He did, very well. All intelligence services put agents into target countries with false identities – using third-country nationalities. The KGB had had particular success with this technique during the Cold War – famously with the Portland spy ring, run by a KGB officer under cover as a Canadian businessman.
Mischa continued, ‘My brother is involved in this area.’
‘Oh.’ Miles was careful to sound neutral.
‘Yes. But the programme has changed.’
‘In what way?’
‘In the past they were used for collecting intelligence. Now they are part of the destabilisation programme. The programme is in two parts. As I said, the first is to destabilise the opponents of Putin; the second is to destabilise the target countries themselves by undermining leading politicians, encouraging separatist parties, reinforcing minor parties to create unstable coalitions, giving covert support to religious extremism or whatever will be effective in the different countries. It is an ambitious and long-term programme.’
‘Do you know if any of these Illegals are in place? And where?’ asked Miles, desperately trying to get something concrete to make this trip worthwhile.
‘Very few are in place yet. It takes time to build up the cover and to train them. Sasha told me that one is in America, but he is no use to them as he is ill – lymphoma is the term, yes?’ When Miles nodded, he said, ‘There are two in France, living as a married couple, and there is another at work in England. Sasha is proud because that is the country he works on and that case is turning out to be the most satisfactory.’
‘Why?’ asked Miles, suddenly leaning forward in his chair, then as suddenly relaxing as he told himself not to show such obvious interest. ‘Has this Illegal managed to achieve something?’
‘Not yet, I think. But Sasha said that he is well on the way to a major destabilisation. Sasha’s bosses are very pleased with him.’
‘Do you know what nationality he has or what his target area is?’
‘No. All I know is that he is a man and at the time when I was talking to Sasha his success was quite recent.’
‘And you say this is different from the oligarch programme.’
‘Yes – but both are part of the larger destabilisation programme.’ Suddenly Mischa looked at his watch. ‘I must go. It will be dark in an hour or so. I hope I have been able to help.’
And with a quick handshake he was gone. Watching him from the window, cycling off down the track to the road, Miles didn’t know whether he had been told something of great importance or a fairy story. If it was true, it was alarming. The Russians would not be mounting Illegal operations, with all the preparation, back-up and risk they involved, unless they had some very serious intent, and whatever that was it was not benign.
19
Jasminder emerged from Green Park Underground station into a bright, warm spring day. She was early so she decided to walk to the interview even though, unusually for her, she was wearing a smart suit with a rather tight skirt, and shoes with heels. Carlton Gardens, the letter had said, and she’d had to look it up on Google Maps. Pall Mall, she knew, was lined with grand clubs but she had never even noticed the anonymous street running between it and The Mall, leading to Buckingham Palace. This was not a part of London she frequented.
When she had woken up that morning she had almost decided not to go to the interview. She would ring and tell them she had changed her mind, she thought. The job was not for her and she couldn’t understand how she had got herself into the position of applying for it and then agreeing to attend an interview. But after a cup of coffee and a bowl of porridge curiosity had begun to get the better of caution. She still wasn’t entirely sure which agency she was involved with, though the advertisement in the Guardian had made it fairly obvious it was MI6, and she found it totally bizarre that they should even be considering her.
The rather severe grey-haired lady in a raincoat who had called at the flat one evening to do what she described as Jasminder’s ‘security interview’ had not been at all forthcoming. ‘It’s an agency of Government,’ she had said. ‘If you are called for interview, you will learn more about the post then.’
As Jasminder headed away from Piccadilly and down Queen’s Walk she saw a few people sitting in deckchairs in St James’s Park, chatting and enjoying the first real sun of the year. She was jealous; the nearer she got to her assignation at Carlton Gardens, the more anxious she felt. What’s the matter with you? she asked herself. You don’t want this job so why are you worrying about it? But she knew the answer. She wasn’t used to failing and she didn’t want to fail at this. Even though she was mentally reserving the right to turn them down, she didn’t want them to reject her. She walked on, along The Mall and up the Duke of York’s Steps, where she turned left along the line of grand, anonymous buildings until at the end of the road she saw the number she was looking for, and the front door of the house.
The bell was answered by a middle-aged woman in a dark jacket and skirt, which looked like some sort of uniform. To Jasminder she appeared to be a carbon copy of the security-interview woman who had come to her flat, except that rather unexpectedly this one smiled warmly and invited her to sit down in a kind of waiting room, furnished with brown furniture and chairs with leather seats and button backs. The windows were obscured by heavy net curtains, making the whole room dark and gloomy after the bright sunshine outside. Jasminder’s spirits sank further; now she definitely wished she hadn’t come.
‘Help yourself to coffee,’ said the smiley woman, waving at a thermos jug on a table. But Jasminder didn’t feel like coffee; she sat down uneasily on one of the leather chairs.
She didn’t have to wait long. After no more than three or four minutes, the door opened and Catherine, the woman who had been with the head-hunter when Jasminder had first discussed the job, stood in the doorway. ‘Good morning, Jasminder. They’re ready for you now.’
The room they went into was very different from the waiting room. Jasminder’s first impression was that she had walked into the drawing room of a small stately home. Facing the door, set in a curved wall at the end, tall windows looked out over The Mall to St James’s Park. A blind was partly drawn down over one window where the sun was trying to glance in. To her left, as Jasminder followed Catherine into the room, chintz-covered armchairs were arranged round a marble fireplace, but in front of them were three men in dark suits, sitting in upright chairs on the far side of a polished mahogany table. Catherine indicated an empty chair facing them and sat down herself on a chair next to it.
‘Good morning, Miss Kapoor,’ said the man in the centre of the group. ‘It’s good of you to come and see us.’ He was thin-faced with a prominent nose. Even in her own nervous state, Jasminder could see that he looked anxious.
‘I’m Henry Pennington of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office,’ he continued, ‘and chairman of this selection board. Before we proceed further I should say, as I’m sure you are aware, that this post involves a high level of security clearance. We are not asking you to sign the Official Secrets Act at this stage as you may not be selected for the post. However, I must ask you to observe confidentiality about anything you may learn as a result of this interview. Do you agree to those terms?’ As he spoke, he was gently rubbing his hands together in a washing motion. The dry sandpapery sound was very audible in the quiet room.
‘Well, yes,’ replied Jasminder cautiously. ‘But what does that mean? That I can’t tell anyone I have been to this interview?’
Henry Pennington looked even more anxious and uncomfortable and his hand-washing intensified. There was a short silence then the man sitting to his left said, ‘No. Of course not. It means that if we reveal any of the nation’s secrets, you must keep them to yourself. If we do that, we’ll warn you.’ He smiled reassuringly at her and said, ‘Back to you, Henry.’