us needs reminding how he prevented the catastrophe to which you’ve already referred.” As well as preventing my dismissal, Smith mentally added.
“On the subject of preliminary assessments, I have to give to the prime minister and the foreign secretary some indication of the potential problems we might be facing,” came in Sir Archibald Bland, the cabinet secretary, who’d completed the inquiry team.
“I’m not sure we can provide that this early,” apologized Smith, in reluctant admission. “Charlie Muffin will be held here, under house detention. Questioned further to learn far more about Natalia Fedova. I don’t intend a knee- jerk reaction to a situation as complicated as this appears to be.”
“I’m not naive enough to believe this woman doesn’t know anything about operations in which Muffin has been involved for at least the past eight years,” said the deputy director, the disparagement embedded in her mind. “And as such the potential cause of huge embarrassment, if not serious, long-term harm. She should be neutralized.”
“Killed, you mean?” lured Monsford, deceptively casual.
Jane Ambersom hesitated, coloring again, inherently suspicious of the man. “If it were deemed necessary. He’s given us her Moscow address: we know where to find her.”
“What about the child? Do we kill the child as well?” pounced Monsford, baiting her in front of the two civil servants to continue the criticism he’d engineered to achieve her transfer. “I can’t imagine an eight-year-old child knowing enough to cause us difficulties, but we might as well tidy up any loose ends.”
The woman’s color deepened. “I don’t believe we are considering this seriously enough. This is a high-alert situation that needs to be dealt with as such.”
“None of us believes otherwise,” said Aubrey Smith, calmly, despite his irritation at the obvious point scoring and astonished at Monsford’s talking as if he’d been closely involved in the Lvov exposure. “I’d hoped to have made clear that I do not intend worsening a potential problem with a panicked reaction.”
“Which eliminating a woman about whose existence we have only just learned, orphaning a child in the process, would unarguably do,” endorsed Monsford.
“How, precisely, do we learn more about her?” asked Jane Ambersom, descending to mockery.
“Going into what Wordsworth described as the burthen of the mystery,” Monsford awkwardly mocked back, intent upon controlling what he was increasingly deciding to be a gift situation from a God in whom he didn’t believe. “The separation and independence of our two services is well established, for all the obvious reasons. I welcome, however, this opportunity for us to come together in a combined operation, to which I guarantee every contribution asked from MI6.”
“This is precisely how the prime minister wants it handled,” announced Sir Anthony Bland.
“It seems completely appropriate to me,” quickly agreed Palmer, the functioning liaison between MI5 and MI6.
“At this early stage I don’t see the reason for a combined operation,” argued Aubrey Smith, recognizing how he was being railroaded, sure it confirmed his suspicion that his directorship remained in doubt.
“Perhaps I didn’t make clear how I envisage such an arrangement,” said Monsford. “I am offering my resources in one specific area: Moscow. I anticipate our working in the closest possible way, discussing every aspect, but equally expect you to be the controller-the Director-of a matched, one for one, team of officers.”
No one else in the room appeared able to find a response.
Geoffrey Palmer was the first. “That’s a very generous offer that would seem to resolve any command uncertainty: not, of course, that I would expect any.”
“We are all agreed that everything is at a very early, exploratory stage,” persisted Aubrey Smith, his unemotional monotone concealing the anger at so effectively being maneuvered into a cul-de-sac. “Let’s look upon this operational cooperation as a step-at-a-time experiment.”
“I would expect to be an active participant, too,” hurriedly intruded Jane Ambersom, equally concerned at again becoming Monsford’s scapegoat.
“I would expect all of us to be active participants,” said the compromise-adept Sir Archibald.
Aubrey Smith, who fully acknowledged his initial survival indebtedness to Charlie Muffin, wondered how long his second chance might last. At least this time he hoped more quickly to recognize at least some of the moves against him, which he hadn’t before.
For as long as he could remember, and Charlie Muffin had an elephantine memory, self-preservation had been a major preoccupation, but never so much as now, incarcerated as he was in a window-barred and double-locked room with only the glazed-eyed relatives of the other wall-mounted animals on the ground floor for sightless company. But this was the first time the preoccupation was not for his own survival. How had Natalia-and Sasha- been detected? The money trail had always been the obvious weakness although it couldn’t have triggered this discovery: two of Natalia’s anguished calls to his abandoned Vauxhall apartment were dated and timed before his Jersey visit. How else? He would have been the concentrated focus of the excoriating, stop-at-nothing FSB investigation after the destruction of Russia’s intended puppetmaster emplacement of Stepan Lvov. What of Natalia’s long ago insistence that she had wiped from KGB and succeeding FSB records as much trace as possible of their connection during his supposed defection debriefing? There was a stomach lurch of belated-too belated- realization. A search as complete and as intense as the FSB’s would have encompassed every government institution. The Hall of Weddings was one such institution, in which every ceremony was bureaucratically registered, electronically as well as in a handwritten ledger.
Why was he looking backward? Charlie asked himself. Whatever the route, whatever the disclosing mistake, their relationship had been uncovered. Or had it? If it had been positively confirmed, Natalia would no longer be at liberty to telephone him as she had. Suspected at least, Charlie qualified. But sufficient for the scourging fear in which Charlie felt locked because even if she was suspected, Natalia and Sasha had to be got out of Russia.
But how? And by whom?
Judged against a lifetime’s need for split-second thinking to split-second confrontations, Charlie believed he’d adequately responded to the stomach-dropping sound of Natalia’s voice. But only
He had to think of a way to rescue them: a very quick, stop-at-nothing way as guaranteed as possible to get them to safety. What? he asked himself again. And again failed to find an answer.
“To quote Shakespeare, ‘with as little a web as this I will ensnare’: they’ve gone for it!” announced Gerald Monsford, triumphantly. He spoke with his back to the other two in his office in MI6’s Vauxhall Cross headquarters, looking up toward the Houses of Parliament on the opposite side of the Thames.
“Even dear Jane?” queried Rebecca Street, well aware of Monsford’s antipathy toward the woman whom she had replaced, although unaware of how it had been manipulated.
“She needed the assurance that she wouldn’t be kept out of the loop,” said Monsford, who’d appointed Rebecca not only as his deputy but as his easily persuaded mistress, which Jane had consistently refused to become, providing an additional reason for her transfer.
“What about Smith?” asked James Straughan, the director of operations.
“Palmer and Bland got in with their support first, which wrong-footed poor old Aubrey,” patronized the Director. “Then I played my ace by insisting that he’d control it all, with us limited to committing our Moscow resources, which left him high and dry.”
“You think he’ll trust us?” asked the woman, professionally objective.
“At the moment he’s totally confused by the sudden appearance of this mysterious Natalia Fedova,” said Monsford, turning at last from the window. To the woman he said: “I want you to monitor everything: act as our secondary check to guarantee against mistakes.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” said the blond Rebecca Street, smiling. She dressed to advertise her full-breasted but otherwise slim figure. That day’s promotion was a low-necked crossover black dress, the bodice pin the diamond clasp Monsford had given her as a consummation present. She’d been far more impressed by the clasp than by the over-in-seconds lovemaking she’d endured in the office’s adjoining bedroom suite to gain it.
