Stella Rimington - Secret Asset

Wetherby was standing at his desk when she came into the room. As he motioned for her to sit down, she thought not for the first time how little she really knew about the man. With his neatly pressed suit and polished Oxfords, he would merge easily with any group of well-dressed men. But a close observer would have noticed his eyes. Set in his unremarkable, slightly uneven features, they had a quiet watchfulness which could turn suddenly to humour or to coldness. Some people misread his apparently mild demeanour, but Liz knew from experience that a penetrating intelligence and determination lay behind the gentle appearance of the man. On her good days Liz knew she was important to him, and not just because of her skill as an investigator. But this professional relationship remained cool, and pervaded by a subtle irony, as if they knew each other better in some other life.

Wetherby said, “I had an Irish nanny when I was a boy, who used to ask me, after any upset, if I was feeling ‘well within myself.’ Funny expression, but apt. How about you?”

He was smiling but watchful, and she looked him in the eye when she replied, “You honestly don’t need to worry about me.”

“I hear you’ve been down with your mama. She well?”

“Yes, she’s fine. Worried about what the lack of rain will do to the young shrubs.” Liz paused, then asked politely. “And how is Joanne? Any better?” Wetherby’s wife suffered from a debilitating blood disease, which had made her a permanent semi-invalid. Liz thought how odd it was that he always enquired about her mother and she after his wife—without either ever having set eyes on the object of their concern.

“Not really,” said Wetherby with a frown and a slight shake of his head, as if to dismiss the unwelcome thought and move on. “I wanted to see you because I’ve got an assignment for you.”

“To do with this operation?” she asked hopefully.

“Not exactly,” said Wetherby. “Though I want you to stay in the section and keep involved while you work on this. It’s a supplementary assignment, if you like, though it’s important.”

What could be more important than an imminent suicide attack in Britain? Suddenly she wondered if she was being demoted; it seemed the only explanation.

“Does the name Sean Keaney mean anything to you?”

Liz thought for a moment. “The IRA man? Of course. But isn’t he dead?”

“Yes, he died last month. Before he died he asked to see one of his former comrades, a man called James Maguire. That was strange because the two of them had never got on. Keaney was as much in favour of violence as anyone else in the IRA, but he was willing to talk as well—he took part in the secret discussions with Willie Whitelaw in the seventies. But Maguire always said that even talking with the British was tantamount to treason. Apparently he even suggested that Keaney might have been working for us.”

Liz raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“The answer is no,” said Wetherby. “Keaney didn’t ever work for us.” He paused, and gave a short laugh. “But Maguire did, though he was overtly so hard line no one ever suspected him. Except Keaney. That’s why when Keaney knew he was dying he asked to see Maguire. He wanted to make sure that what he said to him would get back to us. And it has.”

Wetherby paused again and looked pensive. “In the early nineties the IRA’s Provisional Army Council became paranoid about penetration by British informants. Keaney came up with the idea of turning the tables: he decided to try and infiltrate us. And he told Maguire just before he died that he had succeeded in planting a secret asset in the ranks of the British security services.”

“A secret asset? You mean a mole?”

“Yes, that’s just what I mean.”

“What did he mean by British security services? Which service was it supposed to be?”

“He didn’t specify. Whether he knew or not, I don’t know, but if he did, he didn’t tell Maguire. The only fact he told Maguire is that this secret asset went to Oxford and it was there that he—or she—was recruited by an IRA sympathiser. Presumably by a don, though possibly not. The point is, according to Keaney, the mole successfully joined the security services. But more or less at the same time, the peace talks began, and the Good Friday Agreement followed. Keaney decided the mole operation wasn’t worth the risk. So, according to Keaney, his agent was never activated.”

“Why did Keaney speak up now? It’s been almost fifteen years.”

Wetherby pursed his lips. “When the IRA were caught bugging Stormont, it almost derailed the peace process. Keaney said he was worried that an exposé of IRA infiltration of British Intelligence would set back the process again, this time possibly for good. All the leaks about our informers in the IRA were embarrassing for the IRA, but really just confirmed what they and everyone else had long suspected. But if they had managed to infiltrate us, the news would be explosive.”

“Do you believe that?” asked Liz.

“You mean Keaney’s reason for talking now? I simply don’t know. I’m afraid where he’s gone, we can’t question him.”

“Is it possible,” Liz asked tentatively, “that Keaney might have made the whole thing up? You know, as a last blow by a lifetime enemy against Her Majesty’s Government.”

“Could be,” said Wetherby. “But even if there’s a chance that what he said might be true, we can’t ignore it. If there really is a member of one of the intelligence services who was happy to spy for the IRA… who apparently joined on that basis…”

“But was never activated.”

“No,” said Wetherby. “But the fact he could have been is quite bad enough; someone like that might get up to anything. We’ve got to find out more about this, Liz. We can’t just do nothing.”

Liz saw at once that he was right. Now that they had Keaney’s confession, it would have to be followed up—she shuddered to think what would happen if it came to the attention of their political masters or the media, that they had taken no action. The prospect of another Burgess and Maclean, or worst of all, Philby or Blunt, exploding all over the tabloids’ front pages didn’t bear thinking about. And if MI5 were seen to have pooh-poohed the whole thing, it would ruin the reputation of the Service.

“So we need to conduct an investigation into this. And I want you to do it.”

“Me?” said Liz, unable to contain her surprise. She’d already concluded he would want her involved, but to run the inquiry? She had no false modesty about her work, but she still would have expected a more senior officer to handle such a case. But then perhaps it wasn’t quite as important as Wetherby was making out.

“Yes, you.”

“But, Charles,” said Liz, a little nervously, “I’ve no experience in Counter-Espionage and very little of Northern Ireland.”

Wetherby shook his head. “I’ve discussed this with DG. For the moment it is to be left in our hands. We certainly don’t want a Northern Ireland expert on this. I need a good investigator, someone with your flair, who is not well known in Northern Ireland, but has some knowledge of the place. You had a brief posting there—a few months, wasn’t it?” Liz nodded. “Not long enough to get sucked in,” said Wetherby.

Liz suddenly felt rather flattered.

“If we don’t know MI5 was the target, what about the other services?”

“I’ve talked with Geoffrey Fane,” he said, referring to his counterpart at MI6. “We both agreed that it was most likely that the target service was MI5. Fane has talked to C and they are not at all anxious to have an internal investigation at present. After all, we took over Northern Ireland from MI6 in the eighties; according to Keaney, the mole joined sometime in the early nineties. It would be MI5 they’d be aiming at. So Fane has agreed we begin by focusing here. He wants to second someone to the investigation, just to keep him informed”—he looked expressionlessly at Liz, who knew that though Wetherby respected Fane’s professional skills, he did not entirely trust him—“but it will be someone junior. You’re in charge.