Faithless (7 page)

They left the shop. He said, "Can I walk
you home?"

"I suppose so. If you've got nothing better to do."  He looked at her beautiful blue eyes. He had a feeling in his chest like American Cream Soda - fizzy and creamy at the same time.

They were walking past the old red brick Infant School on Polton Road. There was a long silence which he filled by saying. "You know the historical name of Bonnyrigg was Bannoc Rigg. From the Celtic meaning 'peaked'. I'm reading Teach Yourself Gaelic at the moment. My grandma was from Skye."

"That's interesting," sh
e said, a smile breaking out on her face. "I never got facts like that from Dougie."

John was suddenly overcome by a wave of joy. In his awkward way, he thought that this meant she considered him a potential romantic partner. Encouraged by her response, he
said, "Are you going to stay on for Highers?"

She nodded. "You?"

"Oh sure. I want to go to University."

"Very swanky."

" So should you. Have you not thought about it? You're clever."

"You hardly know me and you say I'm clever. If I didn't know you better
I'd think you were flattering me. You'll be saying I'm beautiful next."

John blushed. "No, I wouldn't."  Failure loomed up on him. Desperate not to let her slip through his fingers, he stammered, "I mean you are. You really are. But I wouldn't say it."

"You just did."

He was beetroot now. "I mean I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true just to flatter you."

"Ah, that's nice to hear." She decided to let him off the hook. "So what are you doing for Highers?"

John breathed out, "Erm, I'm going to do German and Rus
sian and History and English Lit."

"So you're a linguist? I envy your talent. I can hardly speak my ain tongue. What do you want to do when you grow up?"

"When I grow up?" He laughed. "Don't know. Probably something with languages. I'd like to  see the world. Do something exciting. What about you?"

"I want to be a teacher. My ma was all set to be a teacher but they couldn't afford to send her to college. But I'll get a grant."

"What do you want to teach?"

"English. I love books and poetry. We're not suppose
d to round here, but I do."

"No, I think it's good. I've been reading the Brothers Karamazov. In English," he added -  "my Russian's not that good."

"I'm reading the Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Have you read it?"

John shook his head. They were nearly at her house at the top of Moorfoot View. His time was running out. She paused at the gate, as if giving him the opportunity to say something.

Feeling ill-prepared, and half expecting rejection, he said, "Hey Karen, do you fancy going to the pictures one night?"

She looked at the ground, as if herself embarrassed. "Sure. Yeah, whenever. I quite want to go and see that Love Story. Supposed to be sad though."

"That's ok. Whatever you want. Maybe tomorrow night?"

"Aye, tha
t would be nice."

John felt an enormous sense of relief rush over him; followed by a blissful joy he could never remember feeling before. "Ok then. I'd better go. I'm late for tea."

"Off you go then John Gilroy. Dougie would never have taken me to see Love Story. There's no guns in it. See you tomorrow about 6?"

"I'll come and fetch you."

John ran home, singing snatches of the Jethro Tull song
Witch's Promise
: 

'Lend me your ear while I call you a fool;

You were kissed by a witch one night in a wood.

And later insisted your feelings were true.'

And what a beautiful, gorgeous, funny, clever witch she was - and she was going out with him!

As he had thought - he was late for tea. His step-father was out. His mother looked at the state of him. "I don't know why you're so happy." She pointed at his clothes and his red knuckles. "I hope you're no been fighting."

"It was nothing Ma. What's for tea?"

"Fishfingers, beans and chips. But it's cold. I'll warm it up for you."

"Oh that's great. I love that meal."

"You wee fool with a big grin on your face."

"Ah it's a girl ma. I'm going on a date tomorrow."

His mother laughed. "I'm pleased. I guessed it would come someday. Is she pretty?"

"Oh she's beautiful ma. Really lovely. Too good for me."

"Nobody's too good for my son! Who are her people?"

"She's called Karen Laurie. Lives on Moorfoot View."

"Ah yes. I know her mother. She goes to Bingo with me. And her father's a mechanic. Anyway, you come here. You're no sae big, ye cannae gie yer mammy a hug."

April 25th, 1985  - London:
John took the Tube over to Curzon Street, where he used to work for A2A. It was plusher than Gower Street but had the same heavy, musty nylon curtains at every window of its long façade. Once in, he took the stairs rather than the lift, to the room where the Russian Transcribers sat. The room was quiet. A number of large single desks filled the room in orderly ranks, with portable dividers dividing the room into thirds. Transcribers sat listening to hour after tedious hour of the doings of the Russian Embassy and Trade Delegation Staff in London. Most of tapes produced nothing much, just brief notes of who had phoned who and when with an outline of what they spoke of.

But the take from ordinary embassy telephones was important.
It showed the personal rivalries and disputes - who disliked who  - who got on with his wife and who got on with somebody else's. Most of the Russians drank too much, but it was a weakness that could be worked on. Was someone overly interested in money? Were there hints that someone might not be ideologically committed to the Communist Party - this was rare because the Russians expected their own KGB KR Line officers to be tapping their phones and were tight mouthed about ideological doubts. Once in a while there was a suggestion that one of the staff might be religious - a tacit admission of a lack of belief in the Communist system. MI5 was always on the look out for weaknesses to exploit and induce the Russians to betray their country.

John's friend Alast
air looked up. Alastair was a slightly overweight man in a baggy suit with a welcoming grin. "Hail tovarish from the fabled land of K4. Want a cup of tea? Since you moved up in the world I've missed our chats about Hittite laryngeals."

