Faithless (39 page)

             
"Sure. When will I see you again?"

             
"I don't know."

             
"We need to talk," he said. "Somewhere private."

             
She frowned. "I can't do this now."

             
"And I can't live like this. I need to be straight with people."

              She looked unhappy.

             
He insisted. "We either end it, or we sort it out."

             
"I don't want to end it," she said.

             
"I don't want to end it either," he said. "But you can't keep me hanging on like this."

             
"So, it's all about you?"

             
"Of course not. Don't use that cheap trick to avoid the issue."

             
In the end she said, "Duncan's away in Brussels. Do you want to come to my house?"

             
"Your house? Are you nuts?"

             
"There'll be nobody there."             

             
He hesitated and then said, "I'll have to make some excuse, but yes."

That evening John did not go straight home. He went instead to Chepstow Villas not far from the Soviet Embassy. It was getting dark when he made his walk
. Ready, concealed inside his fist he had a small flat coloured plastic bear that would normally be used on the front of a child's birthday card. The back side of the bear had a thin film of tacky glue. With hardly a pause, he stooped down and stuck the bear at waist height onto a metal street lamp. Above, the light realised night had come and flickered on.

The bear was a sign for an emergency brush contact the following day. Bebur walked that way each day on his route to the Embassy, and each day he looke
d out for the signal.

Later, that night John sat with Karen and the girls watching a dull episode of
Howard's Way
which nevertheless seemed to delight Morag and Eilidh. He drank a glass of wine and wrote out a message on the blank spaces around the Times crossword. He used a pen supplied to him by the Russians. If he were ever found with it, it would mean a jail sentence.

             
"What are you doing?" asked Karen, barely looking over her shoulder, lifting her wine glass to her mouth.

             
"Doing this crossword. Stuck on one of the clues.
'He barely makes an appearance.'
"

             
"You don't do crosswords."

             
"I do sometimes."

             
"I've known you since you were sixteen and I don't remember you ever doing one. Anyway the answer is '
nudist'.
"

             
The Soviet pen wrote invisible words. He needed to see Bebur urgently.

The next day John went to work as usual. At 12:40 he began his lunchtime stroll down to the British Museum. He had the copy of yesterday's Times under his left arm and he ate his sandwich as he walked. He arrived at the front gates of the British Museum at 12:50. He often went there in his lunch hour; he once told his colleagues that he wished he could go every day to see a little piece at a time so he could absorb it better.

John entered the gr
and main entrance and went left to the Assyrian sculptures. He checked his watch and paused to admire the huge stone human-headed lions stolen from the gates of Nimrud. He was able to look idly back to where he had come from without attracting attention. Then he walked purposely along the Egyptian gallery and up the west stairs. He stopped to tie his shoes suddenly on the stairs causing the handful of people behind him to pass him by. He looked down the stairs behind him. No one lingered. A few steps ahead on the landing, an Italian teenager moaned about how boring it all was to her mother and father. John walked straight along the Middle Eastern gallery, suddenly pausing as if his attention had been caught by a Mesopotamian cuneiform tablet.  Then quickly, at the end of the long straight run of galleries, he stepped into the parallel row and walked back in the direction he had come. He checked his watch again. Everyone who was around was looking in other directions and John hurried to the North Stairs and made his way down. At the bottom there was a narrow kink in the dark panelled passage. A man in a dark suit walked towards him. A look confirmed it was Bebur Gelashvili. For a split second they were alone and out of sight. Without pausing or speaking they exchanged copies of yesterday's Times and then John walked on and out into the sunshine at the back of the British Museum. He crossed the road. An attractive woman passed by him, giving the opportunity to stop look along the street as if admiring her walk away. There was no surveillance. Inside the Times, the note from Bebur gave a time and a date for a meeting, but not in London.

John phoned Karen to she he'd be working late. Unexpectedly she wasn't tetchy; she said Angie was coming round and they were go
ing to watch a movie on VCR. He left the Gower Street office and made his way to Euston Square Tube. From there he caught the Circle Line to High Street Kensington and walked to Ailsa's house. Despite the Indian Summer, the leaves on the trees were starting to brown and curl. A breeze blew a McDonald's carton gently rattling down the gutter. He wasn't far from where he walked the night before to place the signal for Bebur. Tonight he was engaged in a different betrayal.

             
He hurried up the steps of Ailsa's house and rang on the bell. There was no answer immediately. He felt exposed on those white marble steps as he stood there in plain sight. Then she answered the door. He was impatient to get off the step. He walked into the house. "I haven't brought anything."

