‘But when we rounded up the Illegals operating here last year, Boris, along with his bosses, started to wonder how we had got on to them. Boris knew what his bosses in the FSB didn’t know, that he had been talking freely to his brother Mischa. It wouldn’t have been a huge leap for him to wonder if Mischa could have been talking to someone in the West. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mischa wasn’t starting to flash his cash around a bit, what with the retainer from the Americans and then what we started paying him. Boris would have wondered where the money was coming from – their army isn’t exactly Goldman Sachs – and put two and two together.
‘I think Boris might have confronted Mischa, who perhaps admitted what he’d done. Boris certainly wasn’t going to shop his brother – he would have been shopping himself, after all. So he decided to get in on the act as well. Between them they resolved to keep feeding us information – and split the proceeds.’
‘Right,’ said Bruno thoughtfully. ‘So then what happened, according to this theory?’
‘You showed up. Boris, knowing what he did by then about Mischa’s activities, must have been suspicious from the first. As I said, he may have thought you were American, and I know he has a low opinion of our transatlantic friends, so he started to worry that his FSB bosses might have spotted you as well. To cover himself, he reported his contact with you and his suspicions.’
‘Bastard,’ said Bruno. ‘After all the vodka I fed him – and I threw a great party.’ His face grew pensive. ‘But why didn’t he just let me get caught? Why send a warning through Mischa?’
‘Because once he had reported you, you were being watched. If he’d let you go on to make a pitch at him, he would have had to report it for fear they would discover it independently. You would have been picked up and he would immediately have come under suspicion. It doesn’t do an FSB officer any good to be the subject of an approach by a foreign intelligence service. The obvious question is “Why you? What have you been doing to attract the enemy?” And of course, we would have dropped Mischa like a hot potato, so the cash would have dried up. Bad news all round.’ Liz continued, ‘But this way he and Mischa hoped we’d be convinced they were both on our side, while simultaneously they hoped the FSB would think Boris was completely loyal to them. For that to work, they had to warn you off making an overt approach.’
Bruno whistled lightly. ‘A bit risky for them, I’d have thought. But I’m glad you got me out of it.’
Fane said, ‘If you’re right about this, Elizabeth, they didn’t cater for Bruno’s sudden disappearance. There are bound to be questions about why he’s vanished.’
‘There’s not much we can do about that. We’ll have to wait and see whether Mischa resurfaces. Then we can decide what, if anything, we should do.’
‘But even if Mischa resurfaces, can we trust anything he told us?’
Liz looked at Fane and shrugged. ‘Who knows? We’d just have to judge that at the time. After all, isn’t that what they pay us for?’
There seemed nothing left to discuss. Everyone started gathering their things when Fane said, ‘It seems to me that we have much to celebrate. I’d like to invite you all to take a glass of champagne with me. I know just the place.’
‘Good gracious, Geoffrey,’ said Liz. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.’
50
‘Coming about,’ shouted Pearson into the wind, and Liz had learned enough to duck as the boom slowly swung her way. The main sail shivered as they turned directly into the wind, then as air filled the vast cotton pocket and the sail ballooned firmly, the boat gathered speed, heading towards shore.
It was called The Rubicon, and Geoff Gumm had built it himself. Constructed of larch and oak, it had elegant lines and was twenty-five feet long, drawing four foot, with a remodelled cockpit and bulkhead. The current owner was moving to California and the price was greatly reduced because he was desperate to sell. Gumm had urged them to take her out for a trial, saying it would be its last sail for the season before he put it up for the winter in the nearby boatyard.
Liz had come up on the train that morning for the meeting with Pearson and his commissioner. Pearson’s driver had collected her from Ipswich and driven her to Suffolk Police headquarters at nearby Martlesham. There she had explained MI5’s role in the investigation of Bartholomew Manor, omitting any reference to Mischa and his brother and Bruno’s activities in Moscow. The commissioner had seemed satisfied and grateful that she had come and hadn’t pressed for more information.
After this, Pearson had sent his driver home, and Liz and he had driven in Pearson’s own car to the boatyard a mile south of Geoff Gumm’s working shack. On the way, Pearson described what had been happening at the college. ‘I’ve spoken to the police officers at Bartholomew Manor this morning,’ he said as they left Martlesham and drove north on the A12. ‘Everything’s OK for now. Aziz has got the students working on projects, and they all went to the college yesterday and worked in the IT building. Aziz has moved over to the annexe at the farm, so he’s acting as head teacher and warden. He’s also made Thomma his assistant. Both of them sound happy from the sound of it.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘I’ve talked to the Home Office, and they’ll send somebody up this week to begin interviewing the students. I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but at least they understand that these kids are victims, not criminals.’
‘Good,’ said Liz, confident that with Pearson involved, none of these refugee teenagers would be forgotten. They’d suffered enough and shouldn’t suffer any more at the hands of an indifferent bureaucracy.
After meeting Geoff Gumm, they had taken The Rubicon a couple of miles out to sea, where a stiff breeze helped Pearson put the little boat through her paces. It was surprisingly warm for autumn, and the water sparkled in the sunlight from a largely unclouded sky. Eventually they turned back, the sail fixed on a steady course towards harbour. The wine was opened, the deli-bought panino produced, still warm from their foil wrapping. There was nothing left to do but enjoy the moment.
Perhaps this was the problem. Liz said tentatively, ‘It may sound odd, but I think I’m going to have to learn how to relax all over again.’
Pearson smiled, handed her a glass of wine, then sat next to her on the seat in the cockpit of the boat. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and they clinked glasses. ‘You’re not alone in that, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m the same,’ he said, looking out at the gentle swell. ‘I’ve tried to do all the sensible things – sailing where I couldn’t get a mobile signal and be contacted by the office; helping out my brother-in-law when the mackerel were running; even doing DIY. But all the time I’d be thinking of work – the latest case, the most recent staff problem, what I had to do as soon as I stood on dry land again. To tell you the truth, I’m still trying hard not to do it.’
Liz asked, ‘Has it always been like that?’
‘No. How about you?’
‘Not at all. I used to enjoy all sorts of things. Then—’ and she stopped, not wanting to mention Martin again. It seemed wrong to let her memory of him intrude on this moment.
But Pearson got her drift. ‘Same here. It was only after I lost my wife that it became a problem. Before that, I could switch off bang – just like that. I looked forward to holidays then,’ he said, as if recalling a lost Golden Age. ‘But after Lucy died, I was so shattered that I found only work could distract me. It wasn’t that work gave me pleasure, but it did take my mind off how bad I felt the rest of the time. Does that make sense?’