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THE THREE MEN FILED into Sir Colin’s office. The carpet smelt new, a landscape window overlooked the city and there was a reproduction Vermeer on each wall. Chairs had been laid out facing the glass-topped desk. Sir Colin sat with his shoulders dropped, idly twirling a ballpoint as if he was at peace with himself and the world.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he said. “You’ve produced an excellent report, Jonathan. Fertile enough for the rest to be considered loose ends. Now I understand how frustrating that must sound when you’ve come so far towards a solution, but that’s the nature of police work. We’re all aiming, in a sense, to make ourselves redundant. The fact that you’ve achieved it in double quick time ought to make you feel proud.”
“You could at least have allowed us the dignity of clearing our own desks,” Bronstein said.
Sir Colin folded his hands. “I must admit, Mr Bronstein, I was disappointed to discover you’re a member of the US Central Intelligence Agency, not the New York City Police Department ... as I was led to believe, and as it says in your application.”
“What? No, I’m not.”
“I resent being misled, Mr Bronstein.”
“So that’s what all this is about?”
Sir Colin clicked his tongue. “With respect, if I can’t rely on you to tell the truth on your application form, when can I rely on you to tell the truth?”
“But I’m not a member of the CIA.”
“In addition to which, I’m not running an intelligence outfit. This is police work, pure and simple. We can’t be doing with an outfit in which intelligence officers outnumber policemen two to one.”
Hartley-Brown leaned forward. “Surely, if we’re getting results?”
“I’m not a member of the CIA,” Bronstein insisted.
“Excuse me, sir,” Orlov said. “Perhaps you could clarify something. Who led you to believe that Lieutenant Bronstein is a member of the CIA?”
“I have it on excellent authority from Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.”
Bronstein shook his head. “I’m a member of the New York City Police Department. I’ve never even been near the CIA. I wouldn’t even know where to look for it.”
“So what happens to us now?” Hartley-Brown asked.
“Jonathan, you’ll go back to what you were doing before, but with a promotion in the pipeline. Mr Bronstein, you’ll report to the US Embassy within twenty-four hours for further instructions. Colonel Orlov, I’ve been authorised by the Foreign Office to offer you indefinite protection in this country as a human intelligence source defector.”
Orlov frowned. “How unexpected.”
Hartley-Brown stood up. “Sir, this is disgraceful.”
“Sit down, Jonathan.”
“I don’t know whether Mr Bronstein is or isn’t a member of the CIA,” Hartley-Brown said. “But it appears as if you cobbled this – this ‘unit’ together simply so MI6 could get its hands on Colonel Orlov. It looks like it was a sham from the beginning.”
Sir Colin glowered. “If Colonel Orlov had remained in Russia, he’d be rotting in a prison. For him to return there would be suicide. We’re not forcing him to accept our offer. And how dare you speak to me like that?”
“I resign.”
“And I’m not a member of the CIA,” Bronstein said. “You’re going to be in diplomatic deep shit when I do report to the embassy - in about thirty minutes’ time. We Americans don’t like it when you call us liars. My application form was countersigned by Raymond Kelly, Commissioner of the NYPD himself, so eat that apple, wise guy.”
Sir Colin flushed. He’d obviously forgotten the countersignature. “I – I can only go on what information I get, and if what I get from SIS - ”
“Presumably, you’ll cover my flight back to Moscow,” Orlov said. “Meanwhile, since you brought me over here at considerable personal inconvenience, I’d be grateful if you could direct me to whatever safe house you’ve provided for me until my plane arrives. Put it this way: it would be an unexpected bonus for my enemies in Russia if they could both kill me and kick up a fuss about your ineptitude in protecting me. And it would send a very clear message to any future would-be defectors.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll arrange, yes, I’ll arrange that now - ”
“You mean you’ve arranged nothing?”
Bronstein shook his head. “Buddy, you’re going to be the butt of every joke in town when this gets out.”
“Please leave my office. You too, Hartley-Brown. You can pick up any personal effects you may have brought with you at reception, otherwise I expect you – no, not you, Colonel Orlov, I simply meant - ”
Hartley-Brown waited till his colleagues were outside then followed them and slammed the door behind him. They marched down the corridor together.
“Where’s the goddamn exit?” Bronstein said.