             
"What like? Wine? Red roses? This isn't a dinner party. I don't want to eat canapés."

             
"Let me in."

             
She stepped back and then closed the door after him. They waited at the door. She looked like she wanted to touch him but she hesitated, "You're being distant," she said.

             
He ran his hands through his hair. "We need to choose what we're going to do."

             
A smile that looked like a nervous attempt to conceal anxiety flickered on her beautiful face. "Can't we just keep on the surface?" She came towards him and pulled him to her. He buried his face in her blonde hair and smelled her. She smelled of expensive perfume, wine and her own flesh. She held him tight like she didn't want to let him go.

             
"That's not me."

             
"No you're an all or nothing kind of man," she said.

             
"I'm all for you," he said.

             
"That's a cheesy line," she said. "Where did you read that?"

             
"I love you," he said, "It has a force. I can't stop it ."

             
She said, "I'm nervous. It makes me ratty. I've got wine if you want some."

             
"Yeah, all right. I could use a drink." He looked around him at the entrance hall and corridor as he followed her to the kitchen. The floor was black and white marble squares with antique Persian rugs laid here and there. There were original paintings on the walls. She saw him looking. "That's by Sheila Fell. Do you know her?"

             
He shook his head. "Looks gloomy."

             
"Some might say that," she said. "Philistines." He didn't respond. She twined her fingers through his. "For some reason you make me happy. Even though you never give me any peace. Weird isn't it?"

             
He shrugged. "I haven't done anything to make you happy."

             
"Wine," she said.

             
He nodded. "Nice kitchen."

             
"Are you an estate agent by the way?" she said as she poured his wine.

             
"Piss off."

             
She laughed and handed him his glass. They stood in the kitchen, the tasteful spotlights in the ceiling making chrome and granite worktops shine. She was dressed in jeans and a blue top that accentuated the curves of her hips and breasts.

             
"So? What now?" she said.

             
"I can't tell you to leave him."

             
"No."

             
"But I want you to."

             
"I know."

             
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "Can't we just fuck and be deceitful and low like everyone else?"

             
"I want to be honest."

             
"Honesty causes a lot of trouble."

             
"Then we have to end it."

             
"Is that a threat?"

             
He sighed. "I'm not threatening you."

             
"I love you too. Stupidly. Irrationally. Unwantedly." She shrugged. "I'm fucked up but at least I know it."  He saw she was crying.

             
He went to hold her. She put her wine glass down. He held her close and she leaned up to him and kissed him. At first she was tentative. Then she became hungry as if she wanted to devour him. He ran his hands over her hips and her buttocks. Desire burned away his principles like fire runs through a forest. All his planning. Everything he thought he'd say; everything he thought he wouldn't do, crisped and flamed and was gone. She was the sorceress Circe but he was no Ulysses.

             
"We'd better go upstairs," she said and led him by the hand.

             
"I don't want to do it in his bed."

             
"But you want to do it."

             
"Not in his bed."

             
"Your squeamishness is so arbitrary. Surely the key point is shagging his wife, not rumpling his sheets? Anyway, he has nothing to do with washing and ironing - in case you were worried you were going to give him work."

             
"So my issue is that I'm squeamish. What about you?"

             
"I fuck to avoid facing my demons."

             
"And thus you buy me off."

             
"Come, on. We do it so well together."

             
She led him through into one of the spare rooms. She stripped in front of him while he looked on. She kept his gaze with a  smile on her face as she undid her jeans. She knew her deliberate removal of her clothes was exciting him. He advanced on her and pushed her onto the bed. He made love to her ferociously. She watched his face as he entered her. He became rough. She stopped him when he was deep in his lust for her and said, "Gently," and he became gentle. They were as lascivious and kind as doves to each other on the linen sheets. And when he was near, she came with a cry , as if wounded. But he couldn't stop himself. Then, when he looked at her, he saw she was crying. She said, "Crying doesn't mean I don't love you, don't worry."

             
"I don't want to make you cry."

             
"Well you do."

             
He lay down beside her wondering at her beauty.  They lay in silence listening to each others hearts. She leaned in and kissed him gently then she said, "Do you like this painting?"

             
On the wall in front of him above a bookcase filled with old Penguin classic novels was a painting of a family on a summer's day in a country house. They sat by open bay windows. Behind them were gardens and beyond those a lake and green mountains.  The family looked wealthy and happy. "It's one of my favourites," she said, "I'd like to be there."

