All the file-directory specifications included the directory’s size, the number of files it contained, the overall classification and the original creation dates. Studying these, Raya immediately noticed how one of the directories stood out, simply because it was so old.
Having been created over twenty years earlier, it had been classified Secret almost immediately. The security classification had been increased to Top Secret about six months after the directory had been created, but this was not unusual; quite often later material obtained by an agent was more sensitive and important than the earlier information, so the file or directory classification had to be increased accordingly.
But, apart from its age, there were two other unusual features of the Zagadka — meaning ‘Enigma’ — directory. First, its classification had remained Top Secret; and normally, as the information contained became older, it became inevitably less critical, so the security level would be downgraded by at least one or two classifications, sometimes even more.
The second peculiarity was that, although new files had been added to the directory at frequent intervals during the fifteen years after Zagadka had been created, no new files had been added for the last five years. This suggested that the source was dead, or had been burned, or for some other reason had ceased acting as an asset for the SVR. But that made a nonsense of the directory’s access record, for most of the Directorate heads at Yasenevo looked through the directory at least once every month — but why would a busy SVR desk officer waste time looking at information that must be at least five years out of date?
But then Raya noticed something else. Although no new files had been added to the Zagadka directory for some years, one file, named ‘Appreciation’, was still being updated on a regular basis — sometimes as often as once a week. She double-clicked on the file to open it, read through the first page, then closed the file again and sat back in her seat.
Suddenly she knew something that she’d previously only suspected. And she also realized in that instant, that she was going to have to be extremely careful, because what was contained in the ‘Appreciation’ file changed everything.
Richter emerged from the building in Hammersmith just after two-thirty, grasping a locked and almost empty briefcase in his left hand and with his stomach rumbling. Neither Simpson nor anyone else had offered him lunch, or anything else to eat, and the one cup of coffee provided had been so lukewarm and tasteless that he had had no difficulty at all in refusing a second cup.
He glanced briefly at his watch and immediately rejected any idea of returning to Whitehall and the Old Admiralty Building where there was in any case nothing waiting for him but an empty office. He set off in the general direction of central London, until he found a pub offering all-day food, walked in and ordered a plate of chilli. That was now ‘off’, according to the blonde barmaid, who was anorexic almost to the point of starvation but still possessed a pair of the largest breasts Richter had ever seen, so he settled for an alleged Cornish pasty — but which had obviously begun its life somewhere well to the east of Slough — and some slightly soggy chips. But the coffee was good enough for him to order a second cup, and his hunger had subsided by the time he finally stepped out onto the pavement and looked hopefully up and down the street.
There were no taxis in sight, but the day was fine, so he decided to walk to the closest tube station. Ninety minutes later found him stepping off the train at Uxbridge station, for a short walk to the local RAF station, which was one of the many non-flying Royal Air Force establishments dotted around Britain. Not for nothing, he reflected, were RAF personnel sometimes known dismissively as ‘penguins’, because only about one in a million of them actually flew.
Back in his room, Richter put the briefcase on the desk and used the key Simpson had given him to unlock it. Inside was a Nokia GSM mobile phone and charger, plus a two-pin continental adapter, two typewritten pages of briefing notes, and a sealed A4-size manila envelope containing the diplomatic passport Simpson had promised him. Also a single economy-class ticket from Heathrow to Vienna, one thousand euros in cash, split into fifty- and one-hundred euro notes, and a gold Visa card which he’d already signed.
There was also a carbon copy of a sheet of paper signed by Richter and countersigned by Simpson, which listed every item contained in the briefcase, including the Visa card number and the numbers of each of the euro notes, and even details of the briefcase itself. Simpson had also made it clear that Richter was expected to return all of those items except the cash, and he had been instructed to produce receipts for everything he purchased and for every euro and cent he spent. That, in fact, was precisely what Richter would expect, because all government departments and employees worked in more or less the same way, and such an excessive concentration on completely unimportant minutiae was typical of the breed.
He’d already read through the briefing sheets at Hammersmith but before he went downstairs to have an early meal in the dining room he decided to look through them again. He’d given no hint of it while he’d been at Hammersmith, but he was reasonably certain that there must be a lot that both Simpson and Gibson — or whatever his real name was — had so far neglected to tell him.
As he’d informed Gibson, the briefing had been clear enough; but it just didn’t make any sense. What Simpson had explained to him subsequently had clarified matters considerably, but Richter hadn’t really bought that ‘defector running across Europe’ story. What was clear was that Simpson’s organization needed somebody on the ground in Austria, Switzerland or France, for a week or so, but whether he would actually be contacted by somebody, or whether there was some other reason for his presence there, he had no idea.
What he did know was that he was going to be watching his back carefully, from the moment he climbed out of that British Airways flight in Vienna.
Sir Malcolm Holbeche rang Simpson a little before six-thirty that afternoon.
‘How did it go?’ Simpson asked him. ‘I presume there was no problem getting Moscow to play ball?’
‘None at all,’ Holbeche replied. ‘The origin of any enquiry made to the Holy of Holies there’ — he was using the term applied to the section of a British embassy which is occupied by SIS personnel — ‘will be logged and the defecting clerk story will be confirmed.’
‘And at this end?’ Simpson enquired.
‘As expected, nobody showed anything other than purely professional interest.’
‘What about the other places?’ By ‘other places’, Simpson meant GCHQ and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, where very similar briefings had been given that afternoon.
‘No unusual response received from Cheltenham, and I’m still waiting for the FCO. They’re late, as usual.’
‘I’m not surprised at that reaction,’ Simpson said. ‘We’re dealing with a professional here, and he’s not going to jump up and down in hysterics just because some Russian clerk might be able to finger him.’