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Things were beginning to happen. You often got that in an investigation. For a long time, everything seemed very slow, and sometimes even stationary. Then, all of a sudden, things sped up, and you could hardly keep up as event piled on event.
He got on the bus to Charing Cross and sat at the back where he could watch the other passengers. Manual of Effective Spycraft, Rule #404. Yet all he could think about now was the interview. He’d given as good as he got – hadn’t he? The hope now was that Murgatroyd would turn out a distorted version. Then they’d be in clover.
But what was he thinking? So long as you’re under investigation within this organisation, you’re not entitled to the rights and privileges of an ordinary citizen. So far as he knew, there was no obligation on anyone to write anything up, much less to make corrections if there was a mismatch between any finished document and some clandestine recording.
Still, there’d been no mention of a second meeting. Just ‘Thank you that will be all’, or words to that effect. And no questions about his willingness, or otherwise, to resort to violence. He’d left the room genuinely uncertain of what impression he’d made. Given how he’d baited Murgatroyd, it should have been negative. But then at no point had the interviewer seemed riled, not really. Odd, odd, it was all very odd.
What would he do when he was thrown out of the service? Better start thinking about it now. Everything changes, nothing lasts for ever. Probably a good thing. Languages, his one talent. Maybe go and work for Linguaphone. Or perhaps the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Bit more prestigious.
But no. That would be more of what he was doing now. Busy days with no particular good karma to show. Better to work for a charity. Maybe his sister could get him into MSF. He imagined her reaction – ‘But you’ve got no medical skills, John!’, said in the most cheeriest, most tactful way possible, of course. ‘But you must need interpreters’, he’d say. Then her: ‘Let me see what I can do then. I’ll get back to you’. The end.
All his sisters thought he was unemployable. Parents too. A few years ago, when he’d told them he’d landed a job as a sales rep selling machine parts, there was general relief. Like that was way better than they’d expected. Occasionally, his dad gave him a ‘You should be looking for promotion’ talk, even though his dad didn’t know exactly what it was he already did – and couldn’t, since his cover job didn’t exist. But those talks were becoming less and less frequent.
Maybe make a clean break. Work with animals. Dog rescue centre, something like that. Get a dog of his own, even. A Labrador or a Greyhound, ex-racing. Go on holidays together to Wales and the Lake District. Drive up to Scotland with Tubby on the back seat. Yes, that’s what she’d be called. Fat or thin, it didn’t matter. With a dog, the name didn’t have to match the weight or figure. No rules. Anarchy in the UK.
The bus grumbled along, crawling behind cars and bikes, then suddenly lurching forward or pulling out or both, occasionally giving a loud hiss like a sigh, as if to say it was fed up doing this. Outside it was a cloudy, dry, nondescript afternoon. Men and women plodded along in opposite directions at different speeds, none of them looking glad to be alive. Because they weren’t smiling, and because the sun was in, they all looked shabby. That’s what no smile plus no sunshine did to people. Made them look unkempt. Pretty good job he couldn’t see himself in the mirror.
He got off at Charing Cross and walked down to Trafalgar Square. He saw Annabel and Edna before they saw him: a petite, severe-faced woman with long blonde hair in unusual bunches, and a tall, thin black woman with a shaven head. Sitting side by side on the edge of the fountain with a packet of biscuits. They didn’t look shabby, but that was probably because he knew them and Edna was laughing. He checked his own clothes. Interview suit, not bad. Still, the sun was in and he wasn’t smiling.
He advanced across the square to meet them. They saw him and got up. Before he could make up the distance, though, a little boy of about eight came up to Edna and said something to her. The boy’s family came over, introduced themselves, took out their phones for selfies with the gold medallist. Yet more people arrived, attracted initially to the curiosity, then to Edna.
Annabel peeled off and came over to meet Mordred.
“Edna’s coming in a minute,” she said, looking behind her at the still gathering crowd. “Or maybe ten. She’ll meet us in The Red Lion.”
“I take it you’ve finished the fig rolls.”
“We had to. I remembered after I called you: as soon as you’re allowed near anything edible, you start feeding pigeons. Sorry, but it’s your own fault.”
They crossed the road and began to walk down Whitehall towards the Houses of Parliament. “So how did your interview go?” Annabel asked. “Sorry, you’ve already told me that. ‘Good and bad’. But I was so eager to tell you about Planchart, I changed the subject.”
“I didn’t disgrace myself.”
“What did they ask about?”