Hartley-Brown was blushing almost to the point of tears. “I can’t say how very, very sorry I am. I’ve never felt so ashamed of my country as I feel at this precise moment.”
Bronstein put his arm round his shoulder. “You were great in there, Jonathan. Don’t feel bad. Hey, if it helps, there are slimy, backstabbing bastards in all countries.”
“We didn’t even get the chance to tell him about our new leads,” Orlov said.
“You’ve nowhere to stay, Colonel,” Hartley-Brown said.
Bronstein cleared his throat. “Er, you remember that dinner invite, Jonathan?”
Sir Anthony Hartley-Brown’s constituency was in Hertfordshire. He lived there with his wife and two of his children, a seven-year-old adoptee from Darfur named Anya, and his grown-up daughter, Marciella. Mannersby was a Grade 1 listed Tudor building with wide gables, an imposing porch with steps to the front door and a turning circle for vehicles. It had ten bedrooms, a sulky look when it rained, and it sat in four acres of parkland looked after by gardeners.
They arrived by taxi, since they no longer had the use of an official car. All along the way, Orlov claimed they were being followed, and after a while, Bronstein agreed with him. It was a discreet tail, nothing aggressive: clearly those working it genuinely wanted to know where they were going rather than to menace them.
When they got onto the M25, Hartley-Brown rang ahead to let his parents know they were coming and ask them to make up three beds.
“That’s right, Mother, I’ve resigned,” he said sadly. There was a pause and he added, “There’s no point, I’ve already handed my cards in ... No ... No, I don’t think so.”
“How did she take it?” Bronstein said, after he put the phone down.
He sighed. “She said I should talk to my father first.”
“Sounds just like my mom. If it’s anything important she can’t pronounce because she’s only a woman, and you wouldn’t know because you’re only a boy. It’s either your dad or complete ignorance.”
“And the problem is, mostly you both know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth.”
Bronstein laughed. “Tell me about it.”
Forty-five minutes later, the car crossed onto the gravel of the driveway and slowed. It started to drizzle.
“I think we’ve lost our tail,” Orlov said. “Or more likely they’re satisfied as to our destination.”
“Maybe we should stay here an hour and move on,” Bronstein said. “If they’re going to attack, we don’t want them putting Jonathan’s family in danger.”
“I’ll get my father to get another contingent of security guards in. He won’t mind. He can charge it to expenses.”
“Whoa, I’ve heard all about your famous expenses scandal,” Bronstein said. “Last thing I want is Sir Anthony Hartley-Brown being pilloried by the Fourth Estate on our account.”
“My father has very firm views on the expenses scandal. He thinks it was the result of an institutional failure to make clear where an MP’s salary begins and ends. Of course, he never says that in public.”
“Remind me, what’s side’s he on again?”
“Conservative.”
“Ah.”
“They all think it. They all think the same thing.”
“Are you going to vote for him in the next election?”
“He’s my father. Of course I am.”
“What if he wasn’t?”
“I’ve never considered it.”
“Why not?”
Hartley-Brown took a deep breath. “Well, I know my mother sometimes votes for the other side. And some of their policies seem reasonably well thought-out. But it just wouldn’t seem right.”
“This little sister of yours. Is she good looking?”
“Not really, no.”
Bronstein laughed. The car pulled up outside the front door and Hartley-Brown ran inside to get some money to pay the driver.
His parents stood on the front steps with Anya, looking grave. Mrs Hartley-Brown wore a skirt, a cardigan and pearls. Her grey hair was as round and smooth as an onion, and doubled the volume of her head. She wrung her hands. Her husband was a full eighteen inches taller than her, thin, balding with a moustache. He wore a tweed jacket and grey trousers. Anya stood erect in a smock and pigtails with her feet and hands together. She alone smiled, a picture-perfect child.
Orlov and Bronstein got out of the car. Hartley-Brown formally introduced the two couples and they exchanged handshakes. Mrs Hartley-Brown – Joy – had difficulty restraining her tears. She blew her nose. When they went into the house, father and son walked in front. Joy took up the rear with Orlov and Bronstein, clinging to Anya’s hand as if it was all that remained to her of life or hope.
“Your mother tells me you’ve resigned,” Sir Anthony said. “I’ve news for you, my boy. No, you damn well haven’t.”
“I’m twenty-four. I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions now, thank you.”
“Come into the study. I want to talk to you.”
