The people here struck him as equally unappealing – snobbish, undemonstrative, sometimes downright devious. His counterparts in the British Intelligence Services were clever, there was no denying that, but he never enjoyed the times he had to work with them.
Like this evening, when he had heard that Geoffrey Fane was coming over to Grosvenor Square in twenty minutes. At least he hadn’t summoned Bokus to Vauxhall Cross. He hated that place; it seemed to be a mixture of understated gloom and grandiose pomp. A bit like Geoffrey Fane himself. Fane acted as though he didn’t recognise Britain’s diminished role in world affairs; he tried to treat Bokus as though their dealings took place on a level playing field – sometimes, in fact, he acted like he occupied the higher ground.
In some ways, Bokus didn’t mind this: he rather enjoyed playing dumb with the likes of Geoffrey Fane. He found it elicited more information than competing with them would ever do. And, personally, Bokus didn’t give a damn if Fane thought he was an uncouth simpleton. Bokus’s grandfather had dug coal in the Ukraine with a pick, and Andy Bokus was proud of it. It wasn’t England which had welcomed his father when he’d refused to follow Grandfather into the mines. It was America where Bokus’s father had landed at the age of sixteen on Ellis Island, with nothing but his muscles and the clothes on his back. It was a classic immigrant’s story, and if it hadn’t quite gone from rags to riches – Bokus’s old man had ended up running a gas station in Ohio – it beat a life spent five hundred feet underground in front of a dwindling seam of anthracite. The America the Bokus clan was loyal to was a true melting pot – with opportunity for all. Not the half-baked imitation of a declining British nation which some of his WASP colleagues seemed to want to create.
Decline – that was a British disease, though Bokus was bothered by the nagging feeling that the virus was coming his own country’s way as well. He stretched out one leg under his desk and rubbed his aching knee, a college football injury. He might have played pro ball if it hadn’t been for that. Instead he was looking at a fifth year as Station Head in London.
At least he was kept busy here: in a post-7/7 Britain, the world seemed to be a dangerous place and getting more so by the day. Bokus had no time for those of his associates – especially his British counterparts – who liked to suggest there was an ethical complexity to their work. When it came to his job, Andy Bokus only worked in black and white.
The phone on his desk purred, and he picked it up. ‘Your British guests are here, Andy,’ said his secretary.
Guests? He’d thought Fane was coming alone. He must have something important to say if he’s bringing a delegation, thought Bokus, as he left his office and walked out into a large open ground-floor room, normally full of people waiting for visas but empty this late in the day. Across the room he saw Fane standing with a woman whom Bokus recognised as he drew nearer – it was Liz Carlyle from MI5. Her presence made him uneasy. He found her much more difficult to deal with than Geoffrey Fane. She didn’t rise at all to his crude simpleton act, just ignored it and got on with business. She could show a relentless tenacity, which was awkward if you were keeping information from her. They’d crossed swords before.
‘Geoffrey,’ he said, with a pretence of pleasure he didn’t feel. ‘Good to see you. And you’ve brought some extra ammunition along.’
Fane shook hands. ‘You know Liz Carlyle, of course.’
The Carlyle woman smiled politely.
‘Sure,’ said Bokus, taking her hand. ‘I never forget a face. Especially a pretty one.’
Fane raised his eyebrows and Liz Carlyle didn’t react at all. Good, thought Bokus to himself grumpily; now they’ll think I’m not only a right-wing pig, but a sexist one as well.
They went down a wide flight of stairs and along a corridor that ended at a steel security door. Bokus swiped a card and the door clicked open. ‘You said this was confidential, so I thought we’d better use the Bubble.’
Like most major Embassies, Grosvenor Square contained a purpose-built room designed to foil any electronic eavesdropping. Down in the bowels of the basement, the ‘Bubble’ was lead-lined and windowless. Inside it the air resonated with a faint hum – like an air conditioner, but actually the by-product of a high-frequency wave baffler.
The door closed with a pneumatic hiss behind them, and they sat down on padded benches around the grey walls. Bokus nodded. ‘Okay, we’re secure now, Geoffrey. Shoot.’
Fane took his time, hitching a trouser leg, crossing his ankle across one knee and tugging at a cufflink. He’s getting used to me, Bokus thought. He’s doing it on purpose. ‘Do you know anything about Operation Clarity?’ the Englishman said at last.
Bokus shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of it,’ he said, which wasn’t true. ‘But I don’t know much about it’ – which was.
Fane elaborated: ‘It’s a joint programme between our two Defence Departments to develop a communications system for unmanned aircraft. It uses very hi-tech encryption, designed to obscure its existence. Part of the work is being done in the States; the encryption work is happening over here.’
‘Okay,’ said Bokus. Let’s get to the point, he thought.
‘We’ve learned from a source – a well-placed source we’ve codenamed Bravado – that there’s a problem at this end. Apparently, the programme has been infiltrated by someone working for a third country – a foreigner, he says, not a US or British citizen. Someone who’s been seconded to the Ministry of Defence.’
‘A foreigner working on a top-secret programme. Doesn’t seem very likely. Can you give me more detail?’
‘Elizabeth. Why don’t you carry on?’
Liz Carlyle explained how an approach had been made in Switzerland, and that she had flown out to Geneva and met the source they were calling Bravado.
‘I don’t get it,’ interrupted Bokus. ‘Why were you sent?’ He turned to Fane. ‘Geneva’s your territory, right?’
Liz leaned forward. ‘Bravado asked specifically for me.’
‘Why? Does he know you?’
‘Not really. He met me long ago, before I’d even joined the Service. But apparently I have appeared on his radar since then – he knew I was with MI5. He’s an intelligence officer himself so perhaps that’s not surprising.’
‘What nationality is he?’
Fane started to protest, ‘I really don’t think it’s relevant— ’
Liz cut in, ‘He’s Russian. A mid-level intelligence officer, we think.’
For the first time Bokus was glad she was there, since Fane wouldn’t have told him – not because there was any reason to keep it secret, but from his addiction to keeping the cards close to his chest. Close? thought Bokus cynically. The guy had them tattooed on his skin.
He said to Liz, ‘Okay. So tell me about your meeting.’
And as she described her rendezvous in a Geneva park, Bokus stared at the wall. It was an old habit of his, which allowed him to focus on what was being said, not the gestures and expressions that accompanied it. He knew it seemed rude, but it worked for him.
When she’d finished, he said, ‘This sounds interesting.’
‘We think so,’ said Fane, adding smoothly, ‘and that’s why I wanted you to know about it straight away.’
‘Where do you think the threat’s coming from?’
‘China, I’d say,’ said Fane.
The Chinese were the modern-day Bogeyman, thought Bokus. If a thirty-year-old Defense Department computer belched twice in South Dakota, everybody attributed the problem to dirty doings emanating from Beijing. Bokus clenched and unclenched the fingers of one hand. Some days they hurt too, though unlike his knee he’d never used them much playing football. Just age, he’d decided.