John laughed, "I hav
en't lost my passion for those, just don't have a lot of time to pursue it."

"And how's your other passion? Karen - is she lovely as ever?"

"Lovelier. The smell of baby sick and the bags under her eyes somehow even improve her. I'll tell her you were asking after her."

Alastair boiled the kettle and made a teapot of strong Russian black tea. He brought it over to his desk where between the typewriter and the tape machine was an Orthodox Triptych showing Christ Pantocrator flanked by the Virgin and St John t
he Baptist.

"Sorry, no Samovar still."

"Things haven't improved since I left then."

"No, same old same old."

John sat down at Alastair's desk and sipped his tea. "I wonder if they realise how fond transcribers become of their targets? Desk Officers don't. When you're listening to someone's everyday life, they become your friends."

"You sound nostalgic for A2A."

"I never look back Comrade. Anyway, how's Zofia?"  Zofia was Alastair's wife. She was the daughter of a Pole who had come over to Britain to fight against the Nazis during the Second World War.  She spoke with a charming West Midland's accent in English and her father's Gdansk dialect in Polish.  Alastair had met her at work.

"She's well. She's next door if you want to pop in and see her before you l
eave."

"Might just do that. Anyway what's up?"

"You know Leonov?"

"First Secretary. Not KGB. Straight Foreign Ministry."

"Yes, nasty man. His father is a party official in Siberia and he thinks he should be on the fast road to promotion. Always phoning his wife to complain about his boss and swearing about Jews."

"His boss isn't a Jew?"

"No, not allowed since Trotsky. The Party can't trust them. But Leonov suspects he has Jewish blood"

"What's happened?"

"You take a listen. It's nice having an Officer who can  understand the language of the people he's supposed to be studying."

John took the headphones off Alastair.   He listened to the shrill voice of Leonov ranting to a bored sounding wife about the injustices he had to put up with from his bone head of a boss. It was something about a report that his boss had corrected and se
nt under his own name.

John took off the headphones. "Hmm. Sounds promising. Any other defects?"

"He's a talentless, narcissistic bore who preens like a peacock before he goes out. He loves Saville Row suits and gold cufflinks. Arsehole."

John smiled. "He s
ounds ideal. I think K3 will like to get to know him. I'll give them the tip off."

"Sure. By the way, if you and Karen want to bring the kids round one weekend. We'd love to see you. "

"That sounds really nice. I'll speak to Karen and give you a ring."

When John got back to Gower Street he popped into the Long Room and checked his in-tray. He caught Sue glaring at him. "I've been to A2A, all right?" He snapped. "And now I'm going to K3. All legit. Don't worry I'm not just sitting round drinking tea with my mates."

Her eyes narrowed. John went out to go upstairs to K3.

K3 was a joint section between MI5 and MI6. In K3's office were Michael and Giles. Michael was very fat, and thus not at all the unobtrusive agent runner one would have expected. Giles, in his expensive shiny suit and privileged grin was a stereotypical SIS man - all prep school, Charterhouse, and then  Oxford where he naturally studied PPE, which was a mystery because he appeared a bit thick. 

"Hello, John," said Giles, "I have just returne
d unscathed from a steely mission. I presume you are bringing us more exciting titbits to propel us to even more daringly successful operations?"

"Something like that," said John.

Michael offered John a coffee. He shook his head. "Is Philip in?"

"Due back
any second, I should think old boy," said Giles. He tapped his nose conspiratorially. "I will give him the signal. Should he come to you?"

Thinking of Sue sitting there, John said, "No, I'll come up."

But just then Philip entered, taking off a rain spattered coat  and removing a rolled copy of The Guardian from its pocket to place it on the table.  All of them looked at him.

"Sorry?" said Philip. "Have you never seen a handsome man before? Or is there some other reason you're looking vacant?"

John laughed. Michael shrugged. Giles giggled and said, "Any stories from the Front?"

Philip leafed through his in-tray, still standing. "It's raining. 4,000 miners have gone back to work according to the Evening Standard's billboards and I have just had a drink with a
n exceedingly boring man who luckily knows  a lot about Russian oil exploration. He told me this in great detail and I reckon I can squeeze two or three CX reports out of it if I cut it with some stuff I've read in the Economist. You?"

"Steely, Philip. Ver
y steely. I'm getting a bullet proof vest from stores because I think the Cubans might try to shoot me."

"I can understand why they would."

"It's a complicated provocation thing. Covert ops." He tapped his finger to his nose again.

"I thought we didn't tal
k about the Increment in front of our MI5 colleagues?"

"It's not really that."

"Don't tell me any more. I don't want you to have to kill me. And what are you up to John? I know we can count on down to earth sensibleness from the policeman mentality of K4 to balance the rather SIS blue sky tendencies up here. Yourself excepted Michael."

Michael grunted and turned back to the papers he was reading.
             

"I wanted to talk to you about a man," said John.

"I see," said Philip. "Does your vetting officer know about this? Still strictly off limits for such as we."

John ignored the comment. "Maksim Leonov. First Secretary at the Embassy.  From the nomenklatura - father is a middling party official somewhere in
the Urals. But Maksim feels that he is special and supremely undervalued by his proletarian ambassador. "

"Source for this is?"

"KING material."

"I don't know all your MI5 codenames. Telephone intercepts?"