Queen & Country Page 2

  ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Something to do with the way his heart went into spasm. Apparently his cardiovascular system was very healthy, as good as a man in his thirties. They say there has to have been some other external cause. You recruited him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not really, no, though it was credited to me. We had an access agent, an academic who befriended him over a series of international conferences. After he’d given a predictably boring presentation he apologised to our agent, saying, “I would like to have been more interesting; I could have said much more but I know too much.” We reckoned that anyone who tells you that wants to tell you more. So the next time he attended an overseas conference I flew out to Toronto and the access agent introduced me. It was really he who did the recruiting.’

  ‘What was Beech Tree’s motivation?’

  Charles shrugged. Agent motivation was often mixed and the agent’s account of it often varied according to when and by whom he or she was asked. ‘Mainly guilt, I think. Using his science not to advance human understanding but to make murder easier. That and wanting to start a new life with his mistress.’

  ‘But she didn’t come with him, did she?’

  ‘No. He wanted to leave his wife and his mistress wanted him to do that but when push came to shove she wasn’t prepared to betray her country by coming with him. She knew that was his plan and seemed to go along with it but at the last moment she pulled out. They were colleagues, you see. She worked in another lab on the same site.’

  ‘But she knew about a new poison, didn’t she? So you reported at the time. Something very hush-hush they were developing in her lab, something instant and allegedly untraceable. He knew a bit about it but didn’t have details. We wonder if that’s what they used on him. Ironic if it was.’

  Martin must have done his homework. ‘Something like that,’ said Charles. ‘I can’t remember all the details. I do remember that part of her reason for not defecting was what would happen to her family. She had an ailing mother and a couple of siblings. And she was right to worry, of course. When they realised what Beech Tree had done, his wife was turfed out of the marital home and lost her pension. He always felt bad about that. We tried to get money to her on his behalf but couldn’t find a way of doing it without compromising her, making it look as if she’d been involved. We still didn’t know what had happened to her when I left the case. Is anything known now?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No. But our problem is, if it was the new chemical that killed Beech Tree, we need to know what it is, urgently. Before they start spraying it all round the world on anyone they choose. They call it Konyets, which means ending, finale. Something like that, anyway.’

  Charles waited for Martin to continue, then said, ‘But, surely, above all we need to know how they got on to Beech Tree, don’t we?’

  Martin nodded. ‘That too.’

  Skripal had been part of a spy-swop, living openly under his own name. Having been caught and sentenced, he was later released and offered up in part-exchange for Russian spies caught in the US. According to the unwritten rules of the time, there had therefore been no need for him to live in hiding, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Until President Putin decided to ignore the unwritten rules. But Beech Tree was another matter. He had lived very much in hiding, his new name and address known to very few within the Office. After another pause, Charles added quietly, ‘Either Beech Tree or someone in touch with him has been unforgivably careless, or you have a major security breach. An insider problem.’

  ‘That’s what Pamela said. We’re looking into it.’

  ‘Pamela?’

  ‘CEO. Chief Executive Officer.’ Martin shook his head, smiling. ‘Sorry, Charles, should’ve explained. Change of designations since your day; no more Chief or C or CSS or sirring or ma’aming, that sort of thing. Just plain Pamela or CEO now. So as deputy I’m DCEO. Felt we needed to make a statement, bring us more in line with the rest of the world.’

  Not for the first time, Charles was embarrassed by his forgetfulness. ‘Of course, yes, the first female Chief. Appointed a few months ago, wasn’t she? I hadn’t heard of her until the announcement. She seems to have been commendably quiet since. No fashionable tweeting or anything, unlike some.’ He paused again, and again Martin said nothing. ‘So what’s she doing about it?’ Charles asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your problem. Your insider problem.’

  ‘Possible problem, we don’t know yet. She’s having it looked into, as I said. Not much more she can do at the moment. Maternity leave.’

  ‘So who is looking into it?’

