Sorsky had been astonished by this, and had asked which country had managed this remarkable feat. But by then Boris seemed to be past talking. He was either pretending to be comatose or he really was. After waiting for a short time to see if he’d say any more, Sorsky left the flat and went home.
His story finished, he leaned back on the bench in silence. Across the lawn the two women were packing up and putting coats on the children. Liz said, ‘So that’s how you learned about the spy?’
Sorsky nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to learn anything more.’
At work the next day, Boris had acted as if their drunken conversation hadn’t happened; when Sorsky had made some passing remark about the infiltrator, he’d just looked blank. He clearly didn’t want the subject brought up again.
‘What is Boris’s job?’ said Liz hopefully.
‘I’m not prepared to tell you any more about him,’ said Sorsky. ‘Except that his name is not Boris.’
Damn, thought Liz, they seemed to have reached a dead end. At least Russell White at the Geneva Station should know who Sorsky’s colleagues were and perhaps there would be CCTV outside the PussKat Club which the Swiss could get hold of. It might show who Sorsky left the club with.
But he wasn’t finished. ‘I have managed to find out something else…’
Liz looked at him. ‘I hope you were careful.’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing to be careful about – it landed in my lap. You see,’ he said, ‘Boris has a secretary.’ He hesitated. ‘For a time, we were friendly. Not so much any more.’
A faint flush was settling over Sorsky’s cheeks. You old Russian smoothie, she thought, as a capsule version of the affair ran through her head: the junior secretary, pretty but unsure of herself, falling for the veteran intelligence officer who took such an interest in her when no one else paid attention. The office chats by the proverbial water cooler, then the ‘accidental’ bumping into her outside work; the innocent drink, the second time for drinks (by then less innocent), the invitation back to his place; the initial infatuation of the man followed by gradual detachment; until it was over – the girl/woman left dumped, feeling bruised and used. Could that have happened to Liz herself with the younger Sorsky, if she hadn’t left Bristol when she did?
Now he was looking mournful, even embarrassed. Finally he said, ‘It wasn’t what you’re thinking. I was in love with her – but she wouldn’t leave her husband. God knows why – the man is obviously a complete pig. But there it is.’
Liz didn’t say anything. Sighing, he went on, ‘She came to me last week and said she was worried about something Boris was doing. He’d been away – he often travels – and he was supposed to be in Paris, talking to our Station there. Yet Svetlana said she’d found a receipt for petrol on his desk. The petrol station was in Marseilles.’
‘Marseilles? What was he doing there?’
‘I don’t know. But I do know you don’t drive to Paris from Geneva via Marseilles.’
‘He may have had some other reason for going there – to meet a relative or else a source. It could be any number of things.’
‘Perhaps. I would have thought the same thing, but then something else happened. It was earlier this week, and this time Boris was supposed to be in Zurich.’
‘Don’t tell me he left another petrol receipt lying around,’ said Liz.
‘Actually, it was a newspaper. She found it on the floor of his car. He’d given her the keys to have it picked up by a garage. He’d had a little scrape apparently and wanted the paint retouched – Boris loves his car. She was checking to make sure he hadn’t left any personal stuff inside when she found a copy of Marseille Plus. That’s the local paper down there.’
‘Couldn’t it have been from his earlier trip?’
Sorsky shook his head. ‘She’s not stupid. The date was this Monday.’
Liz nodded. One odd occurrence she could understand – it might just be a change of plan. Two suggested there was something going on. ‘Did she ask him why he was in Marseilles?’
‘No, she told me instead. She didn’t want him to think she was prying, and she thought I might know if there was some reason for him to be there. Then she could stop worrying. But I didn’t. He hasn’t said anything about it to any of the rest of us so, whatever it is, he doesn’t want anyone else in the Station to know. That means it must be top-secret – orders direct from Moscow, I’d guess. My one thought is that it may be connected to this Clarity project. From what he said the other night, he seems to know more about it than the rest of us do. He said some other country had succeeded in getting close to it. How did he know? Could his visits to Marseilles have something to do with it?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Liz. ‘But it would help if we knew Boris’s real name.’
Sorsky shook his head.
‘If we knew who he was, we might find out what he’s doing in Marseilles. We could — ’
Sorsky cut in. ‘I told you, I’m not here to betray my country or my colleagues. His name doesn’t matter.’
Liz looked up and saw that the two women and the children had gone. There was no sign of the gardener either. In another quarter of an hour the sun would go down and it would quickly get dark.
Seeming to take her silence for tacit agreement, Sorsky continued: ‘Now he’s away again. Which gives me an opportunity to find out more. Perhaps I can find out which other country is involved.’
‘How?’
‘His secretary has the keys to his office and to his filing cabinet. At least, she thinks she does.’ He jingled something in his hand. ‘I managed to borrow them without her knowing – I don’t want her involved. So when we’re done here, I’m going back to the office. Something must be documented that would give us a clue, and I should be able to find it.’
‘That sounds risky. There may well be nothing to find. I don’t think it’s a good idea at all.’
‘The risk is minimal.’ He stretched suddenly, then stood up. ‘I will meet you tomorrow morning at the café in Place du Bourg-de-Four. Eleven o’clock sharp.’ He stood up suddenly and started to walk away.
‘I’ll be there,’ said Liz to his retreating back.
Chapter 18
As Peggy stood at the bar of the Angler’s Arms, for the very first time in her young life she felt old. The pub was a stone’s throw from Hoxton Square and most of its clientele looked as though they’d come straight from the galleries and studios that were sprouting up in the area like well-watered seeds. Among the jeans and designer T-shirts, her office skirt and jacket felt drab, and she envied the loudly cheerful mood of the Friday evening crowd which contrasted with her own feeling of anxiety. Charlie Fielding had asked to see her urgently and had chosen this pub because it was nowhere near the MOD. It was only two days since Peggy had seen him at Brigham Hall and, whatever he had to say now, she couldn’t imagine that it was good news.
She took her glass of Diet Coke over to a small alcove at the back of the pub where there were two free stools. Plonking the glass down on the little round table and her Evening Standard on the other stool, she sat down to wait for Fielding.
Peggy had been busy since her trip to Norfolk. She’d spoken to a contact in the HR department at the Ministry of Defence, who was clearly under orders to help her with any request. On the vague information that Liz had got out of Sorsky, she hadn’t really known what she was looking for or where to start. So, making a stab at it, she’d asked for a list of all the foreign nationals seconded to the Ministry of Defence whose work was in software or hardware development, since it seemed obvious to her that anyone trying to infiltrate Clarity would need considerable technical expertise.