“Not ‘they’; ‘he’. One man, on his own. Not even someone there to introduce him. Could have been anyone.”
“Sounds like Black. That would be just their style.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
“The good thing is, you’ve someone down there to vouch for you.”
“Oh?”
“‘Dao-ming Chou’ aka Maggie Barclay. Your first real sweetheart, remember? Love in Siberia then never seen again. Whom we all remember with affection.”
“I can do without being teased. It’s been a difficult day.”
“Seriously, though. She may have left you, but I doubt she wants to see you impugned.”
“She may not even be working there any more.”
“No one leaves Black. Ever.”
Mordred frowned. “All the rubbish that’s bandied around about that department. I’ve no idea how it’s managed to survive all these years without a severe debunking. Someone needs to dial 999 and ask for James Randi.”
“What I suppose I’m trying to say is, look on the bright side. Incidentally, I suppose they – sorry, he, your interviewer – brought up the time you went up to Ian, in the toilets, and told him you were a Communist?”
“I didn’t ‘go up to him’. Anyway, how did you find out about that?”
“Everyone knows about that, John. The only surprise is it didn’t make the Evening Standard. I suppose he also asked about when Ian Woodward went to Syria with Thelma from White?”
“He did mention it, yes.”
“And how you’ve been heard to admit you prefer feeding pigeons to serving the Queen?”
“Not my actual words.”
“The point is, you actually are guilty. That’s the great thing about you. Somewhere along the line, you actually have been radicalised.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Come on, John. It’s not the bloody army. We’re supposed to be individuals. Grey doesn’t get that. My guess is they’re still living in the days of Sir Vernon George Waldegrave Kell, KCMG, and the ‘War Department Constabulary’. This case against you doesn’t stand a chance. It’s not even premised securely. Enjoy it while it lasts. See it as a chance to reminisce and reflect.”
“Let’s talk about you, shall we?”
They reached the Red Lion. They went straight to the bar and waited to be served. The usual postprandial crowd sat about on stools and chairs, chatting and drinking, or just looking blankly at the floor.
“What are you having?” Mordred asked.
“It’s my turn to buy,” she said. “You bought in the Duck and Waffle last month.”
“You paid for the pizza in Mrs Hennigan’s.”
“You pay, then. Let’s not argue. I’ll have a fresh orange juice with ice, please. Get one for Edna too.”
“Two iced fresh oranges and an American Cream Soda, please,” Mordred said when the barman came over.
“I’m - ” the barman said, looking flummoxed, “I’m not sure ... We may be out of American Cream Soda right now. Let me go and look. I won’t be a minute. Just one second.”
“Don’t worry, that’s fine,” Mordred said. “I’ll have a shandy instead. Please.”
The emergency ended, the drinks were supplied. Mordred took them to the window-seat where Annabel was.
“No American Cream Soda again?” she said.
“They may have it, they may not. I decided not to wait.”
“Wise decision.”
It wasn’t secure for them to talk here about anything professional, so Annabel lapsed into a complete, comfortable silence. She had the capacity to do that at any time, and when she did, you were just left alone, as if you didn’t exist. Mostly, it was when work-related topics had been exhausted, or she judged there might be risks to unguarded talk: store cameras, CCTV, or stationary unidentified strangers. That was the difference between her and Phyllis, though. With Phyllis, under the same circumstances, the conversation would simply switch to the TV or the weather, or plans for the weekend. Annabel didn’t seem to think those things worth airing. Which they weren’t, not really. The problem was, he was itching to find out why she’d called him as a matter of urgency earlier that day.
“Could we drink outside?” he asked.
She looked at him as if he’d woken her up. “Have you any idea how difficult it is to get a proper seat in here? And what about Edna’s orange?”
“We can take it with us.”
She smiled. “Oh, I see, yes. Sorry, I said I had a plan, and I neglected to tell you what it was. And now you’re busting with excitement. Let’s go, then. I think there’s a pavement table, if it’s not taken.”
They went outside. The sun had come out, but it went in again as soon as it saw Mordred, and stayed there. He finished his shandy and held the empty glass. The picnic table was taken, so they stood by the front door like a couple of smokers. Annabel did a scan of the area to satisfy herself they weren’t being watched.
“In three days’ time,” she said, “Daldalian-Hasque is holding a party on the twenty-eighth floor of One Canada Square. Edna’s got an invite, and I’m going with her, as her PA. Since I won’t know anyone there, no one will notice when I disappear halfway through the evening.”
“What’s Daldalian-Hasque?”
“Architects and surveyors.”
