Spies of a certain age have limited choices. They might retire to the country. They might go into politics. They might serve as analysts away from the field, contributing their expertise to threat assessment or profiling. Or they might teach, either inside or outside the intelligence community. Having lived a sort of forced semi-retirement for several decades, Brian had no intention of puttering about. He briefly considered a late-life career as a full professor, but he didn’t want to submit to ivory tower politics. Fortunately for my husband and any future students, MI6 called in the person of the chief himself.
Grayson Tenant is a career SIS officer. The Foreign Secretary appointed him to the chief’s position just after 9/11. C, as he’s known (“It all sounds so James Bond,” I once told Brian), is the only member of the Service known to the public. Information about his private life is released sparingly. His wife Jane is a solicitor. He has two daughters, Adele and Elsie. They’re still in their teens, which must present its own kind of headache for a man in the spy business. Brian assures me their Facebook profiles are a study in atypical adolescent discretion.
Grayson was typically direct during the call.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you chose retirement, Foster. Years in hiding and apart from your wife; raising a son while helping to bring down an international criminal. Hell, you’ve earned a break. I don’t see you exclusively as the pipe-smoking cardigan-wearing type. We can make better use of your talents. The position I have in mind keeps you largely in London. Very little globetrotting. You can still teach part-time. I understand University College has a fine linguistics department.”
The upshot of that conversation and a follow-up meeting has resulted in Brian’s dream job, or so he claims. He remains a senior intelligence officer. He deals exclusively with maritime crime, a perfect fit. He works as a first-tier analyst, interpreting information collected by field officers and making recommendations. He also serves as SIS liaison to the Shipping Defence Advisory Committee, which is a joint effort of the Chamber of Shipping and the Ministry of Defence. He may receive occasional field assignments, he tells me, an announcement I meet with suspicion.
“Nothing dodgy, Suzie; I promise. I’ll mostly advise. I report straight up the chain, all the way to the Home Secretary. The work’s important.”
I agree. Curbing maritime crime is vital to British security. This is an island nation dependent on seaborne trade. Nearly all UK goods are moved over the water. The country’s seaport industry is the largest in Europe. The sheer volume of legitimate traffic in and out allows contraband to be smuggled more easily. Illegal transport is an economic drain. Piracy disrupts the flow of goods. Trafficking brings international criminals to British shores. Organized gangs run interference at the docks in return for a share of the profits. The higher the stakes, the greater the danger.
Brian’s cup of tea, you might say, especially as he gets to teach without putting up with the backbiting common to every tenured faculty member in every university everywhere.
His new job interests me for other reasons. The unlawful cargo Brian and his group seek to stop includes people. Human trafficking is big business. The World Health Organization has labeled it an epidemic. The number of persons being moved into and throughout the UK alone is rising dramatically. Desperation and depravity feed the operation on both the supply and demand sides. Much time and money are going into efforts to stem the tide. Unfortunately, short-term prospects for eliminating the scourge are bleak.
During my long and difficult career, I was trapped in a destructive professional relationship with an unforgiving man. I don’t deny the pathology of that association or the physical and psychological consequences to me. I’m trying to understand what kind of person I became, what kind of person I might still be. My long-dormant rage remains unresolved. I’m unsure which issues I’ve buried and which have simply morphed or dissolved with time.
One thing is true: I was never physically battered, starved, or imprisoned. I was in fear for my life, but I lived well. I had the love of a good man. Although I was apart from him and from my son a long time, I knew they waited for me. I can’t presume to understand the suffering or anguish of someone who has been kidnapped or forced to live as a sex slave.
I feel an affinity for victims of this sort of abuse. I want to help them. I want to root out the causes, ferret out the perpetrators, fight the good fight. Channeling my anger, I suppose. Despite my aversion to overt involvement, I’ve found myself drawn in.
There are dozens of UK organizations dedicated to eliminating human trafficking. As helpful as these organizations are, there is some overlap among them. I’ve chosen to support Freedom to Hope because of its on-the-ground efforts in Cambodia and the Ukraine. Changing a culture that devalues and victimizes its most vulnerable citizens is unimaginably difficult. I can only hope the next generation is a more compassionate one. Meanwhile, money draws both men and women in as predators, not just product. Cutting into demand—making it less profitable—falls in part to Brian and his crew. This particular nonprofit focuses primarily on the victims.
I’ve offered to help on an ad hoc basis. Since I’m not a staff member or a counselor, my value to the organization is as a contributor. I don’t know how to be a fundraiser; I simply don’t know the right people. Instead, I donate as generously as possible and find myself on a committee planning the ubiquitous gala. As I stuff envelopes and chat up the other members, I marvel at where I am at this point in my life: in the company of London society ladies instead of at the mercy of a pitiless criminal. How odd.
Dr. Ankit and Mrs. Riya Chadha, the organization’s major patrons, have offered to host the affair at their Kensington home. He’s a world-renowned heart surgeon. She chairs the Freedom to Hope board and sits on several others. Their house in the city is rumored to be worth more than twelve million pounds and has been featured in Home and Design. In their late forties, they’re drop-dead gorgeous, like movie stars. Betsy Harrigan, who is co-chairing the event, tells me they have three unusually gifted children. The eldest is earning top grades at Oxford, the middle child is a topnotch equestrian, and the youngest is a musical prodigy of some sort. A superstar family.
I tell my husband I’m not one for hobnobbing. He reminds me it’s for a good cause. He’s right.
The night of the gala, I opt for a simple amber sheath made by an up-and-coming designer I like. It works with the simple gold jewelry I’ve chosen. Brian looks his usual smart self in a business suit. I’ve managed to sell tickets to Tommy and Maggie, who in turn have purchased two more for friends. I’m not sure if this represents the best way to ingratiate myself into the good graces of our future in-laws.
