Dead Line (22 page)

‘I told you, knowledge of this meeting is going to be very restricted,’ Wetherby said, adding pointedly, ‘There’s no possibility of a leak from our end.’

‘Sure. But it would also be helpful if you could call off your surveillance of Kollek. It’d be a disaster if he spotted it, and this guy’s a real pro. If he thought he was being watched he’d assume we’d told you about him. And anyway, I can’t really see that surveillance would serve any useful purpose now, not when you know we’re running him.’

Charles digested this for a moment. ‘All right. I’ll put that in hand.’

After the Americans had gone, Liz stayed behind. Wetherby stood up and took off his suit jacket, hanging it around the back of his chair. He walked over to the window and looked down at the Thames. ‘So what do you make of that?’ he asked.

‘I suppose they felt they had to come clean. Ty Oakes must have seen he had no option - otherwise, we’d think his London head of station was playing away.’

‘As we did for a moment, yes. Though as you’d expect Ty put as good a face on it as he could. He did his best to make it look as if he was here to cut a deal.’

‘Even though he wasn’t holding any cards to speak of.’

‘Exactly. I’m told Oakes loves a game of poker.’ Wetherby gave a brief smile. ‘You have to admire his
brio
. Ty’s a great survivor.’

‘I can see why. But I’m not sure Andy Bokus was very happy. He must have felt completely exposed. He won’t choose a meeting place as public as the Oval next time.’

Wetherby gave a happy laugh. ‘Probably it was its public nature that appealed to him. Wasn’t it Sherlock Holmes who claimed that if you want to hide in a crowded drawing room, you should sit on the sofa in plain view, while the people looking for you are scouring the corners and poking the curtains?’

‘That’s wonderful advice, until one of them gets tired and sits down on the sofa right next to you.’

Wetherby gave an appreciative grin. ‘Now you know why I can’t take detective stories seriously.’

‘What I don’t quite understand is how this connects to the Syrian threat. If at all.’

‘I think we should assume that Bokus told Kollek more than he should have. Obviously with us, he wanted to act as if he was in complete control, and information was passing strictly one way. But I doubt it, somehow. I got the feeling Bokus is a lot closer to Kollek than he was willing to let on. I’ll need to find out exactly what Geoffrey Fane told Bokus about the source of the information about the Syrians. But if Bokus passed any of that on to Kollek, then the leaks might have come from Mossad. Though what would the Israelis gain from tipping off the Syrians?’

‘Perhaps there’s some factional fight we don’t know about. You know, hawks who don’t want the peace conference to go ahead.’

Wetherby considered this, then shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Mossad has always stayed well clear of politics. That’s one of the reasons they’re so good.’

Liz said, ‘Still, there’s something not right.’ Wetherby looked at her, and she shook her head in mild frustration. ‘I can’t say what it is, because I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have.’

‘I’ve learned to trust those feelings of yours.’ He walked back to his desk looking contemplative. ‘I think we’ll continue watching Kollek for a little while more.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

Charles was working at home that day, which gave Joanne the opportunity she needed. It was time they had what she thought of as ‘the conversation’, if only because there wasn’t much time left.

She was sitting, as she did on most fine mornings, on the small patio outside the kitchen, facing the garden. She had taken to having coffee here after Charles had left to catch his train. She liked to watch the birds swooping down over the river at the end of the garden, catching insects, and the robin that came to drink and wash in the bird-bath on the lawn. Sometimes she’d doze off, and wake chilly, to find that almost the entire morning had gone.

The day was already heating up - the forecast said it would reach the seventies by noon - but she was always cold these days, and wore a thick cardigan over her long-sleeved blouse. She had a pillow wedged against the back of her chair; it lessened the pain, which was constant now in her lower back.

She heard the kitchen door swing open, then bang shut, and a minute later Charles appeared, carrying a tray with a full cafetiere and two mugs.

‘Well done, darling,’ she said cheerfully. Charles smiled in ironic acknowledgement that he had never been a dab hand in the kitchen. Though Joanne thought ruefully of how many duties he had taken on in what had formerly been her preserve.

‘Here you are,’ he said, handing her a mug and sitting down with one himself. ‘Milky and sweet.’

