you in a moment. Anything on Wytham?’

‘Complete blank. He appears to have written nothing beyond the leak articles, doesn’t have a blog or website, doesn’t feature anywhere. I didn’t run a trace on him
because that would have alerted the office to my interest and they must’ve done it themselves, anyway. Also, your police interviewers would have known about it if they’d come up with
anything. So, next best thing, I talked to old Ronnie Westgate. You must remember Ronnie? Great expert on the Russian intelligence services, especially the GRU.’

‘No-one wants to know now, I s’pose?’

‘Exactly, though they’re spying as much as ever. Anyway, Ronnie’s been retired and re-treaded as a reviewer of archive files for release to Kew. What a waste. But he sits with
our brand new PR department, alongside the bright young things who talk about image creation and mission statements and deal with the press. He says none of them knows who James Wytham is. They
assume it’s a pen-name. They even asked Headington, the editor. Got nowhere, of course.’

Charles put his hand to his head. ‘James Headington, of course. I’d forgotten.’

‘You know him?’

‘I knew him a bit at Oxford. Haven’t seen him since.’ It was obvious, almost childishly obvious. ‘Stupid of me. I should’ve realised. During the year we lived out
of college he shared a flat with – guess who? Nigel. He had a wealthy aunt and it belonged to her. It was in a priory outside Oxford, in a place called Wytham. And Headington, his real name,
is another part of Oxford. Easy transposition. That would appeal to Nigel.’

‘So Headington the editor is James Wytham? Being leaked to by his old flat-mate?’

‘Either that or Nigel writes it for him and he edits it. At Oxford he edited
Isis
and Nigel used to write stuff for him then, anonymous gossip-column stuff. He used a pen-name for
that, too, but I can’t remember what it was. So they’ve done it before, and they’re bound to have kept up with each other. Nigel wouldn’t let successful friends
lapse.’ He hadn’t meant to sound resentful. ‘Stupid of me. I knew Heading-ton was the editor but just never thought about it.’

‘If we could prove the leak we could nail Nigel on that alone.’

‘There’s more. The reason I wanted to meet.’ He paused as two couples noisily moved two single tables together. ‘Sarah rang me.’

‘Rang you? When? Where?’

‘Here. I mean, at home. Yesterday morning.’

Nervousness, or excitement, had made Sarah loquacious. ‘Martin’s just rung me,’ Sarah had said, speaking quickly. ‘At home. He was lucky to find me, I’ve got the
day off and I was waiting in for the annual gas inspection, of all things. That’s not the only reason I’ve got the day off but it’s why I was in rather than out doing something
else. I don’t know how he got our number. He was ringing from a phone box, I think. I thought we were ex-directory. Perhaps we’re not. Or perhaps he’d had it since – since
when we knew each other. Unlike almost everyone else, we’ve never moved.’ She paused, then resumed more deliberately. ‘He rang because he wanted to speak to you. Or said he did. I
offered to give him your number – assuming that was all right because you were trying to find him – but he said he didn’t need it. Just wanted me to pass a message. It’s a
strange message, just one word. Presumably it will mean something to you. I asked him how he was, but he obviously didn’t want to talk. He just said he was surviving and hoped I was, too.
That was all.’

Charles waited. ‘What was the word – the message?’

‘Oh yes, sorry, stupid of me. It was a word, just one word. Templewood. That was all. He said, just tell him Templewood.’

‘Templewood.’ Charles nodded to himself. It was the exercise name for the hide by the farm in Shropshire where Martin had completed his rural surveillance training years before.

‘D’you understand it?’ Sarah continued. ‘Does it mean anything?’

‘I know what he means.’

‘He didn’t say any more.’ She sounded deflated.

‘Does Nigel know he rang?’ He would soon, assuming they were still tapping Charles’s phone.

‘I haven’t told him. It’s only just happened.’

‘May I come and see you?’

She hesitated. ‘Well – of course you could, but is there really any point? We can say anything we have to say over the phone, can’t we? Besides, I’m just about to leave.
I’ve got to go down to our house in Oxfordshire. There’s a shoot this weekend. Nigel’s invited some people to stay. He’s coming down later.’

Charles related all this to Sonia. ‘It means Martin wants to meet there,’ he said. ‘At Templewood, assuming it still exists. And that he fears interception. He took a big risk
in ringing Sarah, must be pretty desperate. I’ll go to Templewood, if I can find it again, but I wanted you to know where I’m going in case anything happens.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘No, it’s unlikely, always. But I don’t know what’s happened with Martin, so I wanted you to know.’ He described the farm and hide as best he could. ‘The map
references and directions are near the back of one of the early volumes of the Gladiator files.’

She paused while the barman brought her sandwiches and Charles’s pie and beans. ‘Do you think he could be al-Samit?’ she asked. ‘Is there any chance that Nigel could be
right?’

