Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

“Well, what can we do to prevent it?”

“I’ve spoken to Head of Station in Moscow, and we’ll try and talk to Tarkov. But frankly, I think this was a bit of a fluke. Even if Tarkov’s willing to help, I’m not sure he’s well placed to find out anything more. We’ll try other contacts, of course, but I can’t promise anything. We’ll have to bring in MI5, but I thought I’d tell you about it first.”

“Bloody Brian Ackers,” said Pennington with undisguised bitterness. “That will only make things worse. And right before the PM’s trip to Moscow.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Fane easily. “Brian’s no fool. He’s been around. He knows a thing or two about the Russians.”

Pennington shook his head. “ Cha! He’s just another spook who can’t accept the Cold War’s over and we have to get on with the Russians,” he declared, seeming to forget his listener’s own vocation. “He’s always wanting to take action.”

Fane decided not even to pretend to take offence. “I tell you what,” he said brightly. “I know the Thames House people pretty well, so why don’t I talk things over with some of them informally? We’re going to have to work in tandem on this one in any case. Let me have a word before you speak to Brian Ackers.”

“Would you?” asked Pennington, looking grateful.

“Happy to,” said Fane shortly, and stood up. “If the Russians are still in the planning stage, we’ve got a little time. Leave it to me for now.”

Liz was just beginning to think about going home when she looked up from the papers on her desk to find Peggy Kinsolving standing in the doorway of her office, with a carry-on bag in one hand and her briefcase in the other. Her hair was up in a severe bun, and she was dressed in a smart rose-coloured suit. The effect was to make her look older, but there was something youthfully eager about the excited expression on her face.

“Hello there,” said Liz. “Have a good trip?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Come on in,” said Liz.

Still holding her cases, Peggy advanced into the room. “The Germans and the Norwegians think there’s been a Russian Illegal in Norway. They’ve followed the support officer there from Germany and now he’s coming to London, so they think the Illegal’s moved here,” she said breathlessly.

“Why don’t you put your bags down?” said Liz gently. “Take a seat, and tell me all about it.”

When ten minutes later Peggy finished recounting Beckendorf’s and Karlsson’s story, she looked at Liz and asked, “What do you think?”

Liz tapped the desktop pensively. Then she said, “It seems a bit thin. It’s based on a lot of assumptions. Have they tried to detect any communications to or from this Illegal? I thought in the Cold War it was radio transmissions that pinpointed the existence of Illegals. Even though we couldn’t read what the messages said, didn’t we know where they were coming from and broadly where they were directed to?”

“Herr Beckendorf is a complete expert on this,” Peggy replied. “He was working on it for years during the Cold War and he says they’re using encrypted computer messages now. They bounce them through countless network nodes so it’s very difficult to detect the ultimate destination.”

“All right,” said Liz, now into full investigative mode and not noticing that Peggy’s face had fallen at her sceptical reception of this news. “But why does he think this Ivanov kept going to Norway at all? The whole point of Illegals surely was that they never met their support officer.”

“I wondered about that too,” said Peggy. “Perhaps the Illegal needed something that he couldn’t get for himself. Documents perhaps. Or maybe his communications had broken down and he needed a spare part,” she added desperately, looking increasingly troubled by Liz’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Maybe,” said Liz thoughtfully.

“Whatever it’s about,” said Peggy, “if Ivanov’s going to visit here, don’t we have to follow it up?” She seemed troubled by Liz’s lack of reaction.

“Of course we do,” said Liz. “What else came up?”

“Oh just that the Germans think Rykov, that SVR officer in the Trade Delegation here, is a complete incompetent.”

“Rykov?” exclaimed Liz. “That’s interesting. Just a few minutes ago Wally Woods from A4 came in to tell me he’d seen Rykov meeting someone on Hampstead Heath. I’ve asked him to write a detailed report.” She paused and looked out the window for a moment. “Do you remember, at the meeting Brian was saying that he thought it was odd that the Maples case had been handled by someone as inexperienced as Nysenko? Now we’re being told Rykov’s no good.”

“That’s what Herr Beckendorf said,” interrupted Peggy. “I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.”

“I’m sure he does too,” replied Liz thoughtfully. “Hampstead Heath’s a pretty obvious place to have a covert meeting in broad daylight, isn’t it?” She stopped again and gazed at Peggy. “Maybe all this adds up somehow—but differently from the way it looks. After all, the Russians are professionals. They’ve been at this game for years and they’re in a league the terrorists can’t dream of. Well,” she concluded, standing up and starting to put away her papers, “at least they’re making us think!”

Wally Woods of A4 had been proud of his discovery of Rykov, apparently having a covert meeting on Hampstead Heath, but the wind was quite taken out of his sails when Liz told him that the Germans thought Rykov’s tradecraft was pathetic. Now, this Wednesday morning, out with his surveillance team following Rykov, Wally found himself having to agree with the Germans.

Liz had decided that to try to identify Rykov’s contact A4 should follow him exactly two weeks after the meeting that Wally had observed. If Rykov was as incompetent as the Germans judged, he would stick to a predictable meeting pattern and two weeks was a typical interval. On the first occasion nothing had happened. So, a week later, when she found that a couple of A4 teams were unexpectedly available, she decided to have another go. Now one team was staking out the bench on Hampstead Heath, while Wally and his team followed Rykov, code name Chelsea 1, through his morning agenda.

Peggy Kinsolving had been doing some research into Rykov’s activities and had discovered that whatever actual intelligence work he was doing seemed to come second to a voracious appetite for food and drink. All his meetings, and there were many, were in ritzy bars and expensive restaurants. He made no effort to conceal any of this and there was no sign that he either knew or cared that MI5 might be aware of his activities.

So, thought Liz, as she looked in on the A4 Operations Room in the early afternoon, what did that say about the man on the bench? Why had their meeting been so different from the usual pattern? She hoped to find out today.

Reggie Purvis, in charge in the Ops Room, brought Liz up to date. After a long lunch at Kensington Place with a journalist from the International Herald Tribune , Rykov was walking slowly up Kensington Church Street, stopping to examine the windows of the antiques shops, with Wally and two A4 colleagues on either side of the road behind and in front of him. Others in cars were nearby. Suddenly, with a crackle of static, Liz heard Wally announce, “Chelsea 1 has hailed a cab. Heading north.” Liz sat down on the worn leather sofa that was provided for visiting case officers to the Operations Room.

On Notting Hill Gate, Maureen Hayes, parked at a meter outside an estate agent’s, put down the Evening Standard and turned the ignition of her grey ten-year-old BMW 318i estate. “Ready and waiting,” she said.