“What are you talking about?”
“They told me that Ellie May Grant has recently employed a new butler and housekeeper for her home in Louisiana, a Mr. and Mrs. Morton.”
Comrade Pengelly was ushered into Marshal Koshevoi’s massive oak-paneled office. The KGB chief didn’t stand to greet him, just gave a dismissive nod to indicate that he should sit.
Pengelly was understandably nervous. You are only summoned to KGB headquarters when you are about to be sacked or promoted, and he wasn’t sure which it was going to be.
“The reason I called for you, comrade commander,” said Koshevoi, looking like a bull about to charge, “is that we have discovered a traitor among your agents.”
“Julius Kramer?” asked Pengelly.
“No, Kramer was a smokescreen. He is completely reliable and totally committed to our cause. Although the British are still under the impression he’s working for them.”
“Then who?” said Pengelly, who thought he knew every one of his thirty-one agents.
“Karin Brandt.”
“But she’s been passing on some very useful information recently.”
“And we have now discovered the source of that information. It was a tip-off from a most unlikely quarter that gave her away.” Pengelly didn’t interrupt. “I instructed Agent Kramer to inform Brandt that we wanted you to report back to Moscow.”
“And she delivered that message.”
“But not before she had passed it on to someone else.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Tell me the route you took to Moscow.”
“I drove from my home in Cornwall to Heathrow. I took a plane to Manchester, a coach to Newcastle—”
“And from there you flew to Amsterdam, where you took a barge along the Rhine, the Main and the Danube to Vienna.” Pengelly shifted uneasily in his seat. “You then traveled from Vienna to Warsaw by train, before finally boarding a plane to Moscow. Shadowed every inch of the way by a succession of British agents, the last of whom accompanied you on your flight to Moscow. He didn’t even bother to get off the plane before going back to London because he knew exactly where you were going.”
“But how is that possible?”
“Because Brandt informed her English handler that I had ordered you back to Moscow even before she told you about it. Comrade, they literally saw you coming.”
“Then my whole operation is blown apart and there’s no point in my returning to England.”
“Unless we turn the situation to our advantage.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“You will return to England by an equally circuitous route, so they think we have no idea that Brandt has betrayed us. You will then go back to work as usual but, in future, every message we send through Kramer to Brandt, the British will be confident they have intercepted.”
“It will be interesting to see how long we can get away with that before MI6 begin to wonder which side she’s on,” said Pengelly.
“The moment they do, it will be time to dispose of her, and then you can return to Moscow.”
“How did you find out she’s switched sides?”
“A piece of luck, comrade commander, that we nearly overlooked. There’s a member of the House of Lords called Viscount Slaithwaite. A hereditary peer who would be of no particular interest to us, except that he was a contemporary of Burgess, Maclean and Philby at Cambridge. Once he joined the university’s Communist Party, we no longer considered recruiting him as an agent, although he’d like you to believe he’s the sixth man. Over the years Slaithwaite has regularly passed on information to our embassy which, at best, was out of date and, at worst, planted to mislead us. But then, without having any idea of its significance, he finally came up with gold dust. He sent a note to say that Lord Barrington’s wife — he has no idea that she is one of our agents — was seen regularly in the House of Lords tearoom in the company of Baroness Forbes-Watson.”
“Cynthia Forbes-Watson?”
“No less.”
“But I thought MI6 pensioned her off years ago?”
“So did we. But it seems she’s been resuscitated to act as Brandt’s handler. And what better cover than tea in the House of Lords, while Lord Barrington toils away on the front bench.”
“Baroness Forbes-Watson must be eighty—”
“Eighty-four.”
“She can’t go on for much longer.”
“Agreed, but we’ll keep the counteroperation running for as long as she does.”
“And when she dies?”
“You’ll only have one more job to carry out, comrade commander, before you return to Moscow.”
Harry and Emma Clifton
1978
47
There was a hesitant tap on the library door. The second in the past seven years.
Harry put down his pen. As Emma was at the hospital and Jessica had returned to London, he could only wonder who would consider interrupting him while he was writing. He swiveled his chair around to face the intruder.
The door opened slowly. Markham appeared in the doorway but didn’t enter the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s No.10 on the line and apparently it’s urgent.”
Harry rose from his chair immediately. He wasn’t quite sure why he remained standing when he picked up the phone.
“Please hold on, sir, I’ll put you through to the Cabinet Secretary.”
Harry remained standing.
“Mr. Clifton, it’s Alan Redmayne.”
“Good afternoon, Sir Alan.”
“I rang because I have some wonderful news and I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Tell me Anatoly Babakov has been released?”
“Not yet, but it can’t be long now. I’ve just had a call from our ambassador in Stockholm to say that the Swedish prime minister will be announcing in an hour’s time that Mr. Babakov has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.”
Within moments of the announcement being made, the phone started to ring, and Harry was made aware for the first time what “off the hook” really meant.
For the next hour he answered questions thrown at him by journalists calling from all over the world.
“Do you think the Russians will finally release Babakov?”
“They should have released him years ago,” responded Harry, “but at least this will give Mr. Brezhnev an excuse to do so now.”
“Will you be going to Stockholm for the ceremony?”
“I hope to be among the audience when Anatoly is presented with the prize.”
“Will you fly to Russia, so you can accompany your friend to Stockholm?”
“He has to be released from jail before anyone can accompany him anywhere.”
Markham reappeared in the doorway, the same anxious look as before on his face. “The King of Sweden is on the other line, sir.” Harry put down one phone and picked up another. He was surprised to find it wasn’t a private secretary on the line, but the King himself.
“I do hope you and Mrs. Clifton will be able to attend the ceremony as my personal guests.”
“We’d be delighted to, Your Majesty,” said Harry, hoping he’d used the correct form of address.
In between repeatedly answering the same questions from yet more journalists, Harry broke off to make a call of his own.
“I’ve just heard the news,” said Aaron Guinzburg. “I rang you immediately but your phone has been constantly engaged. But no need to worry, I’ve already been on to the printers and ordered another million copies of Uncle Joe.”
“I wasn’t calling to ask how many copies you’re having printed, Aaron,” snapped Harry. “Get yourself over to the Lower West Side and take care of Yelena. She’ll have no idea how to handle the press.”