Charles shrugged. It had occurred to him – Martin had, after all, converted – but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. ‘Only in the sense in which anyone’s
capable of anything. I can’t see him plotting to kill us all; he’d just reject us, want nothing to do with us. Unless he’s playing some very long double-treble-double sort of game
that I can’t fathom. And because I can’t, I’m not going to waste my time trying. Next thing, can you find out where Sarah’s and Nigel’s Oxfordshire house is? First
I’ve heard of it.’

‘You’re not thinking of dropping in on her, are you? Just for old time’s sake?’ She looked at him. ‘Are you quite clear about what you want from Sarah?’

‘Not what you might think.’ He shrugged again and smiled. As former keeper of the secret annex, Sonia knew his whole story. There was no-one apart from Matthew himself he would have
trusted more. ‘At least, that’s not what I’d be dropping in for.’

‘This time.’

‘I want her to help me threaten Nigel with exposure in order to force him to resign. If he knows it’s not just me he’s more likely to go.’

‘But you’ve tried that with her already, haven’t you? Two weeks ago, in the restaurant? You got your answer.’

‘Yes, but this time I shall have seen Martin, so I’ll know what’s been going on. If I can convince Sarah that Nigel tried to get Martin killed, she might be more
persuadable.’

Sonia looked steadily at him. ‘You have a ruthless side, don’t you? It doesn’t often show.’

‘But this is serious, isn’t it? Trying to get someone killed, getting someone else arrested. It deserves exposure at the very least. Quite apart from what he did with the
French.’

‘I agree, it is, it does, it should be exposed. But do you see what a huge step it would be for Sarah? If there’s a row it’s not just her husband’s career and reputation
she destroys, it’s her own life, their friends, their standing in the world. The mud splashes over her too.’

‘Not if he goes quietly.’

‘What he’s done so far doesn’t suggest a man who’s prepared to go quietly. He might do something really desperate if you try to force him. No-one could blame her for not
going along with you.’

‘I wouldn’t blame her, either. I’ll just try to persuade her.’

‘Is that all? Honestly? You’ll stop there?’

‘Honestly. I’ll see Martin and talk to you again before I do anything. But I’d still like the address.’

The following Tuesday afternoon the painting in the St Ermin’s Hotel needed straightening. With luck, that would mean she had left the address in her Landcruiser that morning. He was
almost sure he was not being followed but nevertheless he stayed for tea with the harpist, with whom he was now on chatting terms. Any surveillance might conclude she was the reason he visited.

Sonia’s note included more than Nigel’s Oxfordshire address and telephone number. She had added: ‘Al-Samit suspected High Wycombe area as from last Friday. Surveillance
deployed in strength. Think before you act.’

They were still tapping his phone, then, and must have heard Sarah’s call. Although they wouldn’t have been tapping hers, they would know when she took Martin’s call and would
have traced it back to a call box in the High Wycombe area.

The following morning Charles headed west just after five. At that time it was possible to enjoy the journey. The first part took him in the direction of High Wycombe, which would have excited
his surveillants if they were on to him, but he stayed on the M40 at a law-abiding seventy miles per hour. He wanted to give no-one any excuse to stop him. After a breakfast at a service station he
cut across country and through Kidderminster towards Ludlow. With no sign of surveillance, the drive from then on was pure pleasure. The countryside was beautiful, the car handled as it should and
the big V8 breathed deeply and effortlessly. Perhaps, he thought, he should sell Scotland and buy Shropshire. Perhaps Sarah was right to say Scotland was too remote and to warn of the dangers of
contraction in solitude. But he would miss the sea and would still be alone. Without his intending it, being alone seemed to have become his future, wherever he lived, the sum of dozens of
disparate choices made throughout life without any thought of what they might add up to. He didn’t mind, he thought.

In Ludlow he checked into the Feathers. There were doubtless cheaper places, possibly better, but he had stayed there long ago during his earlier Templewood mission. That time he drove an office
Vauxhall, rendezvousing the next day with the SAS to pick up Martin. Carefree days, in retrospect; one of the secrets of life, he now thought, was to know them at the time.

In the afternoon he set off towards Leintwardine, motoring slowly through hills and hangers that inevitably recalled Housman, in mood if not in fact. After crossing the River Teme he turned
right towards Brampton Bryan and Bucknell, heading from there up into the hills through narrow high-banked lanes laced with grass in the middle. He remembered it better than he had thought. Nothing
seemed to have changed, apart from some of the larger farmhouses, which looked smarter and richer, indicating owners whose income did not depend on land. He parked at the pond where two lanes met,
not far from the pick-up point where Martin had jumped into the Land Rover. From there he would have to footslog it across the fields and up the hill, hoping memory would still hold.