‘Sounds nasty. But I wouldn’t have thought the fact that he was seeing someone else would make any difference. I don’t think the courts expect any man to be a monk these days.’
Jasminder shrugged, then glanced at her phone again. Peggy said, ‘Did he give you that?’
‘Yes, when I got the job at MI6. He’s very generous. If I let him, he’d pamper me the whole time.’
Peggy smiled, trying not to think about how long it had been since Tim had given her a present. It wasn’t that she expected them; on his lecturer’s salary he wasn’t in a position to flood her with gifts. Actually, the nicest thing she’d ever had from him was a bunch of wildflowers he’d presented her with on her birthday. It just would have been good to know sometimes that he still wanted to please her.
Jasminder said, ‘I’d better be going. Laurenz is one of those irritatingly punctual types.’
‘Did you say you’re meeting him by the National Gallery?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll walk up with you, if you don’t mind. It’s on my way.’
‘Great. I can introduce you. That will be a first. He’s never met any of my friends.’
‘I’ll just get the bill,’ said Peggy. She was curious to see this man who seemed to have Jasminder wrapped around his finger. Odd, how this impressive young woman – a role model to others, known for her ability to take strong positions and argue the toss with anybody from aggressive television interviewers to senior government ministers – was acting like a besotted teenager.
Outside it was still light as they walked up to the Strand, then cut across Trafalgar Square towards the steps in front of the National Gallery. The tourist season was just beginning, and by the fountains young visitors were posing for each other in front of Nelson’s Column. As they walked by it, Jasminder suddenly waved and Peggy saw a tall man in a dark blue suit, standing on the steps at the north end of the square, lift his hand in response.
As they approached, Peggy hung back a bit and waited while Jasminder and the man embraced. Peggy felt slightly awkward, especially when he didn’t even look at her; she wished now she had simply made her own way home. But Jasminder turned, holding the man’s hand, and said, ‘Laurenz, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Peggy Kinsolving.’
Peggy put on her warmest smile. ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to sound as friendly as she could.
Laurenz nodded at her, but didn’t say hello. He was a handsome man, almost dauntingly so – with a strong jaw, deep-set eyes, and dark hair that he brushed straight back.
‘I’m just on my way home,’ Peggy explained, in case Laurenz thought she was hoping to horn in on them. ‘But it’s very nice to meet you. Jasminder’s been telling me about you.’
‘Has she?’ he said, and Peggy could see that Jasminder was sharing her own discomfort. ‘Do you work with her?’
‘No,’ said Peggy emphatically.
‘How do you know her then?’ he asked rather abruptly. He seemed suspicious.
‘We met after a talk I gave,’ Jasminder said, and Peggy added, ‘I’m a big admirer of Jasminder’s – like a lot of people.’
Though this was intended to please Laurenz it had the opposite effect. He scowled slightly, then put his arm through Jasminder’s until she’d turned and faced him. ‘We’re running late,’ he said, and started to lead her away.
Jasminder looked back at Peggy, with a helpless expression that seemed almost beseeching, as if asking her to understand.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Peggy called out to Laurenz with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. ‘I’ll ring you,’ she said more quietly to Jasminder, but her friend had already turned around and Peggy doubted she’d been heard.
35
‘So the mystery deepens,’ said Bruno Mackay.
He was obviously in better spirits and recovering from whatever it was that had happened to him in Libya. His yellow spotted tie demanded to be noticed and his pinstripe Savile Row suit disguised his thinness – or perhaps he’s regaining a bit of weight, thought Liz. Somehow she would feel more comfortable with the old self-satisfed, patronising Bruno than she had with the rather grey shadow of himself of a few weeks ago.
‘Yes. Now we seem to be looking for two people,’ she said. Liz had just finished describing her meeting with Mischa. They were gathered in the same conference room in which they had first heard from Charlie Simmons that something was stirring and might be heading their way. They had moved on a lot since then but it was still impossible to know whether what they were now learning had any connection to what Charlie had reported.
This was the frustration of counter-espionage, thought Liz: too many vague leads, too little hard intelligence. She wanted to see the threat – like she could see the terrorist – and to understand what she was trying to prevent. But this was more like walking into a dark room, knowing someone else was in there too, reaching out to try and touch them while at the same time dreading making contact for fear of what they might do.
‘If I’ve got it right,’ said Peggy, ever practical, ‘what he’s saying is that there are two foreigners in the country – and we don’t know what nationality they are pretending to be – who are manipulating people in a position to do damage to the intelligence services. I don’t see what we can possibly do with information that vague.’
Liz said, ‘Hang on a minute. Mischa was more precise than that. What he was saying was that they came here with the broad brief of finding ways of damaging and weakening the country. They first focused on the intelligence services and on getting alongside our critics and encouraging and helping them. That sounds like a classic subversion operation. But then he said that recently the operation has changed its aim because they have got close to two people, a woman and a man, who are actually in or very close to the intelligence services – that means us and you, Bruno, or else possibly GCHQ. It’s less likely to be Defence Intelligence.
‘Mischa said that the two Illegals are working in partnership, as they have done before, though whether here or somewhere else, I don’t know. Since they each have a different intelligence service in their sights, they’ve renamed the initiative, which is now called Operation Pincer.
‘Make of that what you like,’ Liz concluded with a shrug. ‘But,’ she added, ‘you can be sure that if the FSB are congratulating themselves on a success, then it’s serious. If they’ve penetrated us and you, Bruno, we’re right back to the Cold War. Heaven knows what damage will be done.’
‘Well, it certainly sounds terrible,’ said Peggy. ‘And so clever as to be almost incredible. Are you sure Mischa is kosher, Miles, and not just spinning us a story to get lots of your lovely dollars?’
Miles Brookhaven shrugged. Like Bruno he wore a suit, but his tie was striped and his shirt a white Brooks Brother button-down at its most conservative. He said, ‘Our Kiev Station thinks he’s reliable. He’s given them some good stuff about Russian activity in Ukraine.’
‘From what he said to me,’ Liz responded, ‘it wasn’t brilliant work on the Illegals’ part. They got lucky. Something happened that they weren’t expecting, and they took advantage of it. Though I don’t think Mischa’s brother put it that way to his bosses. It sounds as though he’s taking credit for a brilliant coup.’
There was silence in the room for a moment.
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ said Bruno. ‘How could someone who looked at first as though they would help undermine the intelligence services, suddenly get inside one? None of us is going to start employing Wikileakers or Snowdenistas. Not nowadays.’