‘Just like me,’ she said lightly. An old joke, but one that still made him smile. She added, ‘I’m certainly not complaining, but I worry about you being at home today. It seems to me you’ve got a lot on.’

‘Don’t you worry.’

‘If you flew to Washington on such short notice, and then they flew here, it must be important.’

He shrugged tolerantly. She went on, ‘And for Liz to come all the way out on a weekend…’

He nodded. ‘Yes, it is busy, but I have these annual confidential reports to write and I can do them more easily at home, where I’m not disturbed, than I can in the office.’ Joanne had once worked in the service. She’d been Charles’s secretary. That was how they had first met. But they had long ago established a convention about his work - he sometimes told her what was going on, but she never pressed to learn more. It had always worked well that way; he was never indiscreet, and she never felt entirely excluded.

‘I liked Liz, by the way.’ She looked at her husband steadily. ‘Very much. I’m glad to have met her.’ She wanted to be absolutely clear about this; it was one of the things she wanted him to know for later.

He nodded and looked thoughtful. Then he said, ‘Well, anyway, the Americans have been and gone, thank goodness. I think that problem is sorted out.’

They sat in silence for a minute. From the river they could just hear the ducks squabbling. Charles finished his coffee and stared down at his mug. ‘Do you remember when we bought these?’ he asked, holding the mug up in the air. It was bright, with a honey-coloured stripe around the rim, and blue and red mermaids painted along its side.

‘How could I forget? It was in San Gimignano, and the boys thought we were mad - they didn’t realise eight thousand lira wasn’t eight thousand pounds.’

‘They were so little then,’ Charles said slightly wistfully. ‘I was worried how they’d manage a walking holiday, but they surprised me.’

‘They always do,’ she said with a mother’s transparent pride.

‘I was thinking about that holiday the other day, when I was in Washington staying at the hotel - or maybe it was a motel; I’m never precisely sure of the difference. My bedroom was enormous; it could have held the whole family. I kept thinking about that night near Siena, when we thought we’d never find a place to stay.’

‘Sam was worried we’d have to sleep in a hay loft. And we almost did.’

‘We found a room in the end,’ he said.

‘Don’t remind me.’ She shuddered at the memory of the four of them squashed into a tiny attic room. It had been at the top of a farmer’s ‘villa’ which had seen better days.

‘I wonder what that village is like today.’

‘Teeming with tourists, and half the houses owned by the English.’

‘Probably,’ he acknowledged ruefully. ‘Still, it would be nice to see it again. Maybe in the spring, if you’re better, we could think about a few days there. You always loved Italy. I bet the boys would like to come along.’

She recognised the eagerness in his voice, a tone he liked to adopt when he thought she most needed cheering up. Usually she went along with the optimistic pretence, his determination that any half-filled glass was actually half full. But she wasn’t willing to go along with him today, not when there was no longer any way to deny that the glass was almost empty.

‘I don’t think so, darling,’ she said quietly. He looked at her, surprised by the certainty of her tone, and she could see the fear entering his eyes.

‘I saw Mr Nirac yesterday,’ she said. Her consultant.

‘You didn’t say you were going,’ he protested. ‘I’d have taken you.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I’m perfectly capable of getting there on my own. Especially when you have a lot on at work.’ She left the real reason unsaid: she had wanted to see the consultant alone so she could hear the truth, unsoftened by Charles’s insistent optimism.

‘So what did the old quack have to say?’

She reached across the table and put her hand on his. ‘He said it’s not going to be very long now.’

‘Oh,’ he said reflexively, and she saw his shoulders slump, and how he wouldn’t look her in the eye.

He had been the strong one, keeping her going through all these years of illness, chivvying her, teasing her, making her laugh, always there whenever she’d been tempted to succumb to despair. Now she had to be strong for him.

‘I wanted you to know that I know now, too. I wanted to feel neither of us had to pretend. Are you all right?’ she asked gently.

He nodded with his eyes down. She could see he was struggling to keep control. At last he raised his head and looked at her. ‘Is there anything you want? Anything I can get you? Somebody you’d like to see, perhaps. Your sister?’

