Стелла Римингтон: The Moscow Sleepers

Peggy nodded.

‘That’s right,’ said Costino. ‘Our guys in Foreign Counter-Intelligence eventually identified him – to their satisfaction anyway.’ He paused.

‘And?’ said Peggy.

‘And, he died two days ago.’

Peggy groaned. So this was the news, but it wasn’t very helpful. The hospitalised man in America had been the one remaining lead to the network of Russian Illegals they’d been told about. They’d also been told of another Illegal operating in France, but the French intelligence agencies had so far not made any headway identifying that one.

Al was still talking. ‘We kept a quiet eye on the dying man. His name was Petersen, documented as a Swede, lecturer at the University of Vermont. The hospice made it clear he wouldn’t be coming out, and we didn’t think he’d tell us anything if we made contact with him. So we just watched, waiting to see if anyone showed an interest or turned up to visit him. Nobody did, which was odd in itself. Until two days ago. Then, out of the blue a Swede named Ohlson turned up, just before Petersen died, claiming to be a childhood friend.’

He paused. Peggy held her breath, waiting.

Al scratched under his chin. ‘He said he’d driven down from Canada and he was in a car with Canadian number plates. All we’ve learned so far from the Canadians is that he hired the car the day before he turned up at the hospital. He showed a Swedish passport and gave the address of a hotel in Montreal. He’s not there any longer and the Canadians are trying to trace him. We’ve sent a guy up there to work the case. Someone with a lot of counter-intelligence experience. He’ll be very discreet.’

Peggy said, ‘If Petersen was the Illegal, what was he doing in Vermont? Is there anything special there to interest the Russians?’

‘Couldn’t it be the same thing as the two you caught here?’ mused Al.

Peggy shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. The pair we caught here probably had a general brief to begin with – to stir up trouble in whatever way they could, back protest movements, foment disruption and anti-government feeling. Standard disruption stuff.’

‘But rural Vermont?’ asked Miles. ‘That’s not where you’d plant an Illegal with such a general brief.’

Peggy nodded. ‘No. That kind of stuff could only be effectively done in the capital or in a major city like New York.’

Al looked at them both. ‘And why is this new guy in Montreal? Is he a replacement for Petersen? What happens in Montreal that also happens in Vermont? And would be of value to the Russians?’

It was Peggy’s turn to shrug. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Better in fact,’ she added with a grin. ‘I’ve never been to Vermont or Montreal.’

‘Perhaps he’s not based there,’ suggested Miles. ‘Maybe he just used it as a base to visit Petersen.’

‘Took him long enough,’ said Costino. ‘That guy was dying for weeks.’

The three of them sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Al Costino spoke. ‘Well, folks, thanks for your time. I guess I’ve given you something to think about. Questions but no answers.’ Turning to Peggy he said, ‘My HQ asked me to say that they’d be grateful for your cooperation on this one. As the Service with the most recent experience of this sort of activity, we’d really appreciate your input. And could you also brief your colleagues in MI6 in case they have any sources who might be able to give a steer on what is going on? And we’ll keep you informed, of course, if we learn anything more.’

With that, he unfolded his long legs, heaved himself up from the sofa and with handshakes all round left the room. After he’d gone Peggy and Miles sat down again and looked at each other. They knew they were both thinking the same thing.

‘Mischa?’ said Peggy.

‘Exactly,’ replied Miles.

‘Is he contactable?’

‘I believe our Station in Kiev still has an emergency method of communication. But they’ll have to agree to do it. He’s their source and they are responsible for his security. I’ll contact them and see what they say.’

‘Meanwhile I’ll brief Liz and Six about the mysterious Mr Petersen and his visitor from Montreal,’ said Peggy. Gathering up her now dry umbrella, she set off into the rain with a spring in her step.

It was one thirty and Liz Carlyle was walking to work. Her enjoyment of the walk was not dampened in the least by the rain. No more gloomy Northern Line tube journeys for her, she reflected, just a stroll through Pimlico and along the river. A few months ago, at the end of a very stressful period both at work and in her private life, she had sat down and thought about what changes might make her happier. She had often thought how much better it would be if she lived nearer to Thames House, where she worked in MI5’s head office. So she had taken the plunge, stepped into the local estate agent and put her flat on the market.

It had turned out that her particular part of Kentish Town was a lot more desirable than she realised, and the asking price the estate agent suggested had amazed her. But before long she had a firm offer. She’d hesitated for two days before accepting it, thinking of how thrilled she had been to be able to buy her flat in the first place and of all the happy times she had spent there. But finally she had shrugged her shoulders, told herself it was time to move on and accepted the offer. Within a few weeks she had found and fallen in love with a top-floor flat overlooking the gardens of St George’s Square in Pimlico. What really sold it to her was the small roof terrace, which had a tremendous view over the rooftops of Westminster Cathedral in the distance.

She had moved in a week ago and had woken every morning looking forward to the mile or so walk to work. The fact that it had rained almost every day had not depressed her in the least. Today she had taken the morning off to take delivery of a large, comfortable sofa and was feeling particularly pleased with her choice and how well it fitted in to the sitting room.

Up in her small office in Thames House she hung her dripping raincoat on the back of the door and sat down at her desk. As she did so she reflected how lucky she was to have an office, however small, in these days of open-plan floors and hot-desking. When the building had been repartitioned to form large open floors to accommodate the increase in manpower – first after 9/11, then again in the wake of the 7/7 bombing of the London Underground – something had gone slightly awry and some odd corners had been left out of the open plan. Some were big enough to form small meeting rooms, though Liz’s space wasn’t big enough for anything except a small office with just enough room for a desk and two chairs. But it did have a window and the window looked over the Thames. There wasn’t much to see at present, since the steady rain distorted the view until it flickered like a television on the blink. But Liz liked her own space and even when the weather was bad she liked the outlook too.

As she sat down at her desk Liz wondered how Peggy was getting on at Grosvenor. She had delegated the liaison role with the Americans because she was busy running her counter-espionage team and also because she thought it was time to give Peggy some extra responsibility. Peggy had originally joined MI6 as a researcher, having become bored by her first job after leaving university in a small private library in the north of England.

She and Liz had first met when Peggy was seconded to MI5 to work with Liz on a particularly delicate case involving both their Services. Liz had been impressed with Peggy’s talent for research and her tenacity and Peggy had admired Liz’s drive and operational skills. When the case was concluded, Peggy had decided that the domestic service would better suit her abilities than MI6 and, encouraged by Liz, had transferred to MI5. Since then she had worked closely with Liz, moving with her from the Counter-Terrorism Branch to Counter-Espionage.