Rogue Elements (15 page)

‘Excuse me?’ He was quite lost.

‘You’re stationed at Bergen-Hohne, no? What have you discovered about Hohne’s history?’

Arkell managed to keep smiling. ‘Fräulein, you know so much about me, and I don’t even know your name.’

‘I’m sorry. Klara. Klara Richter. I’m rude.’

‘Not at all. I barged in here, asking personal questions. You’ve been very tolerant. But, Fräulein Richter, may I test your tolerance a little further? I would very much like to meet Gavriel. To reassure myself that you are in good hands.’ He blushed, deliberately again, at the unfortunate metaphor. ‘Might that be possible?’

The enthusiasm dampened and then died in her eyes. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No, Gavriel would not want that.’

‘Could I speak to him on the telephone? A couple of words of kindly guidance from a chaplain – even a Jewish lad couldn’t object to that.’ He tried to make it a joke, although he knew he was losing her.

‘He won’t talk to you.’ She had retreated into suspicion and worry, her arms crossed, brow drawn beneath the beret.

‘Of course,’ he said soothingly. It had been too much to hope for. ‘I understand.’

‘I’m sorry, I have to go out now. I should be at work.’

‘I’ve taken up too much of your time.’ He put the cup down. ‘Thank you for reassuring me . . . a little, at least.’

‘I’m really fine,’ she said again, a touch of aggravation creeping into her voice.

‘May I possibly use your bathroom?’

Frowning, she pointed down the corridor.

Where the living room had been immaculate, the bathroom was a mess. A long tiled ledge either side of the basin was scattered with cosmetics, hairbrushes, toilet rolls and clogged razors. Two wet towels clung to each other on the floor by the bath. What was the story here? Who was this woman who kept part of her life so neat and let the rest chaotically unravel?

Klara was waiting for him in the corridor. There was no opportunity to do more than glance into the bedroom: a rumpled bed, black high-heeled boots and a short grey dress abandoned on the floor. No chance to plant the third bug he had ready in his hand.

‘Take care of yourself, won’t you?’ he asked of her.

He wondered, after the door had closed, whether that had been the Padre’s plea or his own.

There was no
Gavriel
in Klara’s list of contacts. Arkell forwarded all eighty-three numbers from her phone to Wraye. In a utilities cupboard outside the apartment he installed the booster transmitter that would relay the signals from his bugs via a local wireless network to Wraye’s multilingual listeners. As he was leaving the building the NN-3U beeped twice, an outgoing call to a saved number:
Dejan
.

‘It’s Klara,’ she began in English. ‘Can you pass Gavriel a message?’

‘Go ahead.’ The man’s voice was a domineering growl.

‘Someone came here. English. A priest. Gavriel wanted to know if anyone asked about him. His name was Anthony Pearson, chaplain with the British army at Bergen-Hohne.’

‘Description?’

‘Strong. Alert. One metre eighty-five. Blue eyes. Hair dark blond.’ A small pause. ‘Good-looking for a priest.’

‘Contact me again if he comes back.’ Just enough words to betray a Slavic accent before the line went dead.

Arkell called Wraye. ‘Dejan is the priority. She doesn’t have a direct line to Yadin.’

‘We have thirty-eight results back . . . we have Dejan. The number is registered to an Ingrid Bernhardt of Dresden.’

‘I need the current location of that phone.’

‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

Arkell looked through the rest of Klara’s saved numbers. Most were German mobiles or local landlines. No Israeli numbers. He walked across the street to the hostel where he’d stored his backpack. The tattooed girl at reception smiled respectfully at his clerical garb, then more lewdly when he re-emerged from the bathroom in jeans and desert boots.

Wraye called as he was walking to the station. ‘Dortmund. Ingrid Bernhardt’s phone is in Dortmund. Dejan is sitting in the regional headquarters of World Hunger.’

