It was serious conversation, lightened by a second glass of wine, and she found herself hoping they’d move on to dinner when Laurenz announced he had to leave soon: he was catching the night train to Edinburgh, for a meeting the next morning.
‘I’ll be back the day after tomorrow,’ he said. He paused, and Jasminder looked at him; he was very attractive, she decided, and it wasn’t just the wine speaking. He had high Nordic cheekbones, but dark hair and dark blue eyes – not at all the stereotypical Scandinavian.
‘I imagine you’re busy at the weekend,’ he was saying.
‘Well, not this weekend actually,’ she said, as if all the others were jammed full.
His face brightened. ‘Would you like to have dinner on Saturday then? There’s a nice new place in Primrose Hill.’
You bet I would, thought Jasminder, and said coolly, ‘That would be lovely. Could it be late-ish, say eight-thirty? I’ve got to see a client first.’
7
Liz could tell that Catherine Palmer was slightly nervous, but she couldn’t understand why. The Head of MI6’s HR department was the first woman to hold that post, and in Liz’s limited contact with her previously she had seemed very able and pretty sure of herself. She had rung to ask if she could ‘pick Liz’s brains’, though she didn’t say what about. It seemed an odd request but there had been no reason to refuse.
They sat in the café in the atrium on the ground floor of Thames House where a decent cup of coffee could be obtained. Catherine Palmer was an attractive woman, about Liz’s age, with rather striking wavy red hair cut very short, like a boy’s. She had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks and very pale blue eyes. In spite of her gamine appearance she had a firm business-like manner and Liz could easily understand how she had reached her present position.
They made small talk at first – about how overcrowded Thames House was getting and how the open-plan arrangements were working out. ‘The new C is all in favour of it. But we’re having some trouble with the old guard.’
Liz knew who one of the ‘old guard’ would be and suppressed a smile at the thought of her patrician counterpart Geoffrey Fane losing his eyrie high up at Vauxhall Cross, with its antique furniture and fine Persian rugs.
‘The reason I wanted to talk to you,’ said Catherine at last, seeming to summon up the courage to get to the point, ‘was because C asked me to.’
‘Really?’ Liz was surprised, since she had yet to meet Treadwell.
‘Yes. You see, he has decided that our service needs a Communications Director. We do have a small press team as you know, responsible for contact with the media, but this would be a more prominent position, and involve a more proactive role.’
Catherine hesitated before she continued. ‘In the past, this would have been a post filled by a member of the service, but C feels strongly that we should cast the net more widely. Not all of his directors agree, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ Liz nodded, remembering how vociferous Fane had been on the topic. ‘They feel only an experienced case officer could properly represent the Service. I was at the meeting where this was discussed, and C agreed that initially we should take soundings in the intelligence community. That’s where you come in,’ she added, almost apologetically.
‘I do?’ asked Liz, slightly perplexed.
Catherine nodded. ‘Yes, your name came up at the meeting.’
‘Well, I’m flattered that you think I can help, but—’
Catherine interrupted, shaking her head. ‘I should have been clearer. It’s not your advice we want, though I’m sure it would be excellent. Rather, it was thought that conceivably you might think about applying for the post yourself.’
Liz was taken aback. ‘Me? Did C suggest that?’
‘No. It was one of the senior officers. But several others seconded the idea.’
Fane again, thought Liz. She thought for a moment about the proposition. It was certainly flattering to be approached, and a small part of her was actually intrigued by the idea. What a mission, after alclass="underline" to represent to the world a service that traditionally prided itself on its secrecy – too much so, in Liz’s view. And it would be a significant promotion.
But then she thought of all she would surrender by taking such a job – MI5, to begin with, where her greatest loyalties lay; her colleagues, especially Peggy; and most of all the job itself, which, whatever its frustrations, was immensely stimulating, always challenging, and always important. Swapping it for lunches with sympathetic journalists (or, worse still, unsympathetic journalists) would be an uneven exchange she was sure she would regret.
‘I’m very flattered by the suggestion – I really am. And I would like to think about it, and maybe talk more to you about exactly what it would involve. But I have to say that my first reaction is that it’s just not something I would want to do. It’s so different from the way I see my career going and I think it might be difficult ever to return to operational work from such a high-profile role.’
Catherine nodded regretfully. ‘I understand; I did think it was a long shot. Think about it, and if there’s any chance you might be interested, give me a ring and I’ll arrange for you to meet C and some others for a chat. We’re planning on asking some head-hunters to do a search so we’ll be producing a detailed job spec and profile very shortly. I’ll send you a copy just in case.’ She seemed weighed down by the prospect of trying to fill the post; Liz sensed the meeting with C and senior MI6 officers had been a contentious one. Old hands like Geoffrey Fane were experts at digging their heels in. Catherine went on, ‘I’d be really grateful if you have any ideas for people who might be interested and suitable.’
Liz thought for a moment. ‘In the intelligence community?’
‘Or outside. C would not be against an outsider, provided they had the right skills and profile. Frankly, I think when he agreed to look first inside the intelligence community, he didn’t think it likely anyone suitable would emerge. And he’s already made it clear he doesn’t want an MI6 insider.’
Interesting, thought Liz. Her respect for this man Treadwell was growing. He was lulling old recidivists like Fane into thinking he was backing down by compromising, all the while confident that they’d be forced in the end to revert to his original idea of going outside. Fane – for Liz was certain it would have been he who’d first raised her name – was going to be furious. And not just with C – Liz expected she’d bear the brunt of his displeasure for turning down this ‘golden opportunity’ to cross the river and work with him.
But something else was stirring in her. She remembered how Peggy had reported back on the talk she’d been to at King’s, given by Jasminder Kapoor. Peggy’s account of it had been positively glowing, and she’d been equally laudatory of Kapoor’s ability to handle tough questions.
And, slightly to Liz’s surprise, from Peggy’s account it seemed clear that Jasminder wasn’t a firebrand, but that rarer bird – a dispassionate observer of the Janus-like problem of keeping the country’s citizens safe without destroying the rights that gave them something to be safe for. In Liz’s view, MI6 and the intelligence world in general could only benefit from having someone represent their views publicly; she liked the sound of this chap Treadwell, moreover, who seemed keen to sweep a new broom through the dusty corridors of Vauxhall Cross. And, to be honest, there was something that appealed to Liz’s mischievous side in the idea of Geoffrey Fane sitting on a selection board interviewing a highly intelligent and personable female civil rights lawyer for a post he didn’t approve of. That would set the cat among his pigeons; he’d set plenty among Liz’s in his time.