Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

Liz could not believe her ears. Of course she was frightened—what sane person wouldn’t be? When she’d read about Tutti’s death in the bath, she’d remembered something else—that unpleasant pool of red in her bath at the hotel in Cambridge—but she wasn’t going to mention that to Brian. She was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of thinking she couldn’t cope. She felt so outraged that she could hardly trust herself to speak.

“No, Brian. If that’s your decision, I’m not going to argue with you,” she said at last. She looked down at the floor and the strewn pages of the police report. When she left the room a moment later they were still on the floor.

Walking into Liz’s office, Peggy could see immediately that she was upset. She hesitated, wondering if she should come back later but Liz waved her in and pointed to a chair. Liz herself was standing up, looking with even greater distaste at the government-issue prints on her wall. I really can’t put up with these much longer, she thought. There were some pleasant watercolours in her old bedroom at South Lodge. Her mother couldn’t object if she reclaimed them. “Edward” might even be happy to get rid of what little presence Liz still had there. The last time she’d been at Kentish Town she’d had a long phone conversation with her mother. Most of it was about Edward and the things they were doing together. Even though she hadn’t met him, Liz had created a mental picture of the man. He had grey hair and wore tweed suits and brogues—some days, when she was feeling down, she gave him a moustache and a pipe. In her mind, he spoke in a military voice and she didn’t like him. Thoughts of Edward snapped her out of her reverie, as did Peggy’s question, “What did Brian think about Tutti?”

“He thought it was suicide. An obvious suicide,” said Liz, raising an eyebrow.

“You must be joking.” Peggy had seen the police report and shared Liz’s doubts. They’d both agreed that it seemed far more likely that Tutti had been drugged, stripped, put in the bath, then had his wrists slit.

“Afraid not,” said Liz, frowning. She seemed to pull herself together. “What’s your news?”

“I’ve found out a lot more about Monica’s background. Seems she’s been an upmarket tart for years, living on whoever would support her in the style she enjoyed. The only slightly odd thing is that immediately before she shacked up with Brunovsky she was living with some man in Beirut. I did wonder whether she could have been recruited and then targeted against Brunovsky, but it seems rather unlikely.”

“I’m beginning to think anything’s possible.”

“Yes. Well, I’ve also been talking to our friends at PET in Denmark. I’d asked them to check out Greta Darnshof and I only heard back from them this morning.” Peggy glanced at her notes. “Greta Darnshof was born on the island of Samso in 1964. She has no criminal record of any kind, owns a small flat in Copenhagen, and has a healthy balance in a savings account with the Jyske Bank.”

“But?” asked Liz.

“Someone at PET was pretty diligent and took a second look. They discovered that there was no record of any Greta Darnshof attending a Danish gymnasiet , taking the baccalaureate exam, or attending university.”

“She probably grew up abroad.”

“That’s what they think at PET. But I still haven’t been able to discover who’s backing her magazine. One company leads on to another. I’d have said it was money laundering but I wouldn’t have thought an art magazine was ideal for that.”

“Don’t say she’s another crook,” said Liz with a sigh. “Poor Nicky’s surrounded by them.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Peggy. “Every one of them is dodgy—Tutti, Monica, Harry Forbes and now Greta. At least the secretary Tamara seems to be what she claims to be. She’s been with Brunovsky for fifteen years.”

“What about your other operation?” asked Liz, only too pleased to change the subject. “What does Herr Beckendorf make of the fact that Ivanov was out publicly lunching with Rykov?”

“He’s sure it was meant to be cover for something else. He was pretty annoyed when I told him we’d had to withdraw surveillance at the last minute. Catching an Illegal before he retires turns out to be his ambition and he thought Ivanov was going to lead him to one.”

“The question,” said Liz, reverting to the subject that most interested her, “is whether this bunch of crooks round Brunovsky are part of some Victor Adler–type of plot or whether they’re just hovering like wasps round a jam pot.”

“And whether Tutti’s death has anything to do with it,” added Peggy.

They both sat silent, thinking. Then Liz said, “Peggy, do you think I’m being paranoid? Marco Tutti’s wrists were slashed with a Stanley knife and when I was mugged, my attacker threatened me with a Stanley knife. If we hadn’t been interrupted by some people down the street, I think she was going to cut my throat.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I wasn’t sure. It could have been just a street robbery. The police thought so. Brian agreed with the police,” she added with a shrug. “He thinks I’m another hysterical female, gone wobbly at the first hint of violence.”

Peggy’s alarm was now too great to disguise. “Liz, if you think that the attack on you is connected with Tutti’s death, I don’t think you should stay a moment longer in the Brunovsky house.”

Liz stared at Peggy, wondering how best to hide the fact that she agreed with her one hundred percent. “Whatever’s going on, I can’t believe they would try anything in the house,” she said finally, using a smile to disarm her younger colleague. “And I’m sure I won’t be there much longer.”

After Peggy had gone back to her office Liz sat on at her desk, gazing out at the unprepossessing view. Her intuition was telling her loudly now that something about the Brunovsky household did not add up—or it added up in some way she could not yet fathom. She’d be wise to get out, though she had to confess that sheer curiosity had her in its grip. And there was no way she would let Brian or Geoffrey Fane think that she couldn’t cope. She would not reinforce whatever their female stereotype was—“Okay for desk work but can’t really deal with the sharp end.”

What are you trying to demonstrate? a small voice in her head was saying. That she was just as tough as a man in dealing with personal risk? Probably. But it could be a liability, that kind of macho posturing. Women had different skills, intuition and empathy—the “feminine skills” so many men lacked. She knew what hers were telling her. But this time she wasn’t going to listen.

Down the corridor, Peggy was worried. Her mind raced. She knew she’d never change Liz’s mind, but that didn’t mean she was prepared to sit and do nothing. Who could she turn to? She knew better than to tackle Brian Ackers. He was the problem. Could Liz’s old friends in Counter-Terrorism help? They’d tell her to go through the correct channels, which brought her back to… Brian again. Geoffrey Fane? No. Liz would never forgive her and anyway he’d be no help.

Unless… and the more Peggy thought about it, the more her heart thumped like an out-of-control drum. There was a way to help Liz, provided that Peggy was eloquent and forceful enough not to get sent off with a flea in her ear, or worse, an official reprimand. She wasn’t that worried about being blamed for doing the wrong thing—she had enough pride to ignore any qualms about that—but she was worried she might make a hash of it, and end up with Liz in the same dangerous situation.

She waited until she got home that evening and then, pushing her spectacles firmly up her nose, she sat down, picked up her phone and rang the duty officer at Thames House. “It’s Peggy Kinsolving here from Counter-Espionage. I need to speak to Charles Wetherby urgently. Could you give me his home number please?”