  ‘Head of security. Actually, Sonia, your old running mate. Pretty near retirement herself now.’

  ‘She was director of operations when I left.’

  ‘I think she was finding it a bit much at her age, too full-on, twenty-four seven. What it’s like these days. Opted to step down and go part-time.’

  ‘Head of security is part-time?’

  ‘Only the head. She still has Security Branch working under her. They’re intact.’ Martin put down his coffee, shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. ‘No, but leaving the investigation aside for a moment, what I wanted to put to you was this. We have a proposition. I’ve cleared it with Pamela. She’s in full agreement – sends her best wishes, by the way, says she’s always wanted to meet you and looks forward to seeing you when she’s back at work. Her background was international aid, you’ll probably have seen from the press coverage. Very good, actually, very hands-on, lot of overseas experience, popular with younger staff. But I must stress there’s no pressure to accept what I’m about to say, none at all. She very much wants you to know that. We’d both understand if you say no. Absolutely.’

  Charles waited.

  Martin re-crossed his legs and sipped his coffee. ‘Thing is, what it is, what we were thinking is, whether you’d be prepared to go to Russia and make contact with Beech Tree’s former mistress.’

  Charles stared. ‘You want me to go to Moscow?’

  Martin put down his coffee, shaking his head. ‘St Petersburg. Not Moscow, St Petersburg. She lives and works there.’ He held up his hands, palms outwards, like a magician showing he had nothing to hide. ‘I know, I know, no need to say it. Crazy for a recent Chief of MI6 to undertake a clandestine op in Russia where he’ll be under surveillance twenty-four/seven with his head still full of stuff they’d love to know and wouldn’t hesitate to download via truth drugs or torture. But what if we could fix it so that it was safe for you to meet her and pop the question?’

  It was crazy. There was no such thing as a safe clandestine operation in Russia, given the resources that could be deployed against the operator. He would indeed be a particular target and Beech Tree’s mistress had shown no sign of a willingness to spy against her country. Quite the opposite. But nor had she given her secret lover away by reporting him. That was a crime, of course, which made her vulnerable. Maybe that’s what they were thinking. But the Office of his day had never resorted to blackmail. It wanted willing spies, not captives. ‘You’re not suggesting we should blackmail her?’ he said.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. According to the file, when she decided not to defect with Beech Tree – which was pretty last-minute, she almost did – he gave her a contact arrangement we’d provided and which if activated means that there’s someone with a message from him. She doesn’t know he’s dead, of course. The plan is that you activate it, meet her, tell her what they’ve done to her lover and ask if she could get the formula or a sample of whatever they’re using. Knowing what’s happened to him might just be enough to secure her cooperation. Just this once, you can assure her, absolutely. We’d never ask anything else or contact her again unless she wanted to become an agent. Which she almost certainly wouldn’t. Though you never know.’

  It was plausible, just about. Unlikely to work but maybe worth trying under the right circumstances. However, the right circumstances would surely exclude him.

  ‘Why me? They know all about me, they’ll be all over me like a rash, day and night. Better send someone unknown, surely? Or better still, approach her when she’s abroad? Much safer.’

  ‘She doesn’t travel. Whether by inclination or because she’s forbidden, we don’t know. Theoretically, travel restrictions went out with the old Soviet Union but there are indications that for some people and some occupations they’ve been quietly reimposed. As for why you, well, to be frank – I mean, to be absolutely frank.’ Martin laughed and touched his glasses. ‘To be absolutely frank, Charles, you’re expendable. In cover terms, I mean. You’re widely known for what you are – were – you’re not a clean skin we’re trying to keep under cover and you’d have diplomatic protection. You’d be attached to an official Foreign Office delegation. Leading it, in fact. So if anything went wrong they couldn’t lock you up and give you the third degree.’ He laughed again, amused by the thought. ‘And, crucially, you knew Beech Tree well. You can talk about him, say nice things. She knows you exist, he told her about you, so she’ll know you’re the real thing, not a come-on. He told her all about you when he was trying to persuade her to defect. It’s in the file. You wrote it.’

