Stella Rimington: Dead Line

This was true. The original enthusiasm that the two hostile governments were actually talking to each other had gradually given way to a widespread cynicism that nothing of consequence would emerge from the ‘secret’ meetings the whole world now knew about.

Abboud tugged at one of his cuffs and stared out at the arid valley towards Nicosia. The kestrel was lower in the sky now, moving patiently above the slope, like a gun dog working a field. He said, ‘I tell you, my friend, this time the on dit is wrong. For once talks may lead to something – the administration in Washington seems determined to break the impasse in the Middle East at last, even if it means standing up to Israel. They want a legacy and they have chosen this to create it.’

Was this why Abboud had called an urgent meeting? wondered Templeton. It was all interesting stuff, but hardly worth the risk each man had taken coming here.

Sensing Templeton’s impatience, Abboud held out a reassuring hand. ‘Do not worry – I am coming to the point. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.’ He looked at his watch, a sliver of gold that glinted in the harsh, still-rising sun. ‘In two months’ time there is going to be an international conference in Scotland. You may know about it. It has not attracted much interest so far because only the moderates have agreed to attend. But my government wants progress. We need a settlement for the stability of our country. So we have decided to attend. I am to be part of our delegation, which is why Tibshirani told me the story.’ He raised his eyes to the sky.

‘What story?’

‘We have information that certain parties are working to disrupt the process. We know of two individuals acting to prevent any peaceful solution to the current stalemate. They intend to blacken the good name of Syria and thus to destroy all trust at the conference.’ ‘How will they do that?’

‘I don’t know. But I can tell you my friend that if they succeed there will be a bloodbath in the region.’

‘Do you know who they are, who is directing them?’

‘I know they have connections to your country, and I know their names. But Tibshirani does not know who is controlling them. He does not think it is the British.’ He smiled, a gleam of white teeth in the sunlight. Then he gave Templeton two names, reciting each one twice, quite slowly, to make sure there was no misunderstanding. Nothing was committed to paper by either man.

‘Okay,’ said Templeton, having memorised the two names. ‘Where does this information come from?’

‘That I cannot tell you.’ Abboud laughed as he saw the irritation spreading across Templeton’s face. ‘But only because I do not know myself. Believe me, it’s not worth my trying to find out; I already know more than I should. I believe it to be true, and so does Tibshirani. But listen to me; here is the most important thing. These people, these two parties who are working against us – my colleagues are going to move against them before they can do harm.’

‘Move?’

Abboud merely nodded. They both knew full well what this meant.

‘When will they “move”?’

‘Soon, very soon. They will do it in the UK. Secretly. So it will not be known who has acted. My side does not want anything to disrupt this conference. We see much for Syria to gain – we hope to get back our country from the Israeli invaders. So my superiors consider that action against these people is worth the risk if it keeps the conference alive. Personally, I fear that if they make a mistake it may have the opposite effect, which is why I am telling you. But now I must go,’ said Abboud, standing up.

Templeton stood up too, looking out down the mountainside. The kestrel was no longer circling; it must have found its prey.

Liz Carlyle was not in the best of humours as her taxi came to a grinding halt in a traffic jam in Trafalgar Square. She had spent the morning at the Old Bailey giving evidence in the trial of Neil Armitage, a scientist who had been arrested in Cafe Rouge in St John’s Wood, in the act of handing over a briefcase of top-secret documents to a Russian intelligence officer.

It was her first time as a witness in court, an experience that once had rarely come the way of MI5 officers, though now with frequent arrests of terrorists, it was more common. Liz had not enjoyed it. She was at her happiest when she was using her analytical and intuitive skills to make sense of complicated intelligence – working to put the case together that led to arrests. Court no. 1 at the Old Bailey was not her natural environment, and she had found it surprisingly stressful.

Knowing that her identity and appearance would be protected, she had expected to sit behind some sort of screen. Instead, the court had been cleared of the press and the public and she’d emerged from a rear door straight into the witness box, where she stood directly facing the defendant in the dock. Although he didn’t know her name, he knew he was there largely because of her work. She felt like an actress entering from the wings onto a stage, without a script, exposed and not in control. For one used to working in the shadows, it had been an unnerving experience.

So she was not best pleased when, just as she was recovering with a strong coffee and the Guardian crossword puzzle, her boss, Charles Wetherby, had rung to ask her to go and represent the service at a meeting in Whitehall.

‘It’s about that Middle East peace conference in Scotland,’ he had said.

‘But Charles,’ she had protested, ‘I hardly know anything about it. Aren’t the protective security lot dealing with that?’

‘Of course. They’ve been working on it for months and they’re completely on top of it. But they’ve got no one available to send this afternoon. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be decided at this meeting. The Home Office have called it at the last minute just so they can demonstrate they’re in charge, before the Home Secretary goes to Cabinet tomorrow. I knew you’d have finished in court and you were close by, so I volunteered you.’

Thanks very much, Liz had thought ruefully, for dumping this on me after the morning I’ve had. But though she was irritated, she couldn’t feel cross with Charles for long. She’d worked with him for a good part of her ten years in MI5, and he was everything she admired – calm, considered, professional and without vanity. He made people feel part of a committed team, working with him as much as for him. It was more than admiration, she had to admit to herself. She was strongly attracted to him and she knew he cared about her too. But it was an unspoken affection, an invisible thread that neither acknowledged. Charles was an honourable man – one reason why she admired him -and he was married to Joanne. And Joanne was very ill, terminally ill perhaps. Charles, she knew, would never contemplate leaving her, and Liz couldn’t have respected him if he had.

Meanwhile Liz, at thirty-five, was not getting younger and a series of unsatisfactory relationships was not what she wanted. Why had she allowed herself to fall for someone so unavailable?

So here she was, stuck in a cab, likely to be late for a meeting about something she wasn’t briefed on and probably about to get soaked into the bargain, she reflected, as the lowering clouds began to deposit their first drops of rain on the taxi’s windscreen. Typical, she thought; the summer had so far been unusually dry and she had not brought an umbrella.

But Liz was not one to be gloomy for long. There was too much in her job that she found genuinely fascinating. And when, as was the way with London traffic, the jam suddenly cleared and the cab moved on, her mood lightened; by the time she was dropped halfway down Whitehall, outside the door of the Cabinet Office, in good time for the meeting after all, she felt positively cheerful.