“Fine, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“I don’t know whether it’s penetrated that pea-brain of yours, but there’s a global recession going on. Even Oxbridge graduates have difficulty finding jobs nowadays.”
“It was a matter of principle.”
“Tripe. We’re going to make a little phone call to Sir Colin Bowker and you’re going to eat deep-pan humble pie, do you understand?”
“No. Sorry, absolutely not.”
They turned left into the study and Sir Anthony slammed the door, leaving Orlov and Bronstein and Joy and Anya alone.
“I’ve – I’ve made a pot of tea,” Joy said.
Orlov drew himself up and adjusted the angle of his body so he was directly facing her. “Mrs Hartley-Brown, you may or may not have heard of me. My name is Sergei Orlov. I’m Russian. Several years ago, I served in an elite tank regiment where I was decorated and promoted to the rank of colonel. Shortly afterwards, I transferred to Intelligence, then, thanks to an unanticipated combination of circumstances, I began to work behind the scenes to set the rule of law in my country on a firmer footing. But I was stopped and sent to prison. Two days ago, I was released at considerable risk to my own safety and brought here under false pretences to conduct a murder investigation. I was duped, Mrs Hartley-Brown, and, with less serious consequences, so was the man on my left. When I go back to Russia, as I will have to now for honour’s sake, I will almost certainly be killed. In all the time I have been here, your son is the only British citizen who has stood up for me. He did so immediately and completely and in a way that hardly anyone else has ever done in my life before. Whatever happens to me now, I owe him a huge debt of gratitude. He has proved to me that there are still good men in the world.”
“Er, I’d like the second that,” Bronstein said, by way of cutting the silence.
Joy sat down at the telephone table and burst into tears. A few seconds later she stood up and threw the study door open. Hartley-Brown and his father were still locked in battle.
“It’s all right, Anthony,” she said. “Stop it, stop fighting. It’s going to be all right.” She put her arms round her son.
Hartley-Brown looked as humiliated as Bronstein had so far seen him, and after what Sir Colin Bowker had done that was saying something. He should sit him down sometime with a quadruple whiskey and tell him more about his own parents, particularly his mom when she’d had too much Shiraz and there was a half-eligible woman in the kitchen. Mortifying didn’t even begin to do it justice.
The dining room was wainscoted and mounted with antique hunting trophies and prints of horses running at Epsom with four legs in the air. They ate beef consommé while a middle aged manservant called Geoffrey, wearing a red waistcoat and a bow tie, stood under a sconce. They would have eaten in silence, but for Joy’s determination to keep the conversation going and Bronstein’s usual garrulousness. After four glasses of wine, Sir Anthony smiled. He leaned over to his son and patted him affectionately on the shoulder.
“At least you’re not a coward,” he said. “I’ve never thought much of Sir Colin Bowker, anyway. Bloody pen-pushing nonentity. What’s the country coming to when we’ve got farty-arse squirts like him in charge?”
“Where are Marcie and Anya?” Joy said. “We’re about to start the main course.”
“You’re still young,” Sir Anthony said. “There’s always the armed forces. Your eyesight’s still twenty-twenty, I trust?”
“I specifically told her,” Joy went on, “seven o’clock sharp.”
“Don’t worry about a reference. Colin Bowker will write whatever I tell him.”
“I think you’ll be hard pressed to get him to write anything positive about me after today,” Jonathan replied.
“Nonsense, it’ll glow in the dark, it’ll be that good. Then you can distinguish yourself in Afghanistan or Iraq. And when you get back we can get you onto the board of some company or other and you can spend your free time – of which there’ll be bags, we’ll see to that - managing the estate.”
“It sounds like a living death,” Hartley-Brown said.
There was a thick silence.
“So what’s your plan?” Sir Anthony said frostily.
“Jonathan, will you go and get Marcie and Anya?” Joy said.
“I was thinking of becoming a social worker.”
Sir Anthony rolled his eyes and expelled an exasperated flute of air through his nose. “That again.”
“Shall I go and get them?” Joy said.
Jonathan wiped his mouth and stood up. “I’ll go.”
Joy turned to Bronstein and Orlov. “I’m terribly sorry, this always happens. We’re sitting here eating dinner and Marcie’s upstairs with Anya playing Call of Duty or Grand Theft Auto.” She smiled. “Of course, you tend to lose track of the time when you’re wasting prostitutes in the hood.”