It was not the first time Wraye had visited the country estate of Jeremy Elphinstone, although it was a new experience to be invited. Elphinstone had made a habit, in contravention of SIS rules, of hosting high-value assets from time to time amongst the drystone walls and broadleaf glades of his Gloucestershire pile. When a particularly obliging foreign general, minister or intelligence officer visited London, if a ruse could be devised to dupe their babysitters, Elphinstone would have them smuggled down the M4 and would order the silver polished and the cellar ransacked in their honour. A hostile intelligence service could have learned a great deal by mounting a permanent watch on his estate. Wraye, having cultivated a number of informers in the Firm’s car pool, had the advantage of knowing when a covert visit was being arranged. If her schedule permitted, she would drive to the convenient wooded hill overlooking Elphinstone’s gardens, and through binoculars determine which assets were currently held in highest esteem by Requirements and Production.

It mattered because R&P made the weather in the Firm. The Chief called the shots, but Elphinstone set them up for him. Ever since Abuja, Wraye had made a point of knowing what was going on in R&P. Her remarkable – even uncanny – knowledge of SIS’s most secretive activities, drawn from a wide and creative range of sources, had impressed both the Foreign Secretary and the Joint Intelligence Committee. Whenever she was able to refer to operations that other SIS directors seemed convinced were known only to them, she rose another notch in the estimation of Whitehall customers. Ministers and mandarins began to seek her advice on all aspects of intelligence; began – most dangerously of all – to talk of her as a possible Chief, a development that could only set her on a collision course with Watchman and Elphinstone.

It would have been inconceivable, in that era, to receive an invitation from Jeremy Elphinstone, Prince of the Service and heir expectant to the Chief’s green ink. Yet now that she was cast out, beyond the pale, he was prepared, eager even, to receive her. ‘You couldn’t have called at a better time, actually. At least if I’ve understood correctly what it is you do these days.’

She half expected a liveried footman to open the heavy oak door, but instead it was a mop-headed, mascara-coated teenager – most likely a boy, she judged – who answered the clanging bell.

‘Hello,’ she offered. ‘Angela Redfern from the Foreign Office. I’m here to see your father.’

With a mumbled acknowledgement, the boy turned and led the way across a hall hung with ornate mirrors and oil paintings in gilded frames. In the drawing room beyond, sprawled across a Queen Anne chaise longue, a second boy looked up from a PlayStation. ‘Dad,’ muttered the first, managing to load the syllable with infinite scorn. The second boy snorted and returned to his virtual world.

‘In there,’ conceded her guide, pointing to a panelled door at the far end of a wide corridor. He slouched away, uninterested in her thanks.

Jeremy Elphinstone had been writing in his diary. A leather-bound book with thick cream pages lay cracked open beside a wingback chair. A fountain pen lay across the confident black copperplate. Next to the diary, a half-empty tumbler of whisky. It was revealing to Wraye that he should prefer to remain in his study even when not working.

He said, with a flicker of irritation, ‘Did Antonia let you in? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the bell.’ Beethoven, swiftly turned down, had been playing when she knocked.

‘It was one of the boys.’

‘Right.’ The irritation intensified. ‘Didn’t bother to introduce himself, then?’

She tilted her head.

‘Used to. They were both delightfully polite. Now they barely speak to me. Of course it’s my fault. I spent the first fifteen years of their lives buried in work, only to look up and find my wife had turned them against me.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘You’re lucky you never had children, Madeleine.’ He gestured to a row of crystal decanters. ‘Drink?’

‘I’m driving.’

‘I don’t remember alcohol having much impact on your cognitive faculties at the Fort.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

He poured a glass of mineral water and gestured her to the wingback chair, while he took the less comfortable oak chair by the window. He had always been gallant in that way, even at the height of their little cold war. Stretching out his legs, elegantly crossing them so that one leather-slippered foot bobbed a little, he said, ‘I gather you’ve already seen Martin. And presumably Linus. Were they able to offer anything?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Work-wise.’

She had the shape of his thinking now, and decided to go with it. ‘Sadly not.’

‘But you’re looking for something? You’re available?’

‘Broadly speaking.’

