Faithless (3 page)

And then suddenly, Vinogradov got up. He left the other man sitting. He appeared to be saying goodbye and then strolled out. John kept his head down,
studying the beer mats so that he didn't make eye contact. He heard Greg say quietly over the radio. "Target making an exit."

"Let him go," said John. "We know where he lives. I'm more interested in the other guy."

"Ok," said Greg to the radio. "Let him go. We're after his contact. Await my word."

About five minutes later, as if he had waited just long enough to be discreet, the other man got up. He was about 30, slim, hair unfashionably long - light brown and wispy. He was wearing a denim jacke
t and faded blue jeans. On his feet was a pair of suede desert boots. He did not look influential or well connected.

"Let's go big fella," said John.

"Ok, boss," said Greg. He drained his pint. "Keep your knickers on."

They followed the man, known on the
radio simply as "Contact" to Tower Hill Tube station. He caught a Circle Line to Liverpool Street where he changed to the Central Line, heading east.

The man sat in the train, staring blankly ahead of himself like all the other passengers. John was in th
e same carriage. The target appeared unaware that he was being followed. He got off at Bethnal Green. They followed him up the station stairs. Liz was taking the lead. The cars were coming to meet them when they got to the street. The contact made no attempt at anti-surveillance, walking blithely along the road.

John heard Liz say, "This guy's not a professional."

And then the contact turned up Bethnal Green Road and then after a few yards left in into Pott Street up into the entrance garden of a block of council flats.

"Stand back a bit Liz," said Greg who was now beside John out of sight on the main road.

"Of course. I'm not an amateur. He's gone upstairs. It's going to be tricky."

There were external staircases leading to different decks where the front
doors of the flats were. The railings had bicycles chained to them and there was washing out, hopeful that the February sun would dry it.

Then he heard Liz's voice. "Got him. No 22 Newcourt House."

John turned to Greg. "He didn't look like the source of intelligence to get Moscow Centre jumping up and down."

"You never know. Could be Vinogradov's lover?"

"Could be," smiled John. "That would be a nice angle to exert a bit of pressure on Vinogradov. Trouble is, they didn't snog."

Greg took out his earpiece.
"Whoever he is, our job's finished. Yours is just begun."

1952 - Edinburgh:
John Gilroy was born in the city, not the local hospital, because his illegitimacy was a scandal in the narrow Protestant society they inhabited.

John's father met his mothe
r at a dance. He was a miner and she was a nurse. He was an Irish Catholic and she was a Scottish Presbyterian. He was James Fee, a well known political hothead - branch secretary of the Edinburgh Communist Party. He harangued everyone who would listen about Marx, Lenin and the forthcoming revolution. John's mother Elizabeth didn't care about the politics but she cared about him. He was handsome and passionate and loved poetry and her. But her parents wouldn't tolerate a Catholic or a Communist and so she kept their relationship secret. She fell pregnant on New Year's Eve 1952, after telling her mother she was going to a dance with friends.

When her parents found out, her mother stopped speaking to her and her father told her never to see James Fee again.

John was put up for adoption but his mother pined and stopped eating. Eventually his grandmother relented and let her keep the child. James Fee tried to see his son and the woman he loved, but the family closed ranks and uncles stood at the hospital door to tell him he wasn't wanted. There was a fight. James was badly beaten. He came back again with his brother, and they were both beaten. Elizabeth's family told him she didn't want him and told her he hadn't been there. They said he'd have come if he loved her but he didn't. They told her it so many times that she believed the lies and her heart broke. In tears, she wrote James a letter, telling him never to see her again, that she didn't love him and that she and his son would be better off alone. She enclosed a photograph of John, hoping it would break his heart. Even as she wrote the letter, she wanted him to ignore it and write back to say that he loved her. He did write back, time and time again, pleading to let him see his son, telling her he needed her. But her mother burned the letters. And when Elizabeth heard nothing, her hope faded and her heart became cold.

When John was growing up at first he knew no different. He called his grandfather
faither,
and wasn't aware he had no dad. He became the apple of his grandmother's eye. She was a tough, working woman who spent her days at the carpet factory and her time off cleaning because cleanliness is next to godliness. There were bright summer days with the sunshine streaming in through the windows, the air full of motes of dust and his grandmother in her pinny singing Calvinist hymns in her falsetto. His grandfather was a coal miner and a supporter of the Labour Party. He read the Daily Express just to argue with its right wing politics. John used to sit with him, listening to the football results on the wireless on Saturday afternoons or on winter nights staring into the glowing coals of the fire while the old man made up stories of kings and queens and places he'd never been.

John's mother Elizabeth worked
at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh and when she worked shifts his grandparents cared for John. In later years John had vague memories of his mother's boyfriends - an Egyptian doctor; another, in memory nationless and nameless, who scuffed the leg of the chair in the parlour they only used when important guests came. His mother was a good-looking woman and could have got anyone she chose, high or low.

Eventually she caught the eye of William Gilroy - a local miner. Her mother and father thought their daugh
ter could have done better, but William loved her and with his even temper and steady nature, gave her the security John's father never could have. William was a man of few words who liked a pint on a Friday night and who had a season ticket for Hearts football club. He didn't want John but accepted the situation and took him as his own because he wanted his mother. He was strict but not unkind and the beatings were few and usually deserved.

It was only slowly that John began to realise that he was a bastard. For politeness everyone pretended that he was William Gilroy's boy and he even took his stepfather's name. Within the family, it was never mentioned that he was the offspring of a man lo
ng gone. Once there was an altercation with another boy when they were playing marbles on the street outside and John had won. The other boy had said angrily, "It don't care if you won. You've got nae faither."