“How did Edna get an invitation?”
“Do you really need to ask, John? All you’ve got to do with Edna is put her in place and make her amenable. She unlocks any door. I’ll tell you the details if you want – a bit of research by me into upcoming events in 1CS, an ‘accidental’ bumping into Mr Daldalian himself – literally – then an oh, I’m so sorry on Edna’s part, a gosh, aren’t you the gold medallist on his, etcetera, etcetera, one thing leading to another, and all culminating with an I’m one half of Daldalian-Hasque and we’re having a party - but I warn you, I’m quite boring when I start talking minutiae.”
“I think I’ve got the picture. Thanks.”
“Shall we go back inside now?” she asked. “Where do you think Edna actually is? I’m going to end up having to drink her orange at this rate.”
“What if someone tries to chat you up?”
“What are you talking about? In the Red Lion?”
“At the Daldalian-Hasque bash,” he replied. “Then they’ll be interested in you and they’ll notice if you disappear halfway through the evening.”
She frowned. “Are you just trying to make conversation? Because I am a professional, you know. I don’t need coaching.”
“Sorry. I was only saying. Men do tend to notice when a very attractive woman leaves the room, even a mere PA. That’s not a piece of sweet talk. I’m just warning you.”
“Thank you for the advice. So I’ll make myself vastly less attractive. Happy?”
“Do you want another drink?”
“I’ve got Edna’s.”
Suddenly, Edna appeared from the crowd two hundred yards away, walking briskly towards them. Hopefully, she’d provide some sort of pretext for him to get away. He could tell he was starting to get on Annabel’s nerves. Once you’d fussed her, she took against you. You couldn’t un-fuss her in an attempt to put things back the way they’d been. The genie - albeit a stupid one - was out of the bottle.
“All that signing, I’ve got cramp in my wrist now,” was the first thing Edna said. “Nice to see you again, sir. I mean, John.”
“How was Belgium?” Mordred asked.
“Grim,” she replied. “Very grim.”
“Here’s an orange juice,” Annabel said. “John bought it. Drink up and we’ll move on.”
“Where do you want to go?” Mordred asked.
Annabel shook her head, as if the answer was obvious. “Back to base. I want to find out what Ian and Phyllis know about Planchart and Durand, and what our next move is. My feeling is that if you don’t get in at the beginning on these things, you tend to get a bum job. Actually, I think you should stay here, John. Come along later.”
Was she joking? Probably not. “I’ll probably have another drink then,” he said. “Join you presently.”
Edna looked as if she’d rather stay here, but she was still a junior agent and had to look enthusiastic, so she didn’t have a choice. She downed her orange juice while Annabel looked at her watch. Then they left together, without looking back.
“Another shandy, please,” Mordred told the barman.
“Coming up, sir!” the barman replied, as if anything was preferable to the hell of an American Cream Soda.
His phone rang. Annabel. “I was only joking, John,” she said. “I thought you were behind Edna. We’re on our way to the tube. Come on.”
“I’m going to ring Alec,” he said, although the thought had only just occurred to him. “I’ll catch up with you in ten minutes.”
She hung up. He went to contacts and selected Alec, more out of a sense of duty now than because he wanted to. If Belgium had got Edna down, there was no telling how it would have affected Alec. Right now, he was probably full of bitter, black frustration. Call.
“John,” Alec said, cheerily. “I hear you’ve been flagged up as vulnerable to radicalisation. Classic. I laughed so hard I thought my socks would never dry. Where are you now?”
“The Red Lion in Westminster.”
“Weeping into a glass of milk?”
“Something like that. I’ve bought you one if you’re in the vicinity.”
“Funnily enough, I was about to ring you, suggest the same thing. Phyllis is busy debriefing Young Ian now. Apparently, there’s been some sort of development in the Holland case. She suggested I come and see you as a way of me getting up to speed. We can kill two birds with one stone. Milk plus info.”
“Infomilk. Suits me.”
Alec hung up. Mordred’s phone beeped. A text message. Unknown caller. ‘I’m in trouble. Sorry I doubted you. Help me now, please. Sarah.’
Finally. How to play it, though? He’d mentally rehearsed getting this sort of message a dozen times, but he still didn’t know. He went to her number and pressed call, but it was switched off.
That needn’t be a problem, though. Now he had her contact details, he could get Tariq to put a trace on her phone. A matter of priority.
He called Alec. “Change of plan,” he said. “Something’s come up. Meet me back at Thames House as soon as you can get there.”