  ‘She speaks English?’

  Martin raised his index finger. ‘Good point. Not for nothing you made it to Chief, Charles.’ He shook his head. ‘She probably has some English. They mostly do these days. You have no Russian, I take it?’

  ‘I don’t. Maybe you’d better find out.’

  ‘Indeed. I shall do that very thing.’ Martin got up and went to his desk, where he made a note. ‘You’ll think about it, though, will you?’

  ‘I’ll talk it over with Sarah.’

  ‘Very wise, the lovely Sarah. Do give her my love. You’ve landed on all four paws there, if I may say so. Want to have a look at your old office on the way out, for old times’ sake? It’s Pamela’s now, of course. She’s made a few changes, put her own stamp on it. But she still has the grandfather clock in there, the one made by the first Chief. Your discovery, I’m told.’

  ‘Thanks, another time maybe. But I would like a chat with Sonia if she’s around.’

  ‘Not sure if it’s one of her days in. I’ll find out.’

  It wasn’t. Big Ben tolled the hour as Charles walked back across Lambeth Bridge to his home in Cowley Street. The chimes were audible above the traffic, which had still not fully recovered from the pandemic lockdown. Sarah was at work in her City law firm and would not be home until the evening. There was time for him to get out of town and back. He picked up the house telephone and dialled Sonia’s number. He had not used it for over a year but still remembered it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Earlier that same morning, in the faint grey light of dawn, the moored narrow boats on the Grand Union Canal lay heavy on the water. Nothing moved; neither the boats, nor the water, nor the hawthorns lining the towpath. Then a hatch opened on one boat and a man stepped out. He wore jeans, trainers and a blue Guernsey, with a dark jerkin folded over his arm. He stood staring at the lightening sky in the east, then locked the hatch. His boat had been painted long ago, mostly green with the window frames picked out in faded red and the name – Tickeye Johnny – in white. But it looked solid; there was nothing loose on the cabin roof, the black metal flue showed no rust and the deck area was tidy. At the stern a bicycle was chained to the rudder post. It was an ordinary, unremarkable black bike, with straight handlebars, cable brakes and the saddle only slightly raised.

  The man put on his jerkin, staring east while he zipped it, then unchained his bike, lifted it carefully onto the towpath and pedalled slowly along it. When he reached the road he turned on his lights and joined the early commuter traffic heading towards Leighton Buzzard Station. At the station he chained his bike to the rack and joined the short queue at the ticket office. Most of the other travellers swiped through the barriers with their season tickets.

  The man was less than average height, with short brown hair, an outdoor complexion and grey eyes, the left with an intermittent tick. He was thickset but not fat, his expression not impassive but quietly watchful. He asked for his ticket in a Geordie accent. Told it was too early for a day return and that he would have to pay full price, he nodded and produced cash from his jerkin, counting off the notes from a fat roll.

  He read nothing on the train, neither on paper nor screen, but simply stared at the passing landscape. He got off at Tring and set off on foot towards town. The sky had clouded over and was spitting rain. He took a black woollen hat from his jerkin pocket and walked quickly for about a mile and a half before turning into a road of 1960s detached houses. It was a quiet road, the houses were well kept, their front gardens neat, their parked cars mostly less than five years old. He pressed the doorbell of Number 29 and stepped back so that he could be seen from the window.

  * * *

  ‘Okay if I pop up today for a quick chat?’ said Charles when Sonia answered the phone. He had to raise his voice over her barking dogs. ‘With apologies, of course, for intruding on your day off.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about days off. Not my choice.’

  ‘Sounds as if we’ve plenty to talk about.’

  ‘Did you arrange this with our mutual friend?’

  ‘Our mutual friend?’

  ‘You know who I mean. He’s here now.’

  Charles ran through a mental list, opting for one of the least likely and assuming Sonia was not being sarcastic in calling him friend. ‘Not Tickeye Johnny?’

