Those activities cavorted in Arthur Jennings’ memory. Triumphant successes, victory snatched from clamping jaws, the dismissal of an odious functionary in Moscow or Beijing or Tehran for manifest failure. On occasions the perpetrator of a no-argument win would be brought to a Round Table gathering and a little of what had been achieved would be dispensed, and there would be an ovation: confidence that the ethos of the Service was alive, enjoyed rude health. He stared at the usurper sitting in comfort behind his friend’s desk: would probably change the bloody carpet the following day, might even have the decorators in by the end of the week.
“We are a modern outfit. We are, I am proud to say and I’ve played a part in establishing this, a place of excellence. We employ many of the best intellects that Britain produces. We have graduates with first-class degrees queuing to join us. We are not a building where mumbo-jumbo, sorcery, is tolerated. Let us be clear, Mr Jennings, we are not going to continue as if the Russian Federation is the only enemy on our horizons: simplistic, convenient and flawed. You are hearing me?”
Nothing to say. ‘AJ’ was always described as having fine eyes. Not a judgement on his vision capabilities, but his ability to bead on an opponent. Even the little inscrutables, the Chinese from the Ministry of State Security, were said to blink or deflect eye contact when it was lasered on them at rare meetings. It was reported to be fearsome. For a moment the DD-G hesitated, might have considered he had lost face, then pressed on and had a page of bullet points in front of him.
“We have endured the circus of Salisbury and relations between the Federation and the UK have been fraught and reached base camp levels. I do not intend to pursue that agenda. We have to talk, find common areas of interest, cooperate against mutual enemies. The Federation shows justifiable irritation in the way that we harbour opponents of the regime, and the extent to which dissidents and spies are awarded asylum here. I want to reach out, while in no way slackening our vigilance, and have sensible conversations. Unless our national security is directly threatened, I will not authorise hostile acts against Russian territory or interests. Most certainly I will not be permitting, on my watch, missions that have little purpose other than to further dubious policy aims abroad, or are designed only to annoy. You are quiet today, Mr Jennings.”
And would stay quiet, and would consider… too early for sherry but coffee would have been welcome.
“I believe the Service, as it moves forward, will put aside – once and for all – these playground antics. Few of them I believe would survive examination by our risk assessment teams. For heaven’s sake, we are dealing with people’s lives. We have set ourselves up as Lord God Almighty if we cling to ludicrous clichés such as ‘can’t make an omelette without cracking eggs’. I won’t have it. I will not go home at night and consider that – through my dereliction – some wretch faces execution in the morning in Evin gaol, in some hell-hole prison tucked away from sight in China, and for what? For the grotesque amusement of dinosaurs who were once on our payroll. Will not have it. Am I clear? And my predecessor’s links with your Round Table are cancelled with immediate effect. You will appreciate that the clock moves forward so we will be opening discreet channels to agencies we have formerly considered to be hostile. Don’t think this a sign of weakness. Absolutely not. It is pragmatism. Any comment?”
Arthur Jennings shook his head. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair and started to turn but it was a slow movement because of the density of the carpet pile. It was good to turn away because the gimlet in the eyes was distorted by a damp mist, like fine drizzle. His back was to the desk.
“Before you go, please Mr Jennings. Are you aware of any operations running at this time? Are there? A direct question, requiring a direct answer.”
He thought of Knacker, thought of Knacker and his girls, thought of Knacker and his girls and their quarters down from the pub where the wake would be in good heart and good voice on the first floor. He could have mentioned a couple of people who were high in the foothills adjacent to the Iranian border with Turkey and who had an asset inside. Could have summoned up the face of a woman, ugly as sin and as crafty as a ferret, who had her asset loose in the Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea. Seemed to forget them. Called to his mind Knacker and the girls who stayed close to him and the little office suite, the Yard… Within a few hours the usurper would be in contact with those parts of VBX dealing in funding and travel arrangements, and liaison with Norwegian agencies, and there would be a record of Knacker’s paper – what could be achieved, and how, and in the briefest time-frame because of the inevitable hazard of information leakage. He never had a running commentary from Knacker, but it was likely one of his girls would have a line into Operations and that brief résumés would be received in London. But the DD-G would have to know what code-name was attached to the mission, might find it hard to expose Matchless before the end of the day.
“How would I know, useless old fart like me?”
He steered himself towards the closed door, rammed it with his wheelchair and it opened. As he remembered the schedule, Knacker’s man would have been beyond reach by now and the wild men from the refugee camp should have been wriggling through a border fence… would have been, should have been. He brushed aside offers of help, passed through the office suite and headed for the elevator.
One of the marine engineers caught her eye.
Faizah was back at work in the Hamburg bar, and it was another busy lunchtime. They had come in, the same group, and had parked themselves at the same table, and on the walls were pictures of old sailing boats, and pieces of antique navigation equipment, and the menu was the same. And their laptop was open on the table.
It would have been easy for her to avoid serving them, leave it to the other girl on duty, but contact had been made and the menu was waved at her. Would have been hard to avoid. All of them peered at her as she reached the table and fished out her notepad and pencil stub. They had fired up the laptop and one of them flicked the keys. A picture erupted in front of her. Remembered him, would not forget him. Then in foul and soaked fatigues and with his skin running with rainwater; in this image, smart and confident and in a pressed uniform, with his cap perched jauntily on his head. The memory was of a man beyond the limits of self-control; the laptop showed someone who believed himself inherently superior to those around him. And they ordered the same as she remembered they had eaten before, and the same beer. She scribbled on her pad and was about to turn away.
One of them said, “We were wondering if it were you.”
Another said, “Caused us hassle.”
And another, “Found ourselves with security policemen when we got home.”
From the last, “An interrogation… ‘What was the photograph on the laptop of a Russian? What entry on which website? Why were we at that website?’ Questions, questions, questions. That Russian and that site. Seemed important.”
And another, “Detail on the Russian. As much as possible.”
Another, “We are all related in Kirkenes, our home, where the dockyard is. We lose the intelligence police, then I have a call from my wife’s cousin’s boy, and he works at a website. I am asked, ‘What the fuck – excuse me, I apologise – what the something is going on because we have a picture of a Russian officer, months ago, at a frontier meeting, and now the spy people crawl all over us, and it is about the British, there is a connection.”