             
John said, "If I was there, I'd be the servant."

             
She laughed. "I feel like I'm dating Che Guevara."

September 1985, London:
The FLUENCY committee met in a dingy office in Century House. It had small windows looking out high over the desolate concretescape of Lambeth. The room had a cheap Civil Service table around which were six cheap Civil Service chairs. A mother-in-law's-tongue plant and a yucca sat on top of green metal filing cabinets with combination locks. They looked as if no one watered them but  they survived nevertheless. In the room were Philip Neilson as TCI/3;  another elegant gentleman in  an expensive suit who was SIS's Controller Soviets or C/SOV. From MI5 were Toby Ewing who was K7/2, second in command of MI5's section for investigating penetration of British Security and Intelligence, and Sue O'Hanlon as K4/A2 - John's old enemy. An SIS secretary was keeping the minutes. C/SOV had been station head in Amman then Damascus and Arabian coffee was served. There were no biscuits.

             
C/SOV smiled at Philip who led a round of introductions. Everyone except Sue knew each other. The Indoctrination List was handed round and signed solemnly.  

             
"Ok," said Philip. "You will know that MORNING RUNNER - an agent being run by K3 here in London has disclosed to his handlers that the KGB has a source within the British "Soviet Section". Now as we run at least some operations jointly in London," he smiled at C/SOV, "the source could be either in SIS or the Security Service. This disclosure was the subject of this CX report."  He pointed to the CX report on the table marked TOP SECRET UK EYES ALPHA.

             
Toby leaned forward and said, "This is exactly the kind of thing they'd feed us to keep us chasing our tails."

             
"I agree," said Philip. But we also have this." He picked up another document. This one was labelled TOP SECRET UK/US EYES ONLY ULTRA GAMMA.

             
"SIGINT?"

             
Philip nodded. "It's a transcript of a conversation between two KGB Generals in Moscow using car phones. They refer to an agent ADAM in London producing some excellent material. One of these generals was the head of Directorate K - responsible for penetrating Western Intelligence."

             
"Would they really be so open?" said Toby. "I'm still sceptical. Feels like deliberate misinformation."

             
Philip said, "But, as far as I can tell the phones were encrypted, we just broke the code. And do they know we can listen to their telephones from space?"

             
"Don't underestimate the KGB, Philip. They're not dunces."

             
C/SOV took the document from Philip and looked at it. "It's routed through GCHQ but it looks like it's NSA product."

             
"Oh dear," said Toby. "That means the Americans know."             

             
C/SOV said, "The last thing we need is for the Americans to think we're penetrated. That would really be rather unwelcome." He looked at Philip. "Have CIA liaison made any noises?"

             
Philip shook his head. "What about the FBI?" he asked Toby.

             
Toby shrugged. "Not a sausage. That doesn't mean they don't know though."

             
"Who knows what the Americans know?" asked Philip. "They could even be bugging this room!"  They all laughed.

             
"Well," said C/SOV, "as unpalatable as it may be, we need to put our house in order before they come banging on the door."

             
"Agreed, " said Toby. Everyone nodded simultaneously.

             
"We can't put all the officers in K3 and K4 under surveillance," said Sue. "We don't have the resources."

             
"Also we need to keep this quiet," said Toby. "We can't use A4."

             
C/SOV nodded. "I'll have a word with our Military Liaison. We can possibly use 14 Company Surveillance. No K3 or K4 officers will know them."

             
"Is that Army?" asked Sue.

             
The men nodded.

             
"But still, I'm sure they don't have enough people to follow everyone."

             
"No," said Toby. "We need to be systematic."

             
"Can we narrow it down?" asked Sue.

             
"Well we could try the old marked fiver technique," said Toby.

             
"Don't know that one, do I?" asked Philip.

             
"Slip them some juicy information and track it back," said Toby.

             
"How will we know when it gets back?" asked Sue.

             
"I'm looking at you sir," said Toby glancing over to C/SOV.

             
C/SOV coughed. "If we pass some information of relevance for the Czechs and the KGB feels like sharing it with them, then we will know about it. That's all I'm prepared to say of course."

             
"Of course," said the men. Sue nodded, looking out of her depth.

             
"Let's say," said Philip, "that we feed something back to the effect that we have put radio beacons - what do you call them? GRAYLING? on all Czech intelligence officers cars. Then when we notice them being removed, that will let us know. That'll be extra confirmation to anything any Czech source can tell us."