“Quite,” Sir Anthony said.
Suddenly, the door opened and Marcie burst in with Anya. She had long black hair tied with a clip at the back, brown eyes, big lips and a small nose, and she looked sporty. She was dressed entirely in black – jumper, jeans and pumps – and her face was streaked with mud. She wrapped her arms round her brother and kissed him.
“Sorry I’m late, I’ve been out on a recce,” she said. “You must be the Russian chappie,” she said to Orlov, “and you must be the American. Is that a yarmulke?”
Bronstein grinned and removed it. “Would you like to try it on?”
She sat down. “I’ll just eat my consommé first. I’m really sorry, Mummy, cross my heart and hope to die. Eat up, Anya, there’s a good girl.”
“I take it you were playing that horrible game again,” Joy said.
“This is Colonel Sergei Orlov,” Jonathan said. “And this is David Bronstein.”
“Secret agents, yes?” Marcie replied. “That would explain a lot.”
“I’m with the NYPD,” Bronstein said. “I’m not with the CIA.”
“Daddy, did you know the house is surrounded?”
“I beg your pardon?” Sir Anthony said.
Marcie sprinkled pepper on her soup. “Like I said, Anya and I have just been on a recce. I wasn’t on the Nintendo, Mummy, honestly. Anya saw some men earlier out of her bedroom window and she came to get me because she was scared. I told her we’d wait till dark, then we’d go and investigate. You see, for some strange reason, Benjamin and Jolyon have disappeared into thin air.”
“Who are Benjamin and Jolyon?” Bronstein asked.
“Our security experts,” Jonathan replied.
Sir Anthony leaned forward. “They’ve gone missing?” He turned to the servant. “Geoffrey, would you mind going and confirming that?”
“I rang the police, of course,” Marcie went on. “About an hour ago. But they haven’t arrived. So I went out to investigate. There are about twenty-five of them. I can draw you a map of where they are, if you like. They don’t seem to be moving.”
“I wish you’d told me first,” Sir Anthony said.
Orlov stood up. “I imagine they’re here for me. It wasn’t my intention in coming here to put anyone here in danger.”
“Where are you going?” Bronstein said.
“To give myself up, of course.”
“It’s all right, Mr Orlov,” Marcie said, “they’re not Russian. They’re English.”
“How do you know?” Bronstein said.
“Because I asked one of them.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep doing things like that,” Joy said. “Mind your own business and you don’t invite trouble. As you of all people should know.”
“Mummy’s referring to my Anti-Social Behaviour Order. Don’t look at me like that, Mummy. It’s public knowledge, it was in all the papers. I admit, I was slightly over the limit at the time. But I’d do it again.”
“Marcie - ”
“You can’t just let people walk all over you like that,” she said, as if the subject was closed.
The door opened and Geoffrey slid round it. “I can’t find Benjamin and Jolyon anywhere, sir. And no one recalls seeing them leave.”
“Have you tried phoning them?” Sir Anthony said. “Their number’s in the book under Security. Home and mobile.”
“That’s the other thing, sir. It appears the phones have been cut off.”
“What?”
“Let’s get to the point,” Jonathan said. “Marcie, what did you ask this fellow you spoke to?”
“What he thought he was doing in my back garden, of course. He apologised and said it was a matter of national security.”
“My mobile isn’t working,” Bronstein said, looking at it.
“Nor mine,” Hartley-Brown said.
“Geoffrey, would you mind serving the main course?” Marcie said. “I’ve finished my soup. Tell Kenneth it was very nice.”
“Young lady, are you mad?” Sir Anthony burst out.
Marcie stood up. “Daddy, sit down. Mr Orlov, you too. There are twenty-five of them at least. If they were going to storm the building, they’d have done so by now: it’s not exactly a fortress. My guess is the only reason they’ve cut the phones off is because you’re in the Shadow Cabinet, and you might have influence above and beyond my petty 999 calls. They’re probably here for our protection.”
Everyone was stunned by this outburst of common sense. Orlov and Sir Anthony crept back to their seats and Geoffrey served the main course. Marcie sipped her wine.
After dinner, Joy went upstairs with Anya to put her to bed. Marcie and the men carried on talking for a while, then retired to the lounge. Sir Anthony settled down to read some papers, Hartley-Brown took up a crossword, Orlov and Bronstein found a chess set.