The evening is an unqualified success. There are the usual speeches, including a moving presentation by a human trafficking victim. Afterward, we organizers circulate. I’ve been asked to serve as an “awareness leader,” which I take to mean someone who makes sure the guests understand how desperately we need money. I’ve armed myself with facts and figures and acquit myself rather well, I think. At any rate, I get several gentlemen and at least two women to go for their checkbooks on the spot.
“You are absolutely terrific at this.” Betsy is enthused over my performance. She’s a good-natured woman, perhaps forty-five, with soft blonde hair and pale skin that flushes easily. The epitome of English wholesomeness. Husband Jack runs an enormously successful retail operation. Money wouldn't necessarily earn them a place in high society; however, Betsy's people apparently go all the way back to before the Magna Carta. Their one child isn't unusually gifted, but they've put him through all the best schools. Now he manages one of his father’s stores.
She looks lovely this evening. Her black Marc Jacobs dress flatters her figure. Her jewelry is a clever combination of heirloom and new pieces. Her carefully pinned hair is just beginning to come undone. She’s also perspiring, which I put down to excitement and not discomfort.
“We need to make better use of you, Suzanne. Starting now.” My friend is both earnest and insistent. Before I know it, she has me by the elbow and is steering me toward a couple standing quietly to one side. I estimate him to be in his early fifties. She appears to be about ten years younger.
“Suzanne Foster, I would like you to meet Lord and Lady Westcott.”
“Good to meet you.” The lord is whip thin but fit, with lots of tousled brown hair. His tone is sincere, his handshake firm, his smallish hazel eyes warm. A consummate politician. “Call me Mark. And this is—”
His wife cuts in, her manner both gracious and reserved. “Annabel. Or Annie, which I much prefer. Pleased to meet you.”
She extends her hand. It’s mannish yet soft, the wide palm and blunt fingers at odds with the salon polish. Her plain features are softened by expertly applied makeup, a few pieces of high-end jewelry, and a well-cut dress in the most beautiful shade of ruby red. She’s a bit shorter than I am and nicely proportioned. Her dark shoulder-length hair frames a broad flat face. Pale eyes, upturned at the ends, assess me from under heavy eyebrows. Her smile reveals a prominent set of incisors.
“I overheard you speaking to another group about the plague that is human trafficking.” The woman speaks in an upper-class dialect. “I must tell you, your approach is brilliant: calm, informed, but with an underlying urgency that compels your audience to listen.”
Betsy beams to my left.
I ought to be thrilled. Instead, a great weight settles on my chest, as if I’m being crushed. What is going on? My natural wariness sets in. Have I been poisoned? I look at my untouched wine glass. Unlikely. Heart attack? No, the sensation is more generalized. Panic attack? Possibly. But why?
I force myself to respond. “That’s very kind of you to say so.”
Annie is regarding me quizzically. Her head is cocked slightly to one side, her mouth turned down. A slight crease appears in the middle of those thick brows.
“You're American. Have we met before? I feel as if we have. Perhaps a long time ago?” She lifts her voice slightly at the end, appropriate for a question. Yet there is an insistent quality behind the words, as if she will not be contradicted.
I know that tone, the voice in my head warns. The pressure increases. Definitely a panic attack. I remind myself to breathe. “I don’t recall.”
She regards me with crystalline eyes. “You might have known me by my maiden name—Annabel Kemp.”
I’ve never fainted; I won’t start now. I don’t want to lose consciousness. I want to turn back time or teleport myself across the room or out of the building entirely. Anything is preferable to standing here, unable to move.
“Mind if I drop in? I’m Suzanne’s husband, Brian. Brian Foster.” He’s approached quietly to slip his left arm under my right, all the while chatting up my new acquaintances. I don’t bother to wonder how he knows I’m distressed. I simply lean gratefully.
“Hullo, Betsy,” Brian continues. “Great turnout tonight. What a lovely dress. Lord Westcott, your most excellent reputation precedes you. Lady Westcott, I presume. How delightful to meet you.”
The small group preens under his lavish attention. “Please, call me Mark,” insists Lord Westcott once again. Betsy fluffs her hair while Annie favors my husband with her distinctive smile.
“I must borrow my spouse for a minute, if you don’t mind. My lord, my lady.” Brian dips his head and, almost as an afterthought, lifts Annie’s hand and kisses it in a manner at once respectful and amused, as if he knows they’re engaged in an outmoded ritual. She blushes, which perhaps keeps her from noticing how carefully Brian studies her. Then he whisks me away.
We stay another half an hour. The time crawls by. I exchange the requisite pleasantries. I drink a glass of wine, only one. I even make small talk, although words are sticking in my throat. My husband makes some excuse, and we head for our coats. Betsy waylays us to declare the evening an absolute triumph. She seems thrilled with my modest efforts to pull cash out of reluctant donors. I might be pleased if not for the pervasive sense of dread.
As soon as we’re in the cab, I turn to Brian. “Is there any doubt?”
“None at all. I spent a fraction of the time with him that you did. Trust me, though, I remember his face. She looks just like her father, more’s the pity.”
I’ve slowed my heart rate some. The roaring in my ears has receded. My mind tries to process this turn of events. I always knew Kemp had a family in London. His daughter married while I still worked for him. The wedding made the British society pages. I may have overheard him boasting to a colleague about how well she’d done for herself and how much he looked forward to being a grandfather. He said none of that directly to me, of course. I would have killed him on the spot.
The daughter clearly didn’t make the connection. She didn’t remember we met once when she visited her father’s office. I might have looked different. I used another name. No doubt she’ll dismiss the thought from her mind, put it down to misplaced curiosity or an imperfect recollection, and move on to other matters.
If only I could.