Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

The leading bus had by now long disappeared in the direction of central London. There was still no taxi in sight. “Come on, Molly,” said Wally, “let’s go home.” But who the hell was the man?

Brian Ackers looks knackered this morning, thought Liz. Normally he was almost zealously energetic.

“Bad news,” he announced to start the weekly meeting of the Counter-Espionage Branch. That’s motivating, thought Liz caustically. The third-floor conference room was too large for the twenty intelligence officers present, bunched together at one end of the room.

In the Cold War, there had been specialised teams of investigators and agent runners, focusing on different aspects of the espionage threat from the Soviet Union and its allies. With the Cold War over and terrorism now the priority, the Counter-Espionage Branch had been reduced to two largish sections—one directed at Russia and one at everywhere else. As well as being acting director, Brian Ackers was directly in charge of the Russia Section, agent runners and investigators working together.

Now, next to Liz, Peggy Kinsolving was scrabbling in her briefcase. She was leaving the meeting early to attend a European conference on the current threat from the Russian intelligence services.

“The Foreign Office has come back to me,” announced Ackers. He always spoke loudly at these meetings, as if a booming voice could somehow bring back the days when the sixty-odd seats in this room would all have been occupied. He was a gaunt, thin-faced man with pale grey eyes. Today he wore an old tweed jacket and a narrow club tie of some kind that had seen better days.

Propping her chin in her hand, Liz gazed at him with an expressionless face. She was thinking how typical it was of a certain kind of male to cover up an unshakeable conviction with a nondescript appearance. Of his conviction there was no doubt—Liz was impressed as well as slightly amused by Ackers’ insistent denial that the world had changed irrevocably with the end of the Cold War. To Ackers, the Russians remained Enemy Number One, and Liz knew that he regarded the relegation of the Russians in MI5’s ranking of threats as deeply misguided. The Red menace might have changed, Ackers would grudgingly concede. It was no longer red, but it was still a menace.

He said now, “They’ve accepted that we have the right man, and the proof of unacceptable activities.” He paused to heighten the effect. “But they refuse to take any action against him.”

Liz was not altogether surprised, though she shared Ackers’ disappointment. For the last three months she had been involved in the case in question. A government scientist named Maples had reported an approach from a member of the Russian Embassy he had met at a defence exhibition in Cardiff. The Russian had wasted no time in offering Maples money in return for information about the plans for the renewal of Trident.

Once informed, MI5 had moved in. Liz had become case officer for the scientist, Maples, whom she had told to play along with the diplomat, a young man named Sergei Nysenko. After several meetings in London suburbs, Maples had pretended to agree to Nysenko’s proposals, and four days later in Kew Gardens had given Nysenko an attaché case containing a fabricated government policy paper classified Secret. In return, Nysenko (surreptitiously photographed by A4 surveillance officers) had handed over £40,000 in cash.

Once UK officialdom would not have hesitated: Sergei Nysenko would have been on the first flight home. But the British attitude had changed, as Brian Ackers was now explaining. “The FCO says they’ll have a word with the Russian ambassador, and suggest Nysenko confine himself to more conventional activities in future.” He shook his head. “The SVR will be laughing at us.”

“Why won’t they expel him, Brian? It was an attempt to suborn a British official. He’s an undercover intelligence officer. He’ll go on being a problem for us.” The question came from Michael Fane, a recent MI5 recruit who had joined the branch only a month before, after an initial year in Protective Security. He was quick-witted, keen, and seemed—to Liz—very, very young. He was a bit of an oddity in the Service, since his father, Geoffrey Fane, was a senior controller in MI6. Liz had got to know Geoffrey Fane when she was working with Charles Wetherby in Counter-Terrorism; the two men were opposite numbers. Geoffrey was a smooth operator in the labyrinthine politics of interdepartmental relations, and a man to be wary of.

“All the usual reasons,” Brian said with a sigh. He picked glumly at his tie. “The prime minister has plans to go to Moscow next month and they don’t want to rock the boat right before his trip, or risk reciprocal action against the embassy there. Expelling Nysenko would jeopardise the ‘new cooperation’ between us in the fight against terrorism.” He looked angrily out the window of the conference room at the plane trees lining the pavement, as if even they should share his low opinion of this “new cooperation.”

“These fellows in Eastern Department nowadays have no idea how to deal with the Russians. They’ve only been involved with them since the Cold War ended and we became so-called allies. They can’t seem to see that if we show any weakness at all, they’ll be all over us.”

Liz spoke up. “Surely the operation has done some good, Brian. It tells the Russians that we haven’t gone to sleep, and that we know what they’re up to.”

“Perhaps,” said Ackers, and rested his gaze on Liz. “Though why should they worry if we can’t act?”

There wasn’t a good answer to this, thought Liz, and she couldn’t help sympathising with Ackers. Charles Wetherby had been right—there were more Russian intelligence officers in London than ever before. The day she’d arrived on the third floor Ackers had briefed her on the extent of SVR activity known to MI5, and she’d been in his office most of the afternoon.

The difference now lay in the targets of Russian espionage. In the Cold War they’d been largely British: the combat-readiness of British troops in Germany, high-tech programmes and British firms, even the views and character of British politicians. Now the targets were just as often not British. London’s international community and its rise as the world’s financial hub meant there wasn’t a country of importance that wasn’t doing business on British shores. London was an excellent listening post for one of the world’s most aggressive intelligence services. Particularly if MI5 had one hand tied behind its back.

The meeting moved on. An old hand named Hadley explained that, now the Nysenko episode was over, A4 were beginning random surveillance on other identified intelligence officers in the embassy.

“How much coverage have we got?” asked Brian.

Hadley shrugged. “With the resource we get,” he said pointedly, “not much.” He inspected his notes. “We’re focusing on the economic and trade people for now. Our friends Kaspovitch, Svitchenko and Rykov.”

Brian Ackers’ eyes glinted, and it was clear to Liz that after thirty years of hunting Russian spies he still lived for the chase, even if today’s terrorist priorities meant he was hobbled. Liz couldn’t help but respect his commitment.

With the Nysenko case concluded, Liz herself was taking a look at the wave of Russian oligarchs who had been establishing themselves in the UK. Peggy Kinsolving called them the “New Arabs,” and there was truth to the sobriquet. London hadn’t seen anything like this burst of new money since the arrival of oil-rich Arabs in the seventies. The Russian billionaires were rapidly buying up large country houses, whole blocks of Knightsbridge flats, the occasional football team and most of the masterpieces sold at high-class art auctions. The Bentley and Rolls-Royce dealers hadn’t had it so good since the days of the Indian maharajahs.