Stella Rimington - Breaking Cover

‘Beautiful and intelligent women wield great power. There can’t be many men who wouldn’t be attracted to you.’

‘So what do you expect me to do – seduce C? I happen to know he’s happily married.’

To her great irritation, Laurenz laughed. ‘That’s more like it! This is all a bit of a game, you know. The sooner you see that, the easier it will be for all of us.’

‘Okay,’ said Jasminder, not meaning this at all. ‘What’s the plan? How do you want me to proceed?’ She hated saying the words, but reminded herself that the only reason she was doing this was to keep Ali safe. She was going to look for every chance she could to get back at this man.

‘I need to know everything that comes across your desk. Understood? Everything. And you need to start making friends at work – if necessary, intimate friends.’ His meaning was clear.

She said, ‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Of course it is. I’m sure MI6 people socialise with each other all the time. They have to – all people in intelligence work do. It’s so much easier that way: it means they don’t have to lie about their job, or stay quiet while other people talk about theirs. You’ll soon make lots of friends at Vauxhall; you just need to be more outgoing – and obviously single.’

She was single now, thought Jasminder bitterly. She had gone to Bermuda for a weekend with her boyfriend, and was coming home with a spy.

Laurenz said, ‘I need to know who you have told about us – that you’ve been seeing me.’

When Jasminder hesitated, he said impatiently, ‘Come on. Cooperate. Remember your niece.’

‘I told my mother I had met someone – that was when I Skyped her last. She’s in India. She doesn’t know your name; I was waiting to tell her.’ Her mother was always hoping Jasminder would settle down with a nice Indian boy, and pretending someone called ‘Laurenz Hansen’ was an Indian wasn’t going to work.

‘Who else?’

‘I told my friend Emma.’

‘Ah, yes, the worthy Emma. I don’t think we have to worry about her. I never met her. You must just tell her it didn’t work out with us. What about that friend in Trafalgar Square?’ He was watching her intently.

‘That was Peggy Kinsolving. I told you about her.’

‘Yes, you did. She works for the other mob across the river. Does she know my name?’

Jasminder felt his eyes on her. ‘I can’t remember, but I suppose so.’

‘Have you spoken to her recently?’

‘No. I rang her last week and left a message, but she didn’t reply. I was a bit surprised; I thought I’d try again when I got back. I like her.’

‘Good. I want you to ring her. But I also want you to tell her how upset you are. You and I have split up. We’re still good friends; we’ll still see each other occasionally; but the sex wasn’t working. Have you got that? And don’t think of telling her anything else – like the truth – or I’ll know.’

‘Yes, but she’ll probably be surprised. I told her it was getting serious. And what do you mean, you’ll know?’

He smiled. ‘Don’t think you’re our only source in Britain,’ he said. ‘We have many eyes and ears. So just blame me for the break up – with my divorce pending, I realised I shouldn’t rush into things. I needed time on my own. She’ll understand, I’m sure.’

‘Do you want me to say the same thing to Emma?’

‘Yes, and to anyone else you might have told about me. We’re just friends now… mates as the English like to say… and that will be good enough cover for our meetings.’

‘Some friend!’ She gently stroked the side of her face where Koslov had hit her. It was very tender to the touch, though so far there was no visible bruising. ‘I wish you’d never saved me from the men in that park in Islington. But I suppose that was all a set-up.’ In her mind, Jasminder had been going over the whole of her relationship with Laurenz. ‘I didn’t even work for MI6 in those days. Why did you choose me?’

‘We saw your potential,’ he replied with a grin. ‘But don’t try to work it out. Just focus on how you are going to get the material we want. I’ll be helping you work out your plan at our meetings.’

‘Meetings?’

‘Yes. I’ll want to see you regularly – sometimes at my flat, sometimes in other places. The only difference now is that I’ll be your mentor, not your lover – though we could have sex sometimes if you liked.’

Jasminder shuddered but didn’t reply. She felt sick at the thought of his touching her. The sex, like everything else, had been an act. He had never cared about her at all. He had been reporting everything they’d done to that dreadful Koslov. Between them they’d been manipulating her into a position where she had no choice but to cooperate. Looking at the cool and unemotional expression on his face now, she resolved again to do her very best to destroy him.

Laurenz turned to her and said, ‘Now I think you should try and get some sleep. These chairs are quite comfortable, and you can recline them almost back into a bed. You’ve got a big day tomorrow, and I want you to hit the ground running.’

Tim meant well, but he wasn’t much of a housekeeper. By her third day at home, Peggy was back in charge of the washing machine and the dishwasher. Tim was still cooking his vegetarian meals, though they were no longer the gloopy stews of the past. He’d bought himself a new cookery book and they were now eating rather tasty nut roasts and rissoles which Peggy consumed without complaint, knowing that until she had two working arms again, it was safer for her to keep out of the kitchen.

She stayed at home for a week after she came out of hospital. She was still on painkillers and feeling very tired – shock, the doctor told her. She saw more of Tim than usual, as he worked from home for at least a part of most days. She soon realised that something about him had changed. The pre-accident version of Tim – sulky, snappy, secretive and often aggressive – had been supplanted by a quieter, sadder, man who seemed, frankly, rather embarrassed. He wasn’t the same lovable man she’d lived with for several years, before he’d got involved with the internet chat rooms – the scholar, who’d been full of enthusiasm for his university work, full of ideas but endearingly hopeless at anything practical. This was a third version of Tim – easier to live with than the Snowdenista but sad, even depressed, and if anything too keen to follow Peggy’s lead. She was mystified by the sudden disappearance of the stroppy cynic she’d been living with in the past few months.

Then she learned the cause of this sea change. On the evening before she went back to work, they were sitting over supper when Tim said, ‘I had a visitor when you were in hospital.’

‘Really. Who was it?’

‘Liz Carlyle.’

Peggy was surprised; Liz had come to see her in hospital. Why had she also come to the flat? She said as much now.

Tim stirred his supper with his fork uneasily. ‘She wanted a word with me.’

‘Oh?’ She could see he was feeling awkward.

‘It was about my phone. The iPhone I was given.’

Peggy merely nodded, bracing herself for what was coming next. Doubtless Tim would blame her for mentioning the phone to Liz. There would be the usual rant about the security services, the usual cry that 1984 was here.

But instead he said, very mildly, ‘She seemed to think I’d been very naïve about this woman Marina – exchanging emails then accepting the phone.’

‘Oh,’ said Peggy, startled.

‘Perhaps I have,’ said Tim, looking away. For a terrible moment, Peggy thought he was about to cry. But he pulled himself together and said, ‘Liz took the phone away to have it looked at. She asked me to tell her if I had any more emails from Marina.’