She chuckled. ‘Ruth will be around whether I like it or not. But no, what I’d really like most of all is to have you here, and the boys. Just the family.’ She hesitated. ‘And if it’s possible, I’d like to be here, at home, when… it ends. I’ve seen enough of hospitals to last a lifetime.’ She smiled at the unintended play on words.

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘There’s something else. It’s to do with… after. I want you to promise me that you’ll have a life.’ He looked surprised and seemed about to speak, but she pre-empted him. ‘I mean it. I want to feel confident that you won’t go to ground - I know you, Charles. Given half a chance you’ll be working eighteen-hour days and sleeping at your ghastly club. But that’s no good. You must promise me you won’t do that. The boys need you, for one thing, so you mustn’t hide away. This has always been a happy home for them; I don’t want that to end simply because I’m no longer here. I want you here for them, Charles, and I don’t want you living on your own for ever. You’re still young, you know.’

‘Hardly,’ he said, with a rasp in his throat.

Undeterred, she kept speaking. ‘I like to think you’ll have happy memories of our time together, and of all the fun we’ve had. But life’s here to be lived; if I’ve learned one thing from all this, it’s exactly that. I don’t want you living with a ghost, Charles.’ She leaned over, though it hurt her back so much she had to struggle not to wince. Looking into his eyes, she said, ‘Promise me that?’

He looked back at her now, sensing she needed him to. She noticed his eyes were moist, and he blinked once, then twice, in an effort to subdue his tears. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered at last, ‘I promise.’

She sat back, and shivered slightly. ‘I’m feeling cold. Do you mind awfully if we go in now?’

THIRTY-EIGHT

Thank God she’d finally gone. He’d just about managed to keep the woman at bay, but her visit had left him very, very frightened. She had made it clear that she knew something. Had MI5 discovered what he’d managed to keep secret for ten years? But why did she keep asking about Syrian intelligence, or was that just a blind?

Ever since that day in Jerusalem when those two men had come to his hotel room, he’d lived in fear of being found out. It was long before he’d ‘come out’ and admitted he was gay. He was still married then - Hope, his girlfriend at Cambridge. She’d long gone; he’d been on his own for years. The men had had photographs of him on the bed, with a boy he’d met in a club. He knew now of course that the boy had been working for them and the whole thing was a set-up. They were Israeli intelligence and they’d said if he didn’t co-operate they’d publicise the photographs and make sure he could never work again in the Middle East. He would have lost his job and his marriage. Now of course that kind of photograph wouldn’t matter much, but they had him well on the hook and too much else had happened for him to get off it. At the time, he’d been working in Syria as a correspondent. The Israelis had wanted to know everything, particularly personal information about high-up Syrian officials - weaknesses, sexual proclivities, all that sort of stuff - no doubt so they could try on them what they’d done to him.

Now MI5 had found out something, but that woman hadn’t said what they knew. If she was telling him that the Syrians knew what he’d done, then his life expectancy had diminished dramatically. She’d left him worried sick, but in the dark.

Since she’d left, he’d taken precautions. He’d double-locked the front and back doors, made sure the windows were shut tight and locked. He’d stayed in, hadn’t answered the phone, and had kept the curtains drawn. But he couldn’t live like this for ever and this morning he’d been forced to venture down the hill to Hampstead village. The cupboard was bare, and that was not a metaphor - there wasn’t even a packet of dried pasta left.

Not that he’d bought much in the way of groceries, for he had decided he would have to leave his house until the immediate danger had passed. Though how would he know when it was safe to return? he wondered anxiously, as he walked slowly back along the edge of the heath, dotted at this time of the morning with dog walkers, and East European nannies pushing babies in buggies.

Where should he go? It would probably be possible to secure another assignment, provided MI5 didn’t scupper him. What he needed was something that would take him abroad. The
Sunday Times
people had liked his Assad profile and had suggested further assignments - Merkel in Germany was high on their list. But it would be impossible to keep a low profile working on that, not when he’d need to be in Berlin making appointments to see the Chancellor, interviewing her friends and colleagues, digging into her background in East Germany. Anyone who wanted to find him could do so within days.