The desk told little of Luke Davies. Years before, the staff of the Secret Intelligence Service had been uprooted from a shabby tower block, Century House, and shifted a few hundred yards west along the Albert Embankment to a green and yellow angular building on the east side of the bridge that ended in the junction of Vauxhall Bridge Cross. It was a monument to a modern architect, derided by many and loved by a few. Luke Davies was among the few, thought it magnificent and reckoned it a fitting home for the Service that he was proud to belong to. But the architects’ remit reached inside the outer walls and windows, and carefully drawn-out colour schemes ruled the interiors. They had been chosen, after expensive advice from consultants, to provide the best working environment; walls and partitions were not to be cluttered with calendars, pictures, personal photographs, printouts of joke emails, Post-it reminders or the images of targets. Discreetly shown on the partition dividing the desks of the juniors of this section of the Russia Desk (Baltic), close to his mouse-pad, screen and keyboard, were three snapshot photographs: himself in mortarboard and gown, holding the rolled degree certificate — first-class honours from the School of East European and Slavonic Studies; himself again in front of the little bridge over the Miljacka river, standing on the spot where Gavrilo Princep had fired the shots that launched the First World War and made Sarajevo famous — his first, only, overseas posting had been to Bosnia-Herzegovina; and a smiling girl with a blue UN helmet rakish on her head, pouting as if she was blowing a kiss. Around her was desert and behind her were huts of dead branches and thorn hedges and by her knee was a child, African, with a ribcage showing semi-starvation. He called her his girlfriend but she was in Darfur, or Lebanon, or Afghanistan, and the photograph was two years old. Most of the story of Luke Davies’s life was captured in three photographs. He left his desk, went to the far wall and the line of lockers, and opened his.
He had his back to the door at the far side of the room — and did not see it open. He pulled out the waterproofs he had worn when he’d come to work, and lifted the cycling helmet off the locker floor. He heard, ‘It’s Luke Davies, isn’t it? You are Luke Davies?’
‘That’s me — I’m him.’ He had a soft south-Yorkshire accent, had tried to lose it and failed, was stuck with it. He thought his accent, at VBX, counted more against him than his degree — rated ‘outstanding’ by his tutor — benefited him.
‘Good thing I caught you. I’m Wilmot, Duggie, Human Resources. Just going off, I see. Sorry and all that. Cycling, eh? Not much of a night for that … You’re to be seconded for a week or two, immediate effect. I was called by Pam Bertrand — she’s your desk chief, yes? She said it should be you.’
Something evasive about the guy, as if that was only half the story. He asked, ‘Where am I going?’
‘It’s Non-Proliferation, Mr Lawson. You’re to be seconded indefinitely, but not for ever, to Mr Christopher Lawson in Non-Proliferation and—’
Eyes closed, hugging the waterproofs and the helmet, sucking in breath. ‘I’m not hearing this.’
‘Authorized by Pam, not in my hands.’
‘That man is a Class A shite.’
‘Pam said you’d not be happy. Came to her from above. I’m afraid it’s set in dried concrete.’
‘Should have been put out to grass a decade ago.’ He felt the sweat on his back and his voice was louder than it should have been. The night-duty girl was back, had stopped eating her chocolate to watch his display. Didn’t care. ‘What if I go sick?’
He saw a smile spread. ‘You’d get dragged out of bed — wouldn’t wash. Suicide might do it.’
‘He’s the most unpleasant man known to exist in this building, an antique and—’
‘And you’re seconded to him. Non-Proliferation, third floor west, room seventy-one. Got that?’
He subsided. ‘Right. I’ll be off home and into my bathroom cabinet to count the painkillers, see if I’ve enough and—’
‘He’s waiting for you, Mr Lawson is …’ a little laugh ‘… expecting you. Oh, Pam said — I nearly forgot — it’s sanctioned by the DG. Good luck.’
Davies threw the waterproofs back into his locker with the helmet, then slammed its door. He stomped past the night-duty girl and out to the corridor.
At the end of the corridor he banged his fist against the lift’s call button. Lawson was one of those who harked back in time to when everything was fucking perfect, talked of the Good Old Days. In the Good Old Days of the fifties, sixties and seventies, Cold War era, everything worked a fucking treat. Unlike today, which, to a god, was useless, pathetic, and the new intakes were crap. Davies had been five years in the Service, and other gods had been pointed out to him before his Sarajevo posting — red-faced old bastards, mumbling about the time when the Ark floated off — but they’d gone by the time he’d returned from the Balkans. Only one remained. Didn’t matter if every seat in the canteen was taken except at one table, he would be left to eat alone. Stories of his rudeness were legion. Davies came out of the lift. He swore and his voice was spirited down the corridor, then bounced back in an echo to him, as if his efforts were mocked.
He knocked.
A woman came out, glanced at the laminated ID he offered, pointed towards an open door.
Lawson’s back was to him. Had a phone against his ear. Shouted at it. ‘If I say I want two increments and that gear at seven tomorrow morning, it’s what I mean. Pretty clear to me, and should be clear to anyone who’s not an imbecile or obstinate. I want them where I said at seven — not a minute later — and the gear.’
The phone went down and the chair spun.
‘Are you Davies — Luke Davies?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many years with the Service?’
‘Five.’
‘Oh, time enough to know it all, be an expert. Do you know it all?’
‘I’m sure when you were told I was being seconded to you that you’d had sight of my file. You’ll have read what my line managers have reported on my abilities and—’
‘If I want a speech I’ll ask for it. When I don’t want a speech I should be given answers of one word, two or three … Sarov, what does that name mean to you?’
He blustered. ‘Excuse me — is that a person’s name or a place name?’
‘I hadn’t been with the Service a year — let alone five — before I knew what Arzamas-16 was and where Sarov was, but the sort of people inducted into the Service then were of a different quality … Six thirty, here, in the morning. Don’t stand around, go away and learn.’
Luke Davies was flushed and his cheeks burned as he spun. He went out, past the woman, and into the corridor. He had never heard of Arzamas-16 or a place called Sarov, but had six hours and twenty-six minutes to discover them.
After the bus ride Carrick walked the last mile. It was a routine for him since he had gone on the plot and into the household of Josef Goldmann. Hadn’t used his mobile. The worst place for an undercover, a level one, to call in to his case officer was on the street. Couldn’t say there whether he was under surveillance. Worst thing was to get away from the work location, then be seen to use a mobile. Back in the first weeks after being embedded he had had a back-up car tracking him during work hours, and sometimes a back-up walking behind him when he’d finished his duties, but nothing had happened in the last month, the threat assessment had been reduced and back-up guys had been deployed for other undercovers. If he had taken the risk and used his mobile — to report the arrest of Simon Rawlings, drunk in charge, and the invitation to go a small step up the ladder and replace the sarge — he would have found, probably, Katie at the end of the call, not Rob, who was his cover officer, and not George, the controller. Not a risk worth taking. Everything could keep till the evening of the day already started. Couldn’t say, when they met for the debrief, whether the promotion was enough to keep the operation going. Neither could he have said that he was now guaranteed greater access than before.