He gazed at her almost fondly. ‘I must say, I’m surprised you’d try me. But pleased. We tied ourselves up in such ridiculous knots, didn’t we? And the unpleasantness was never necessary. It wasn’t personal, you know that, don’t you?’

‘It was politics.’

‘That none of us got right.’

‘Clearly. How is the new Chief? Must be strange, having an outsider at the top.’

He ignored that. ‘I’ll admit I had no idea Jane Saddle had so much bite. You know it was her that lit the blue touch paper with the ISC? You didn’t like her much, I remember, nor she you. But she was outraged at what happened to you, saw it as an attack on the sisterhood I dare say. And so Tony had his knuckles rapped . . .’

‘And you were demoted.’

‘Hardly that.’ He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, in clear discomfort. ‘It’s good to be closer to the action. And Western Europe is still a vital controllerate. The CX we were able to offer the banks on sovereign debt positions in the southern Eurozone bought us a lot of credit in Whitehall.’

She only smiled. ‘I thought you might resign when they gave R&P to Rachel.’

He was about to object, to continue the pretence, when suddenly he seemed just too tired to bother. ‘I couldn’t afford to. The pension implications . . . well, you know all about that.’

‘Indeed,’ she said coldly.

‘I admire you, Madeleine. What you’ve built for yourself since you left. I’m not sure I would have had the entrepreneurial oomph to do it. And, frankly, my stock was too low just then to feel confident of a decent directorship in the City. I needed to stay, if only to leave on better terms at a later date.’

Glancing out of the sash windows at the croquet lawn, the wisteria-smothered pergola and the extensive box topiary, Wraye said, ‘I never realized you were in it for the money.’

He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘This place? All Antonia’s. She controls the capital, which is a polite way of saying she cut me off a long time ago. Nevertheless, I’m expected to pay the school fees and the bills – on a government salary. It’s beyond a joke.’

Wraye offered her best sympathetic face, while her mind raced. The possibility that money might be a motive for Jeremy Elphinstone had never occurred to her. Power yes, ideology possibly, but straight cash? Had the public school spymaster simply been bought?

‘So you’d like me to find some dirt on your wife,’ she smiled.

‘There is none,’ he said blackly. ‘Other than her complete contempt for the institution of marriage. No, I need you to help me with something particularly sensitive. Something I can’t be seen to do myself, and can’t ask anyone in the Firm or Five to do. I want you to investigate Tony.’

Of all the many things Elphinstone might have said, this was surely the most unlikely. ‘Are you serious?’ Wraye spluttered.

‘Things have changed.’

‘Since Tony got to keep his job when you didn’t?’

He bristled. ‘Tony and I still have a good working relationship. That is not the issue. We may not be quite as chummy as we once were, but I would have no doubts at all concerning his continuing fine stewardship of the Counter-Terrorism section if it were not for a particularly alarming development.’

‘Go on.’

‘You understand that this is YZ information, that I would lose no sleep at all having you locked up under the OSA were you to disclose it?’

‘Jeremy, please. I am still in the business of keeping secrets.’

He fixed her with a cautious gaze. ‘Do you know Javier Diaz?’

‘At CNI? Vaguely. He looks after South America, doesn’t he?’

‘Amongst other things. I’ve seen quite a lot of him since taking over Western Europe. He’s turned into a bit of a drug warrior, feels personally insulted that Spain has become the gateway for so much of Europe’s trade. How much do you know about cocaine smuggling?’

‘Brief me.’

‘The Caribbean was the main route for years, both to the US and, via drug mules and banana boats, to Europe. When maritime and aerial patrols made that difficult, US-destined narco-traffic shifted to the overland route through Central America while European consignments were stashed on cargo vessels. Neither is spectacularly convenient for the drug lords, given the gang warfare in Mexico and the suspicion European customs officers place on vessels originating from South American ports. So some of them had the bright idea of transferring their operations to West Africa. One in particular has made quite a success of it.