  ‘The very same. You’re not going to say it’s coincidence.’

  ‘It is coincidence. Will you pick me up at the station?’

  ‘Tickeye walked. In the rain.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do the same.’

  ‘Let me know which train.’

  He bought a Times at Euston and sat with it unopened on his lap. Tickeye Johnny was the nickname of an ex-Para, ex-SAS, ex-MI6 surveillance operative and part-time bodyguard. But since leaving MI6 he had become a full-time fugitive from social contact, with no fixed address and no known telephone number. He was known to travel the canal system in a houseboat and was often uncontactable for weeks at a time. His sister farmed in Northumberland and he sometimes spent time in the hill country there, odd-jobbing on farms and stables, sleeping in barns. His sister’s address was his so far as his bank, MI6 and his army records were concerned. She took messages but could never say when he would reappear. Pressed, she would say she thought he had a woman somewhere locally, maybe in Carlisle. She suspected there was another down in Bedfordshire, though why she thought that she couldn’t remember. Probably something he said, and it may have been Lincolnshire anyway. He never talked about personal things, never had. ‘Kept hisself to hisself, liked his own company.’ But he was a man, after all, so he had to put it somewhere.

  Most people who had worked with Tickeye assumed his nickname referred to the tick in his left eye. Charles, who had got to know him better than most, had once asked if he minded. Tickeye grinned, saying it was a story against himself, a reminder of when he had cocked up with the army in Afghanistan. He was serving with a detachment of Special Forces-trained Gurkhas and had left his section hide one night to recce dead ground in the valley below, where they suspected some Taliban might have taken refuge. It came on to rain hard and simultaneously he began to feel feverish and dizzy. He tried to retrace his steps but was soon disorientated in the impenetrable dark, stumbling among rocks and bushes. Fortunately, the noise he must have made was drowned out by the pelting rain, but his limbs were trembling, his teeth chattering and he was so dizzy that he couldn’t tell whether he was going up or down. He knew that if he blundered into trouble he wouldn’t be able to blunder out of it. He knew too what the Taliban did to prisoners.

  When he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, his mouth went dry and his stomach somersaulted. Next he felt warm breath behind his ear and heard a whisper, ‘Tickai chah, Johnny.’ That was Gurkhali for ‘All right, Johnny.’ A Gurkha in his section had followed him out, and now led him back. They often called British soldiers Johnny.

  When his story became known in the regiment, the name, anglicised to Tickeye, had stuck. He was happy to tell the story to any who asked as a tribute to the Gurkhas, whom he admired without reservation.

  But few asked. ‘People in the Service are too nice,’ he had said to Charles. ‘They’re embarrassed because they think it’s about my eye. Not like the army, where I was called Blinker before I was called Tickeye. Suits me.’

  His cheerful confession of error was the only chink in the armour of self-containment that Charles had ever detected in the former sergeant. They shared several MI6 operations together when Charles, operating under alias abroad, needed a surveillance or counter-surveillance team. When he could he always chose Tickeye to lead it, which he invariably did calmly and competently. Only once did Tickeye have to intervene.

  That was late at night in Istanbul when Charles, hands in coat pockets and hunched against the cold, was hurrying back to his hotel from an agent meeting with a junior Chinese official. It had gone well. The man was an eager agent, motivated largely by resentment of those promoted above him through family connections in the Communist Party. Although his job gave him little access to intelligence, his membership of the Party and access to Party briefings was surprisingly useful. Charles was returning by a roundabout route, agreed in advance with Tickeye and the team so that they could check whether anyone – either Turkish security or Chinese counter-intelligence – was following him from the meeting. He didn’t know whether the team would be close to him or far back or whether they would simply have positioned themselves at various points. He didn’t need to know and it wouldn’t do to appear to be looking. He walked quickly, traversing a network of narrow winding lanes and alleyways populated on a winter’s night mainly by the stray dogs and cats that were everywhere in the city.