“Do you mind if I watch you play?” Marcie said. She pulled up a chair and put her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands.
After an hour, Bronstein looked up at Orlov, smiled and shook his hand.
“What are you doing?” Marcie said.
“I just resigned,” Bronstein replied.
“But why? It’s only nine-thirty. There’s plenty of time yet. You’re winning: look you’ve all these pieces left, and you’ve got a Queen.”
“Checkmate in ten,” Bronstein said. “Play on if you don’t believe me.”
“Okay, I will.”
She swapped seats with him. Two moves later, she lost her Queen and Orlov boxed her king in. Then she lost a knight and Orlov converted a pawn.
She laughed. “Oh, I see. Yes, I can see it now. You two must be quite clever.”
Bronstein sighed. “How come we ain’t rich?”
At ten o’clock, they decided on a guard-duty rota and went to bed, leaving Bronstein the first on patrol.
Orlov fell asleep as soon as he got into bed. He knew he’d need it tomorrow. But at three o’clock the next morning, he awoke to the sound of the doorknob turning. He forced himself to remain perfectly still as someone slipped inside and closed the door.
“Mr Orlov? Are you awake?” Marcie.
He sat up. She was dressed exactly as she had been earlier. He rubbed his eyes, grabbed the dressing-gown he’d been given and pulled it on.
“Don’t switch on the light,” she said. “I’ve brought you a pair of field-glasses. It’s a full moon. It was cloudy earlier but it’s clear now. They’re not making any secret of their presence, not any more. The weird thing is, they must know we know they’re here.”
“Thank you for your concern,” he said. “But as you said earlier, I don’t think they represent a threat. Otherwise they’d have carried it out.”
She bobbed her shoulders. “But don’t you want to at least see some of them? You might see someone you know. With your trained eye - ”
He decided to humour her. He pulled the curtains to.
She pulled them back. “Don’t do that! They’re probably got night-vision binoculars. They’ll see everything you’re doing.”
“I haven’t got X-ray vision.”
“I thought we might go to my room. I always sleep with the curtains open.”
He smiled. “If your mother and father or brother were to catch me creeping to your room in the middle of the night, I doubt the people outside will be my first concern.”
“I didn’t come here just to give you the binoculars.”
“Oh?”
“And sex is the furthest thing from my mind.”
He let out a flute of air. “That is a relief.”
“Anyway, don’t flatter yourself. And you seem to have forgotten that I sneaked into your room. Mummy or Daddy or Jonathan could have seen that - ”
“Maybe we should continue this conversation downstairs.”
“But they didn’t. Mummy and Daddy are fast asleep and so is Jonathan.”
“What is it you want to talk about?”
“I might be able to help you. I know the local vicar. I can fetch him tomorrow morning and we can be married in the estate chapel. Obviously, you wouldn’t get to hump me. I’m talking about a marriage of convenience, just to keep you from getting deported and killed. Because that’s what’s going to happen if you go back, isn’t it?”
“You would do that for me?”
“Not for you as a person – I don’t know you well enough yet - but because I want to make the world better. God knows, it’s boring enough here. I’m not achieving a thing. Since the ASBO Mummy and Daddy have kept me stuck in the house, and I can’t leave because I saw how much that upset them last time. I’m in limbo.”
“You mean, we can help each other.”
“That’s right. And who knows, I quite like you and you probably quite like me. We could work together for human rights and stuff and after a few years we might even fall in love and we’d be flying.”
He smiled. “I’m afraid I’m going to pass. Although you make it sound very tempting.”
“But why?”
“Because I’d have to become a British citizen.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“The one thing that’s kept me going these last few years is that I’m a better Russian than the men and women who have been trying to frustrate me and kill me. I can’t let go of that.”
She hmm-ed. “I see where you’re coming from. A bit. But you’re going to get killed, aren’t you?”
“Nothing’s ever completely certain. But either way, life isn’t worth holding on to on any terms. Not for anyone.”
“Plan B, then. The priest-hole.”
“The ...?”
“We used to be Roman Catholics, our family. In the olden days, priests came to Mannersby to administer communion, but it was illegal, so they needed a secret passageway. It takes you right outside the grounds.”
He drew a sharp breath. “Where is it?”
