'I'll need money and it must not be routed through Central Funding.'
'There are many ways.'
'I have a company.'
'Do it any way you like, Bret. I know you won't waste it. What are we talking about? Roughly?'
'A million sterling in the first year. Double that in the second and all subsequent years, adjusted for inflation and the exchange rate. No vouchers, no receipts, no accounts.'
'Very well. We'll have to concoct a route for the money.' The D-G shielded his eyes with a folded newspaper. The sun had come round to shine through the window. 'Have I forgotten anything?'
'No, sir.'
'I'll not keep you then. I'm sure you have things to do. Look at this: the captain has put another fast bowler on. And he's rather good. What do you think, Bret?'
'Very good indeed, sir. Very fast. A problem will arise when we send Mrs Samson to work in Berlin. Will they continue to use this Welsh socialist as the contact? If not we'll have to be very careful setting up the new one. Berlin is quite different to London: everyone knows everyone.'
'And everyone hates everyone,' said the D-G. 'You'd better have her float the possibility before them and see what reaction she gets.'
'The Welshman is very supportive,' said Bret. 'He's determined to believe that she's the KGB superspy. She's his protegee. She could make a terrible blunder and he'd still hold on to his trust in her. But when she goes to Berlin they'll be more suspicious. You know how it is when someone's treasure is scrutinized by a rivaclass="underline" the KGB will turn her over.'
The D-G frowned. 'Is this some narrative form of second thinking?' he said tartly.
'No, sir. I am sure the Berlin tour is an essential part of the plan. I'm simply saying that she will be under a lot of stress.'
'Out with it then.' The D-G stood tall and bent his head to see Bret over his glasses.
'We're asking her to give up her husband and children. Her colleagues will despise her…'
'When did she say all this to you?'
'She hasn't said it.'
'She hasn't expressed doubts at all?'
'Not to me. She's a patriot: she has a wonderful sense of purpose.'
The D-G sniffed. 'We've seen patriots change their minds, haven't we, Bret?'
'She won't,' said Bret firmly and certainly.
'Then what is it?'
'The husband. He should be told. He will be able to give her the sort of help and encouragement she'll need. She'd go East knowing that her husband will be keeping her family intact. It would be something for her to hang on to.'
'Oh, don't let's go through that again, Bret.' The D-G turned away.
'You said I'd have a free hand.'
He swung round, and when he spoke there was a hard note in his voice. 'I don't remember saying any such thing, Bret. You asked for a free hand: almost everyone in the Department asks for a free hand at some time or another. It makes me wonder what they think I am paid to do. I will of course give you as much freedom as possible. I'll guard you from the slings and arrows of outrageous officialdom. I'll give you non-voucher funds and I'll listen to any crackpot idea you bring me. But a secret is a secret, Bret. The only chance she has of coming out of this in one piece is to have her husband overwhelmed and horrified when she goes over there. That will be the ace card that saves her. Never mind help and encouragement, I want Bernard Samson to become demented with rage.' He used the newspaper to slam at the buzzing fly and after a couple of swipes the fly fell to the floor. 'Demented with rage!'
'Very well, sir. I'm sure you know best.' Bret's tone did nothing to make the D-G think he'd changed his opinion.
'Yes, I do, Bret. I do know best.' They both watched as the batsman swung and then seemed to leap backwards, blundering into the wicket so that the stumps were knocked asunder. A fast ball had hit him in the belly. He went down clutching his stomach and rolled about in agony. 'Left-handed,' pronounced the D-G without emotion. The other cricketers gathered around the fallen boy but no one did anything: they just looked down at him.
'Yes, sir,' said Bret. 'Well, I'll be off.'
'She might waver, Bret. Agents do when the time gets close. If she does you'd better make sure she toes the line. There is too much at stake now for a last-minute change of cast.'
Bret stood there in case the D-G had more to say. But the D-G flicked his fingers to dismiss him.
Once outside Bret blew his nose again. Damn this grass: he'd keep away from cricket matches on freshly mowed grass in future. Well, the old man could still provide a surprise or two, thought Bret. What a tough old bastard he was. Bernard must not be told under any circumstances. So that was what 'Only ignorance is invincible' meant. By the time he got to his car Bret's sinus problem was entirely gone. It was the stress that brought it on.
6
London. August 1978.
Fiona Samson, a thirty-one-year-old careerist, was a woman of many secrets and always had been. At first that had made her relish her demanding job in London Central – the most secret of all the government's secret departments – but as her role as a double agent developed and became more complex she found there were times when it all became too much for her. It had always been said that double agents eventually lose then: own sense of direction and fail to distinguish which side they really work for, but for Fiona it was different. Fiona could not envisage ever becoming a supporter of communist regimes: her patriotism was a deeply rooted aspect of her upper middle-class upbringing. Fiona's torment came not from political doubts: she worried that she would not be able to cope with the overwhelming task that she'd been given. Bernard would have been perfect for such a double agent role; like most men he could compartmentalize his brain and keep his family concerns quite separate from his work. Fiona could not. She knew that her task would become so demanding that she would have to neglect her husband and children more and more and finally – with no possible warning – leave them to fend for themselves. She would be branded a traitor and they would be spattered with the dirt. The thought of that distressed her.
Had she been able to discuss it with Bernard it might have been different, but authority had decreed that her husband should not know the plan. In any case she was not good at talking with Bernard. No less spirited than her extrovert sister Tessa, Fiona's fires were damped down and seldom showed a flicker. Sometimes, or even often, Fiona would have enjoyed being like Tessa. She would have got great and immediate relief and satisfaction from the sort of public performance – displays of anger or exhilarated madness – for which her sister was famous, but there was no choice for her.
Fiona was beautiful in a way that had sometimes separated her from other women. Fiona's beauty was a cold perfect radiance of the sort that is to be seen in the unapproachable models posing with such assurance in glossy magazines. Her brain was cold and perfect too; her mind had been bent by pedantic university teachers to think in terms of male priorities and had sacrificed many of the unbridled joys of femininity in order to become a successful surrogate male. Fiona's miseries, her tensions and her times of great happiness were shared only reluctantly – grudgingly sometimes – with those around her. Emotion of any sort was always to be hidden, her father had taught her that. Her father was an insensitive and opinionated man who had wanted sons, something he explained to his two children – both daughters – at every opportunity, and told them that boys didn't cry.
Fiona's marriage to Bernard Samson had changed her life forever. It was love at first sight. She'd never met anyone like Bernard before. A big bear-like man, Bernard was the most masculine person she'd ever met. At least he had the qualities that she thought of as being masculine. Bernard was practical. He could fix any sort of machine and deal with any sort of people. He was of course a male chauvinist: categorical and opinionated. He never thought of helping in the house and couldn't even boil an egg successfully. On the other hand he was constantly cheerful, almost never moody and quite without malevolence. Inclined to be untidy he gave no thought to his clothes or his appearance, never put on airs or graces and while enjoying art and music he was in no way 'intellectual' or 'artistic' in the way that so many of her male acquaintances were determined to be.