‘His name is Rodrigo Salis, formerly of the Cali cartel, bit of an unknown until recently, if we’re honest. A few years back he set up a warehouse operation in Guinea-Bissau, and since then he’s been shipping product in and out at a heroic rate. The local military and politicians enjoy a few crumbs from the big man’s table, and Salis has really made himself at home: hacienda in the bush, big SUVs, expensive women, the lot. Meanwhile his cargo can hitch a ride on any number of vessels heading up the west coast of Africa. Fishing boats meet them offshore at night, fat bribes for the crew, and no one’s the wiser about that nice clean South African freighter carrying grapefruits or manganese to Rotterdam. Other consignments are driven north through the Sahara and either hauled aboard European ships en route to Baltimore and Hampton Roads, or ferried directly across to Spain.

‘That’s what drew Javier’s attention, and he’s mounted an impressive surveillance operation in Bissau. Now who do you imagine he claims has shown up in that unlikely city, shoes shined and bottle of Scotch in hand? Who, of our acquaintance, has been spotted by CNI shaking hands with the noble drug lord and generally carrying on like a long lost amigo?’

Wraye could barely speak for her astonishment. Had the answer simply dropped into her lap? ‘Tony Watchman went to Guinea-Bissau to meet a drug baron?’

‘So Javier claims.’

‘He has pictures. Video.’

‘No, señor. Classic ops support cock-up. Javier was watching the live feed from their cameras, swears he identified Tony, but the sequence was never recorded.’

‘So there’s no proof.’

‘That’s why you’re here.’

‘Tony hasn’t taken a sabbatical in Counter-Narcotics, has he?’

‘He hasn’t stepped outside C-T in sixteen years. Terrorism is Tony as surely as the Middle East is George.’

She paused to absorb the extraordinary charge. ‘Is there any legitimate reason,’ she began carefully, ‘why Counter-Terrorism might have an interest in Salis? A source of funding perhaps? Afghan heroin supports Islamic terrorism; cocaine presumably keeps FARC in AK-47s. Perhaps Colombian drug money is starting to impact our own security interests?’

‘I’ve looked into it, and so has Javier. When he realized he was spying on an SIS director, he got very nervous. Tried admirably hard to find a reasonable explanation. Tried, but failed. Salis has no known connection with any terrorist group. His bank accounts show no transfers to anyone on our watch list. That’s why Javier came to me.’

‘Have you spoken to Tony?’

‘I can’t afford to do that. Maybe you can – once you’ve found proof of the link. It goes without saying that you can never mention this conversation to him.’

‘I haven’t said I’ll do it.’

‘There’s not much cash around these days, but I can probably find you forty thousand from the Salamander fund.’

She smiled to herself. ‘Can I ask you something first?’

‘Go on.’

‘Indulge me, Jeremy. I’m trying to reconstruct a particular day, nine years ago. Hard to find data, now that I’m on the outside. You’re the only person I know who’s had the discipline to keep a diary all this time.’ She gestured to the leather-bound book. ‘Still managing to write every day?’

‘Without fail.’ He moved to the bookshelves. ‘What date?’

She gave it to him, and he reached without hesitation for a caramel-coloured journal on the top shelf. Flicking it open, he leafed through the pages. ‘Sorry. Nothing of any interest.’

Brazenly she said, ‘May I see?’

With a slight frown, he handed the diary to her. Checking the date at the top of the page, she quickly skimmed the copperplate. ‘Newcastle?’

‘Recruitment. We were trying, if you remember, to draw in a more diverse range of applicants. Personnel Department had identified three interesting candidates in Bradford and four more in Newcastle. I went up to look them over.’

‘You’d stayed in Leeds the night before?’ she said, glancing at the preceding entry.

‘Evidently so.’

‘We don’t have any secure offices in those parts, do we? Nothing with a Porthos terminal?’

‘God, no.’ He closed the diary and replaced it on the shelf. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ she said, rising. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

He stood up hurriedly. ‘So you’ll take the Watchman commission?’

She paused on the threshold. The sound of a morose teenager plucking aimlessly at untuned guitar strings could be heard. ‘Why not.’