Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

“You know he’s on extended leave, don’t you?” came the reply.

“Yes. But I still need to contact him.”

“Are you at home? I’ll ask him to ring you.”

A few minutes later her phone rang. “Charles Wetherby,” said a quiet voice. “I gather you want a word.”

“Charles. Thank you so much for ringing. It’s about Liz Carlyle.”

It was an eventful morning. Arriving at the house in Eaton Square, Liz had not expected to find a residence in mourning, but still thought there would be a subdued atmosphere in the Brunovsky household. Yet there had been no sign at all that Marco Tutti’s death was affecting business as usual: as Liz arrived, Brunovsky was shouting for Tamara, Mrs. Grimby had brought up a pain au chocolat, still warm from the oven, and Mrs. Warburton was supervising Emilia the maid’s dusting with an eagle eye.

Only Monica had made reference to the recent mortality, stopping in the doorway to the dining room. “Poor Marco,” she said, before asking Liz if she had ever been in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. It was not so much callous, thought Liz, as Monica’s usual way of dealing with the past—sticking her head in the sand.

Then Brunovsky had shouted again, this time calling for Liz. Has he started to think I’m working for him? she’d wondered as she rose from her chair.

“Yes,” she had said coolly when she got to the door of his study.

He was standing by his desk, holding a passport. “Do you have one of these?” he’d asked. It sounded urgent.

“Of course,” she’d said, for she had long before taken the precaution of having one in the name of Jane Falconer.

“With you?”

She nodded. The mugger had got some of her cover documents when she stole her handbag, so for the time being, until they were replaced, she was carrying her passport with her as proof of identity. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” he’d said. “You can come along then.”

“Where to?”

Brunovsky looked at her with surprise. “Why, Ireland, of course. With Marco dead, I got in touch with this Miss Cottingham right away. She is not keen to visit London, so I thought why not let the mountain visit Muhammad, no? My plane is at Northolt and it will take only an hour to fly there. Harry will meet us and we can drive to this lady’s mansion in thirty minutes. We’ll be back in time for supper. Well, late supper anyway.”

Liz stared at him incredulously. He was obviously determined to go, indeed he seemed to have instigated the plan. Liz was certain he’d be walking straight into a fraud, if not something worse. She was convinced that Blue Mountain was no more authentic than The Protocols of the Elders of Zion . But now that Tutti was dead, who was running the scam? It must be Forbes, the American—he’d been tied up with Tutti in the past. Both of them had been after Brunovsky’s wallet since the beginning.

She hesitated. Brunovsky returned to the charge. “Jane, you must come. I need you,” he said in his little-boy voice. “Not perhaps for your Pashko expertise,” he winked at her, a rare acknowledgement that she was working undercover. “It’s just that I respect your judgement. These are complicated matters—you will look after me.” He smiled at her winningly.

“Are you taking Jerry Simmons?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “Of course. I will need him to drive me when we land.”

Thank God. If Brian wasn’t going to move Special Branch in to protect the Russian, at least his bodyguard should be around.

Liz glanced around. There was no one in the room or in Tamara’s office outside but she walked with deliberate slowness to the door and closed it. As if surprised, Brunovsky sat down at the table, and Liz came to a stop in front of him.

“Nikita,” she said—it was the first time she had ventured his Christian name but suddenly it seemed appropriate—“it’s not my job to protect you. But you did ask for me to be here to keep an eye out and give you advice about your security and I’m doing that now. You know that you are under a threat. Blue Mountain could be a fake or a fraud as you are well aware, but it could possibly be some kind of a set-up to catch you and your protection on the wrong foot in the wrong place. What I’m saying is that I don’t think it’s wise for you to go to Ireland.”

She stopped, wondering what on earth his reaction would be.

For a moment he gazed at her with simple unfeigned astonishment, his mouth opening and then closing. “Thank you for the warning,” he said, “but it is very important to me to go. There will be no danger.”

Then suddenly he grinned expansively. “You’ll come then? That’s my girl! Is that the right thing to say to a member of the British Security Service?”

And ninety minutes later she was walking with Brunovsky out on to the tarmac towards an Embraer Legacy jet, its steps down and the pilot, casual in a windcheater, standing on the top step. She’d tried to ring Peggy but she was not at her desk. The message she left must have sounded inane to the young woman—flitting off across the Irish Sea spontaneously, in search of a painting that didn’t exist. It was all getting out of hand. When I’m back, Liz decided, I’ll tell Brian to get me out of here or I’ll go and talk to DG.

He had never, ever, had an interview like that in all his time in the Service. DG had spoken, not emotionally, not even overtly angrily—either would have been preferable to the icy coldness of the dressing-down he had just received. When Brian had been eight years old, he had been caught cheating on an exam at his boarding school and sent to the headmaster. That was how he felt now.

Barely noticing the river view, he stood resting his forehead on the window of his office, until it clouded up from the exhalation of his breath. Absent-mindedly he drew a grid for noughts and crosses, etched a large O and a smaller adjacent x, then forgot about the next move as he played back in his head DG’s accusatory tones.

You have placed an officer’s life in danger. And for what purpose? I want you to act at once to retrieve the situation. And the final terse warning: I must warn you that I shall be taking disciplinary action.

Was that how his career was going to end? Thirty years’ service abruptly terminated because someone got nervy. He didn’t doubt for a minute that Adler’s original story had been correct. The Russians were up to something—they were always up to something, that’s what people didn’t understand. But it was Brunovsky they wanted, not Liz Carlyle. Silly, panicky woman. It was his misfortune to have got stuck with her on this operation.

He sat down at his desk and stared at the green marble slab and its unused pen. He wondered where DG had got his information. Who had spoken to him? Who had gone around his—Brian’s—back? He’d find out in the end who’d undermined him. But that would have to wait—he had to act immediately, if only out of self-preservation, and do what DG had ordered.

He sighed, then dialled the mobile number, only to get a voicemail’s recorded announcement. Damn. It was bad enough having to eat humble pie, but worse having to postpone the meal. He put down the phone, then picked it up again, and dialled an internal number. “Could I see you please, right away?”

Peggy Kinsolving came in within sixty seconds. She seemed an efficient sort of lass, if a bit too close to that Carlyle woman for his liking. Very young, but a competent investigator. He did not ask her to sit down; this wouldn’t take long.

“I’m trying to reach Liz Carlyle but her mobile’s on voicemail.”