‘That makes sense.’ Simpson nodded. ‘And you did the same with these new files, Raya, as you did before? So we will be able to identify exactly what information Stanway transmitted?’
Raya nodded again. ‘Of course. If you’ll allow me access to the laptop again, I’ll give you all the directory listings right now.’
Walters spun the laptop round and slid it across the table. Raya again connected her concealed hard disk and a few minutes later pushed the computer back towards Walters.
He scanned the listing and shook his head. ‘There are hundreds of file names here,’ he said, ‘so Vauxhall Cross is going to have to run a major damage-limitation exercise. I’m not familiar with most of these subjects, but it looks to me as if Stanway probably betrayed almost every ongoing SIS operation there is.’
‘And that isn’t your only problem,’ Raya said. ‘Source Gospodin sent us a lot of information, but essentially all he did was copy files. There was a second, much older, penetration at SIS. And that one was at a much higher level.’
She gestured for Walters to slide the computer back towards her. For a few seconds, Raya’s fingers flew nimbly over the keyboard, then she passed the machine back to him again.
‘That,’ she said, ‘is a recent copy of a file called “Appreciation”, which is held in a top-secret directory at Yasenevo, named Zagadka or “enigma”. I was puzzled by the directory, because no new material had been added to it for over five years. But, despite that, the “Appreciation” file was being accessed on a regular basis by SVR Directorate heads. When I studied the file myself, I realized why. There was a second source, here in London, who in the past had supplied Moscow with copies of classified files, much as Gospodin was doing. But for some time he’s been doing something almost as damaging, and maybe even more damaging.
‘This source — and I don’t even have a code name for him, let alone his actual name, because his identity was kept that secret — has been providing the SVR with a regular summary of SIS policy and general strategy. And also, when he felt it necessary, with precise details of particular operations. My assessment is that he must be a very senior officer within the organization. I reckon Stanway was certainly damaging, but this other person is more dangerous by far.’
Yevgeni Zharkov was powerfully built, and was now literally fighting for his life, so it took three burly SVR guards to manhandle him into the basement interrogation room at the Lubyanka, strip the clothes from him and get him strapped onto the table. Only then did the interrogators finally approach.
‘You know why you’re here,’ one of them said, gazing down at the man who was still vainly struggling against the leather straps that held his naked body in position.
Zharkov shouted something unintelligible, and the interrogator stepped back and looked at his companion.
‘I gather he’s a senior officer in the SVR,’ he said, glancing down at the information sheet he’d been given half an hour before.
‘He’s also a traitor,’ the other man declared, ‘and we need to get every scrap of information out of him before he dies.’
The first interrogator nodded, and inspected the foot of the information sheet, where the Cyrillic word полный was ticked, accompanied by the signatures of two senior SVR officers. The Russian word translated as ‘full’ or ‘complete’, and meant that the interrogation was to be terminal. Their instructions were that the subject would die on the table.
The two interrogators stepped to one side of the room and donned waterproof aprons over their white coats. Then they sat down in a couple of chairs to await the arrival of one other man.
Five minutes later, the door opened and a doctor stepped inside. He was carrying a small bag of specialized drugs and other equipment, and glanced quickly at the table where Zharkov was still struggling against his bonds. He, too, then pulled on a waterproof apron, before he nodded to the two interrogators.
One switched on the overhead camera and microphones, announced his own name and rank, followed by that of his companion and the doctor, and finally the name of the man who lay on the interrogation table. The other attendant wheeled over a cart on which were laid out the tools. These included the generator and leads, and the pliers and knives and saws and steel bars and acid they would use to do the job.
And then it began.
Simpson left the debriefing session just after eleven that morning, leaving Walters and Masterson to continue their questioning of Raya. They stopped for lunch just after midday, then returned to the conference room.
Simpson reappeared just after the four of them had sat down again. ‘Right,’ he began. ‘Walters, I want you and Masterson to go through that Appreciation document and see if there’s anything in it that would help us to identify our man. I’m thinking about stuff like assessments, obviously. If there’s some piece of information in the file that only Malcolm Holbeche or William Moore could possibly have known, for example, that would obviously tie one of them down. I don’t think you’ll find anything like that, because whoever it is that’s been betraying us for twenty years is obviously no amateur. But maybe you’ll turn up some dates: for instance a date when information was sent to the Russians at a time when one of the people at the top of the SIS either couldn’t possibly have known the information, or couldn’t have sent it because he was in hospital or something.’
‘So who do you suspect, sir?’ Walters asked.
‘Right now, I don’t know,’ Simpson replied, ‘I frankly can’t believe it’s Holbeche, because he’s the man who’s been coordinating and directing this entire operation. But what worries me is that he was the only person at SIS who knew exactly where Richter supposedly planned to stay overnight in Italy. Or, to be absolutely accurate, he was the only person at SIS to whom I mentioned Lodi. But, on balance, I suspect that he either briefed somebody else, or inadvertently let that information slip out. The problem is that if Holbeche is the traitor, I can’t tackle him directly about it without revealing my suspicions. I’m still working on a way to either confirm that it is indeed him or else somehow prove that it isn’t.’
‘I don’t think I can help you identify him,’ Raya said, ‘because he’s not been sending actual files to us, only general information about SIS policy and direction. And I suppose almost any of the senior officers you have there would have sufficient access and clearance to do that.’
‘Can you follow the money?’ Richter asked. ‘If this guy is being paid by Moscow, is there any way you can trace the funds?’
‘He might not actually be on Moscow Centre’s payroll,’ Masterson said. ‘If he’s motivated primarily by ideology, there might be no money trail for us to follow. And even if he’s a mercenary traitor, the funds will probably be paid into some offshore tax haven, or maybe a Swiss bank account.’
‘Stanway was certainly in it for the money,’ Simpson remarked. ‘I had a call from one of his interrogators, and apparently he’s singing like a caged canary. Mind you, they’ve been using a certain amount of chemical stimulus on him to loosen his tongue. We now even know the name of his handler, and we’ll be paying him a visit any day now, once he’s properly identified.
‘Stanway knew only his handler’s name, Andrew Lomas, and had no phone number or address for him. They communicated by chalk marks on walls and other old-school spy craft. Whenever they had to talk directly to each other, it was always from one public phone to another. But Lomas did have an unregistered and untraceable mobile phone for emergencies only, and we’re checking that one now against the home and mobile numbers of all the senior SIS officers, just in case one of them ever called it. And we’re waiting for the call records for Stanway’s mobile as well.’