"Course I have a faither; William Gilroy's ma
faither."

"No, he isnae. Your faither's a Catholic and he didn't want ye."

Monday 11th February 1985, London:
The next day the weather was still clear but the morning was cold and there was ice on the pavement and a rime on the trees that lined the streets of North Finchley.  While still in his warm bed, John Gilroy thought about a pre-work run through the icy dark streets and small parks, but had rolled over until the alarm rang again and Karen nudged him. "Switch that alarm off and get up you lazy bastard."

John exhaled grumpily and got out of bed, careful not to move the duvet from Karen. "And I suppose even after that abuse, you'll be wanting a cup of tea?" he said.

"That would be lovely." He could hear the smile in her voice from under the duvet.

John
went through to the kitchen and started the kettle boiling. Their twin daughters Morag and Eilidh stirred in their cot.

The kettle boiled, the tea was made. John smiled and handed Karen the mug. "Are you aw' reit the day, hen?" He spoke affectionately in
Scots.

"I'm fine apart from the understandable lack of sleep. I'll be better when my braw husband goes and does a good day's work and brings back pennies to feed our fine babies. Even though I don't really approve of what you do for a living."

"Let me get a shower and a slice of toast before sending me out."

"I'll let you do that," she smiled and leant up to put her arms round him to give him a long kiss. She loved him. He knew it and whatever else happened in the world, that was an island of security.

After the shower, dressed in his grey suit with a sober dark blue tie, John kissed his sleepy wife and their baby daughters and made his way in the grey morning light along icy streets from their small flat to Woodside Park Tube Station where he caught the Northern Line south into the centre of London.

He was headed for an office building at the top of Gower Street which housed MI5's counter espionage K Branch. At the door he showed his badge to the security officer and went through into the building. K4, John
's section, monitored Russians in the UK.  He mounted the stairs and turned left passing the door to K4C where people worked researching and coordinating information produced by other K4 officers. The next door was the office of K4A - his boss.  Stephen Haskings was a slim, brown haired, intellectual, brittle man with few people skills. John said hello as he passed but Stephen ignored him. Finally, he arrived at the door to the K4 "Long Room". The room ran the length of the Gower Street side of the building. At the south end was a huge map of London. There were netted windows along the west wall looking down to the street. The net curtains served the dual purpose of keeping out prying eyes and catching shards of glass in case of a bomb outside. On the east wall were metal cabinets with combination locks where the officers and support workers who inhabited the long room locked their papers away every night. The room had a series of desks and chairs.

John's friend Rob Parry was standing by his desk reading a r
eport. Rob was in his shirt-sleeves, braces and tie; his left hand pushing absent-mindedly through his shock of blonde hair.

"Morning Rab," said John.

"Morning Jock. What oh this morning eh?"

They played a game where they assumed national stereotypes. Joh
n pretended to be a mean-spirited, whisky loving Scot and Rob pretended to be an English Public school, air-headed rugger bugger. Rob in fact was a very astute, talented intelligence officer, currently in charge of investigating Russian students in the UK.

John said, "I had a result. Was out with A4"

"Really, do tell. Want a coffee?"

John looked suspiciously over at the glass flask of oily black liquid on the peculator. "Is it Friday's?"

"No, I made fresh. Tell me about your glorious victory."

"You know Vin
ogradov at the Embassy?"

"Suspected KGB?"

"Aye, that's him.  Got a follow all the way to St Katherine's dock where he met a dodgy English bloke."

"Sounds interesting. Do we know who the contact is?"

"Not yet."

"You'll have a tale to tell at this morning's meeting." Then Rob spoke quietly "Sue and Stephen were in early - they looked like they're plotting."

"Plotting how to make themselves look good - useless brown-nosers."

"Let's go an grab the best seats before
anyone else gets in."

"You're sad Rob."

They made their way to the meeting room the other side of the corridor from the Long Room. It was empty. They took their seats while Rob told John about the weekend he had that like most of his weekends consisted of drinking pints on a Friday, Saturday with his disastrous girlfriend Jane and coaching junior rugby on Sunday. Stephen and Sue entered the room looking self-important. Then the others filed in until there were about 16 people in the room.

John looked aroun
d. He was fond of most of his colleagues. They were decent, honest people who believed in what they were doing. They believed they were helping to ensure the safety of the United Kingdom and, if pushed, Western Civilisation in general. The Support Workers were working class girls and boys from Kent and Essex. Just under half of the people in the room were female. The Officers were a mix - there were at least two people there heirs to fortunes so great they didn't really need to work. The others were mainly products of minor public schools. Some would do well and climb the ladder of management success becoming Deputy Directors, Branch Directors possibly, but probably not Director General. 

John then considered Stephen. He was known for his ascetic, anally re
tentive ways. John imagined him folding his nylon pyjamas every morning as soon as he got out of bed and taking a drink of some tonic his mother had started him on when he was at Prep School.

The meeting began with Stephen making an unexpected announcement
that Sue would now take over line management for the rest of the K4A officers leaving him free to work on other matters.  People looked at each other. John groaned inwardly. Stephen was a robot but had no personal animus towards him. Sue hated his guts. Sue looked pleased with herself. She was a self-made woman - she had come in as a clerk in registry and worked her way up through the officer ranks. But she wore her authority with effort, having to prove every point and make sure that people knew she could tell them what to do. John knew she would micromanage everything he did. Or try to.