Bloody women, thought Fane. They always wanted to have it both ways. Some insisted on having careers – Vauxhall Cross now positively swarmed with women, many alarmingly competent, and some nearly as senior as Fane himself. They wanted equal pay and equal consideration, even if half the time they were off on maternity leave. They wanted to be part of things but on their own terms: if you tried to treat them as one of the chaps, they laughed at you. If you treated them like ladies, in the way he’d been brought up to do, complimenting them on their appearance, their clothes or their hair, you risked being accused of sexual harassment.
Not that Adele was like that. In fact, Fane wished she were more of a modern woman with a career of her own. Instead, Adele enjoyed playing the role of a high-born lady in a nineteenth-century novel, content to lie on a chaise-longue all day, nibbling chocolates at someone else’s expense. Fane’s expense for years, until a rich French banker had come along to take her off his hands. After the divorce, Fane thought the problem had gone away for good. But now here she was again, Oliver Twist-like, saying I want some more.
As if that weren’t enough for one day, now there was another woman disturbing his life. Fane looked with irritation at the communication from Geneva that had arrived on his desk a few minutes earlier. It seemed mildly amusing that a woman he knew so well was unknown to the Geneva Station. But he was not amused at all to read that the Russian who had approached Russell White had said he would talk only to her. Fane was always reluctant to hand over a potentially interesting case to the people across the river, but the Russian’s request had been unequivocal – he would only speak to Liz Carlyle. And not even Fane could pretend that Liz Carlyle didn’t know what she was doing.
But why was this Sorsky approaching the British now, and in such a covert way? How did he know Liz Carlyle’s name? He must have been posted in the UK at some stage – but even so how had he come across Elizabeth, and under her real name too? Let’s hope she can provide some answers, thought Fane. Because whatever lay behind the approach, it couldn’t be ignored. After the Cold War ended, relations with the Russian Intelligence Services had thawed momentarily but various events had turned the temperature frosty again. The Russians had reverted to their old tricks: it would be useful to know more about their operations, not least in Geneva.
Fane buzzed his Secretary. ‘Could you do an urgent look up for me on Alexander Sorsky, Second Secretary at the Russian Trade Delegation in Geneva?’
‘Yes, Geoffrey,’ replied a youthful, female voice. Fane knew he could have retrieved the information he needed himself from the database on the terminal on his desk but he was set in his ways, and preferred hard copy on his desk, printed paper rather than a screen. He also liked having young Molly Plum bring the files in. She was sweet and very pretty, and young enough to be his daughter. Better still, she seemed slightly in awe of him, which was not an attitude he was inclined to try and change.
As he waited, he stood at the window, looking out at the Thames, sparkling in a flash of spring sunshine, and thinking about the Cold War; recalling the efforts each side had made to infiltrate the other, and the deep satisfaction he and his colleagues had felt when the Soviet Union had collapsed and the game had seemed over.
Molly came into the room, carrying the cup of tea he always had at this time of the afternoon. ‘The Swiss have reported Alexander Sorsky as suspected SVR, but they haven’t confirmed it. We have no other traces,’ she said as she handed him the cup and saucer.
That was odd. It meant that not only had Sorsky never served in the UK but he also hadn’t crossed MI6’s radar anywhere else in the world. So how did the man know Liz Carlyle? Geneva had sent over a photograph, which Fane now examined. It was a low-resolution snap of a group of people; someone had drawn an arrow over the figure of Sorsky. He had unprepossessing features, was losing his hair, and in general looked more like a junior bureaucrat than an intelligence officer. Well, it took all sorts, as Fane knew. At least he’s not another bloody female, he thought grumpily, as he buzzed his intercom again and asked Molly to tell Liz Carlyle he wanted to come and see her.
Chapter 4
Liz was sitting in a Eurostar train somewhere under the Channel. She had caught an early train so that she’d be back at her desk in good time to face the backlog of phone messages and emails that would have accumulated while she’d been away. But the train had been stationary for the last twenty minutes and, in the absence of any explanation, uneasy conversations had begun as people asked each other what they thought was happening.
She’d gone to Paris to be with the man she had met more than a year ago, when an operation that had begun in Northern Ireland had unexpectedly taken her to France and close collaboration with Martin Seurat of the DGSE, the French Military Intelligence Service. The professional relationship had become something more, and they now spent most of their free time together. They had just passed a happy week, spending a couple of days staying at Martin’s flat in Paris, then going off to a small country hotel in the Loire, where spring was just arriving. Good food, good books to read, and each other’s company. It had been perfect. Until now.
Three hours later Liz arrived at Thames House. The train had stop-started its way to St Pancras after a disembodied voice had explained that the one in front had broken down. She dropped her bag in the corner of her office and sat down at her desk with a sigh to face the rest of the day. She had just turned on her screen when the phone on her desk rang.
‘Good afternoon,’ said a chirpy female voice. ‘It’s Molly here from Geoffrey Fane’s office. He’s coming across to Thames House for another appointment in an hour and would like to look in on you, if that’s convenient.’
Liz groaned to herself. The last person she wanted to see right now was Geoffrey Fane. ‘What’s it about? I’m rather snowed under today.’
‘He didn’t say,’ replied Molly, ‘but he did say it was urgent. I think it’s something to do with a message that came in from Geneva this morning. But don’t tell him I told you,’ she added cheerfully. ‘You know how he likes to play things close to his chest. ’Bye now.’
Liz smiled as she put the receiver down. Molly’s got the measure of him all right, she thought. Poor old Geoffrey. But Liz was also intrigued. What could a message from Geneva have to do with her?
An hour later she was still working her way through emails when Peggy Kinsolving stuck her head round the door.
‘Hi, Liz. Good holiday? Can I come and brief you on a few things when you’ve got a moment?’
Liz liked the young researcher and was always pleased to see her. ‘I’d say come in now but I’m threatened with an imminent visit from G. Fane. I’ll give you a buzz when he’s gone.’
‘Lucky you.’ And Peggy’s head disappeared, to be replaced after a short time by another.
‘Good afternoon, Elizabeth. Sorry to disturb you on your first day back. I’m here to see DG but wanted to tell you about something rather intriguing that’s just come in.’
How typically Geoffrey, thought Liz, to remind me that he’s a big fish accustomed to swimming with other big fish, and that he’s doing me a favour by letting me into his pond.
‘How was France?’ he went on. ‘I hope our friend Seurat was in good form.’
A second Fane ploy: he loved to show that he knew everything about everyone’s private life – particularly hers.
Ignoring this, Liz said sharply, ‘Molly said something urgent had come up.’
‘Have you had much to do with the Russian Services in recent years?’