Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

Liz tried to stay calm, her mind racing to take in this new situation. So Brunovsky was part of the plot, not its intended victim. But their plan, whatever it was, had come off its hinges.

Greta spoke in Russian, gesturing towards Liz. Brunovsky replied in short staccato sentences. Clearly they were discussing what to do with her now the scheme for Liz to leave with him had gone awry. Brunovsky was asking questions and from the look on his face, he was not liking the answers he was getting. Liz noticed that he didn’t look at her.

Would they kill her? She considered the possibility as dispassionately as she could, and rejected it. It would be impossible to cover it up, even if they put her corpse in a brick-filled trunk and dumped it in the lake.

Victor Adler had been right. There was a plot, but it had nothing to do with harming Nikita Brunovsky. There was some other target—presumably the person they were waiting for. But why on earth had Brunovsky wanted her with him in this remote part of Ireland, to see a painting that he surely already knew was a fake?

Then she understood. Brunovsky was a decoy to attract someone else. The plan was that he’d show up here, with Liz, reject the painting and then fly back to England. Whatever happened after that could not be blamed on him. Liz was to be his witness—who better than an MI5 officer, with him through the whole of his brief stay in Ireland?

Liz watched as the full scale of the disaster struck Brunovsky. Serves you right you bastard, she thought. It’s goodbye London, goodbye the high life. Even goodbye Monica, though probably he wouldn’t miss her much. You clever, clever bastard—only you don’t look so clever now.

When first she heard the sound, it was so dim she wondered if she were imagining it. Then she thought it was just the pipes rumbling somewhere in the walls of this crumbling mansion. Phut-phut-phut. It was becoming more distinct, a noise from outside that was coming closer. Phut-phut-phut . Something up above, something in the air. Then the noise was so clear that of course it was a helicopter.

Greta said something abruptly to Brunovsky and without a word he left the room. Greta looked at Liz coolly. “We have a visitor.”

“So I gather,” said Liz, lifting an eyebrow skywards. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s Harry Forbes. Have you killed him as well as Tutti?”

“Tutti panicked,” Greta said, then seemed to regret her words.

“Was it the same Stanley knife you held on me?” Greta did not reply, so Liz went on. “I couldn’t understand how you got on to me. Only Simmons knew where I lived, but he didn’t know anything else about me. Perhaps he told Rykov my address, but why did you suspect me?”

“Rykov is a fool,” said Greta, spitting the words. “He got in the way. I already knew about you.”

“Yes, you did,” said Liz, starting to understand how early her identity had been betrayed. “It was you at the hotel in Cambridge, wasn’t it? Trying to frighten me off. I suppose it wasn’t hard to engineer a meeting between me and Dimitri.”

Greta gave a small hard smile. “You didn’t seem to mind,” she sneered.

“So Brunovsky told you about me from the start.”

“Brunovsky is a child,” she said, and Liz realised the full arrogance of the woman. I suppose an Illegal needs that kind of self-confidence, thought Liz—how else could you put up with years of isolation, not even knowing for sure your long-term deception will get put to use? Hadn’t Greta been tempted, after the fall of the Soviet Union, to pack it all in and get herself a life?

Liz was trying to keep Greta talking, anything to delay the moment when she and Simmons would be dealt with, in whatever way had been decided. She wanted desperately to know who they were waiting for and why. Clearly she had not been supposed to know anything about it—by this time she and Brunovsky were meant to be back at the airport.

“I can’t hear the helicopter now,” said Liz.

“It’s landed,” Greta said sharply as if Liz were another simpleton. “Keep quiet. Understand?”

Liz nodded. Greta’s gun was still trained on her.

“Remember,” said Greta. “Whatever happens, you say no word and you do not move. Afterwards we shall see.”

She returned her pistol to her shoulder bag, keeping her hand on it.

As Michael emerged into the arrivals lounge at Cork airport he saw a tall, casually dressed figure with the obvious air of a police officer standing waiting. “Maloney,” said the officer, offering his hand. “You’ll be Mr. Fane.” Michael felt like a visiting dignitary as he walked out of the airport behind Maloney, into the clear Irish light and climbed into an unmarked police car parked outside. In the driving seat was a much younger officer who introduced himself as Rodrigues. In spite of his Portuguese name, Garda Rodrigues had hair the colour of a satsuma and a face of freckles. Maloney was clearly in charge. Michael was relieved to see the message from London had got through and that, exceptionally, both Garda men were wearing side arms.

“Now, Mr. Fane. How can we help you?” Maloney asked and Michael realised with a sinking feeling that they had been given no background briefing, just the general instruction to take him where he wanted to go. He was in charge and he didn’t feel ready for the responsibility.

“We need to go first to Shillington airport,” said Michael in a voice more confident than he felt.

Maloney gave a mild groan and explained that he and Rodrigues had just come from near there. “Never mind,” he said with a wry smile. “They also serve who only sit and drive.”

Let’s hope that’s all we have to do, thought Michael.

As they drove along, the two Gardai sitting in the front of the car, Maloney pointed out local landmarks while Rodrigues drove in silence. The countryside they were travelling through had a wild, undomesticated aspect, made harsher by the bright light filtered through banks of high grey clouds. Crumbling stone walls ran along the edges of the fields, with the occasional rusting iron bedstead blocking up a gap. This was hinterland Ireland, Michael realised, a world away from the Cork coast one read so much about, the Republic’s new Riviera.

Then Michael’s phone rang. It was Peggy, speaking fast. “Where are you?”

He asked Maloney, then relayed their location to Peggy.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “Liz has got a message through. She’s at a country house called Ballymurtagh but she said they’re leaving soon for Shillington airport. Try to get there before they go. Greta Darnshof is there. She’s turned out to be a Russian—we think she’s probably the Illegal we’ve been looking for. She’s dangerous, and she’s armed. The Garda are sending more officers to cover the airport and to the house. But you’ll probably be there first. Try and get Liz out of it in any way you can. But be careful.”

She rang off and Michael, his palms damp where he was holding the phone and his stomach churning painfully now, explained the change of destination.

“Ballymurtagh?” asked Maloney incredulously. “That old place?”

“That’s what they said. And we’ve got to hurry. How far is it from here?”

Maloney shrugged. “About ten miles. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

Rodrigues spoke up. “Less than that if I use the siren.” He looked questioningly in the rear-view mirror.

Michael shook his head. “Better not. There’re other people there, and they may not be friendly.”

Rodrigues gave a sideways look at Maloney and raised an eyebrow.

Michael explained. “I’m here to collect my colleague. She’s called Liz Carlyle, but she’s using the name of Jane Falconer. There’s also a Danish woman there named Darnshof, who is really a Russian, and some other Russians. According to the call I just had, they may not want my colleague to leave. At least one of them is armed. There could be trouble.”