Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

Greta shouted something in Russian to Svetlana, pointing to Miss Cottingham. She was visibly struggling, but failing, to control her anger. “Go on, move !” she hissed. “Move.” To Liz there was something oddly familiar about her intonation.

Svetlana was terrified, paralysed, crouching on the floor, and Greta moved again. She seized her roughly by the shoulder, trying to lift her to her feet. Dimitri came across the room to her side, and Miss Cottingham took the opportunity to scamper behind a chair, as if she were enjoying herself. For an old lady she was remarkably agile.

Dimitri and Greta approached her from opposite sides, trying to corner her, but the old lady had played this game before and she darted nimbly behind one of the sofas. Safe for an instant, she began to sing, in a high quavering voice, “You can’t catch me, you can’t catch me.”

With everyone’s eyes focused on Miss Cottingham, Liz saw her opportunity. She moved sideways to Jerry Simmons’ chair. “Jerry,” she whispered urgently, “give me your phone.” Evidently mesmerised by the spectacle, he turned to her with an expression of disbelief, and she had to jab him hard with her finger to focus his attention. “I work with Magnusson,” she said, relieved to have remembered Michael Fane’s alias. “You know… MI5. I need your phone.”

Meanwhile, Dimitri and Greta had with difficulty seized hold of Miss Cottingham. She was resisting with surprising strength, and singing at the top of her voice. Jerry’s eyes, widening, were fixed on the old lady, but cautiously he reached into his jacket pocket, and the next thing Liz knew the phone was lying in the palm of her hand. As she closed her fingers on it, Dimitri picked Miss Cottingham up with both arms and carried her to the door and out of the room.

Svetlana was still sobbing. Greta, leaning down to the crouching girl, told her sharply to get out and see to her charge. Brunovsky, who had not moved a muscle since the beginning of the drama, rose to his feet and looked at his watch, for all the world like the chairman of a meeting declaring it closed. “Okay,” he said. “Time to go. He won’t be long now.”

Greta hissed a word and it came sharply to Liz just where she’d heard that voice before. Move! Greta had shouted at Svetlana. Don’t move! the mugger had ordered Liz on the darkened Battersea street. There was no mistaking that voice, with its menacing hiss. It was Greta who had attacked her, Greta who had wielded the Stanley knife. Greta, therefore, who had killed Marco Tutti.

And it was Greta who was in charge here, not Brunovsky. Whatever she was, she was no Danish art expert. She was a Russian. No wonder the Danes had found oddities in her background, no wonder Peggy couldn’t trace the ownership of her magazine. Greta must be the Illegal, a Russian intelligence officer. That was why Brunovsky was deferring to her. But what was she doing here? Who were they waiting for? And why did Brunovsky want to leave before the visitor appeared?

Liz looked at Brunovsky. “I need the ladies’ room before we go. I’ll be quick. I’ll meet you out front.”

Brunovsky nodded impatiently, reluctantly, and ignoring Greta, Liz left the room. From the rear of the house she heard snatches of song from the old lady, then Svetlana pleading with her to be quiet.

But she had no time to reflect on the bizarre aspects of the scene. Off the main hall she found an ancient bathroom and, going in, she carefully closed its tall door behind her. There was no lock. In the dim light she saw a cracked washbasin on a stand, a lavatory with a cistern high on the wall, its long chain ending in a porcelain handle. She turned on one of the taps and water gushed loudly. She must be quick. Brunovsky was impatient to be gone, and so was she. She needed to get out of the house quickly before Greta began to suspect that her cover had been cracked.

She looked down at the phone. Would she get a signal here? The display lit up, then showed SEARCHING for what seemed an eternity, until at last to her relief it registered. She dialled Peggy’s Thames House extension, but almost immediately heard “The person at this extension is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.” She hesitated, but this wasn’t a time for messages. She needed urgent action. But who to call? Not Brian Ackers. Even if he were there, he’d tell her to calm down and report back later. Dave Armstrong, her friend and former colleague in Counter-Terrorism? He’d do something sensible but she might have no better luck reaching him.

She had no time at all, and her mind raced. Who could she count on to be there, to understand the urgency and to be able to act? Yes, there was someone.

The Kingston number rang twice and then a woman’s voice answered. Liz spoke as loudly as she dared. “Hello, Mrs. Wetherby? It’s Liz Carlyle. Is Charles there? It’s urgent.”

There was a pause. “Oh, Liz. He’s at the office. I thought you’d know. He’s gone back.”

“I didn’t know. I’m in Ireland.” She thought of ringing off, then realised this was her one chance. “Please listen: I’m in trouble and I can’t get through to the office. Please get hold of Charles and tell him Greta is here—G-R-E-T-A. Tell him she’s Russian and I’m sure she’s the Illegal. Brian Ackers can tell him what it all means.”

“But it’s Brian Charles is standing in for,” said Joanne. “Didn’t you know? Brian’s gone on leave.”

Thank God, thought Liz. But there was no time to rejoice—she had to go. “Okay. Tell him that I am at a house called Ballymurtagh, B-A-L… oh, you’ve got it? I’m leaving soon for Shillington airport. Yes, that’s right—Shillington. We need the Garda here and at the airport, and they need to be armed. Can you tell him right away?” She tried to sound calm and decisive. “It’s urgent.”

“I’ll call him now,” Joanne said. “Take care.” It was then that Liz remembered that Joanne had been a member of the Service herself. Twenty years ago; she’d been a secretary. That was how she and Charles had met.

But would she get through to her husband? Liz could hear nothing from the hall. It occurred to her that she might have time to text a message to Peggy and laboriously she began to compose one. She had entered BALLYM with her thumb when suddenly the bathroom door flew open and in the doorway stood Greta. She was holding a short-barrelled handgun, and it was pointing at Liz.

“Give me that,” Greta demanded. Her voice was terse, emotionless. Liz held the phone out immediately.

Greta reached for it without taking her eyes off Liz or moving the gun from its focus just above her left eye. Keeping her foot in the door, she stepped back slightly and glanced at the mobile. “Have you sent this?”

“No,” said Liz, “I’d just started. I need to let my boyfriend know where I am and that I’ll probably be late for dinner,” she added, trying to smile credibly.

Greta ignored her. She motioned to Liz to follow her into the corridor and with a grim “Move or I’ll shoot,” she backed off a couple of paces.

Liz had no choice. They walked back down the corridor, Liz leading. Once she tried to speak but “Shut up,” was the terse response. In the drawing room they found only Brunovsky, standing impatiently. When he saw the gun in Greta’s hand his face whitened with shock.

“What is going on?” he said. “We should have been gone ten minutes ago. Jerry is waiting with the car.”

Greta moved away from Liz towards Brunovsky, keeping him out of her line of fire. “It’s too late,” she said. “I found her trying to text someone. She’s already made a call.”

Brunovsky was clearly agitated, looking to Greta for direction. Gone was the confident air of the tycoon used to having his own way, gone the boyish swagger.