Dead Line

to the success of this conference. It is vital that nothing should occur to disrupt it. Ministers feel, and I believe their colleagues in Washington feel the same, that this conference, given the wide attendance, represents the first real possibility of a fundamental breakthrough in the region.’

As Mr Faceless continued his remarks Liz discreetly scanned the table. He had not troubled to begin with the normal chairman’s courtesy of going round the table for everyone to introduce themselves, so she amused herself by working out who everyone was. A deputy commissioner from the Metropolitan Police – she’d seen his photo in the newspapers though she’d never met him – was sitting next to a man she guessed was also a policeman, probably a Scot. Then there were the two Americans. They must be from the CIA London station; they didn’t look like FBI and anyway she knew most of the FBI characters at the embassy. One of them wore horn-rimmed glasses, a khaki summer suit and a striped tie that shouted Ivy League. The other, older than his colleague, was a heavy- set, balding man, who seized on the opportunity of a pause in the chairman’s remarks to say, ‘I’m Andy Bokus, head of station at Grosvenor.’ CIA, as she had suspected. He spoke in a flat, uninflected voice. Like a Midwestern car dealer in a film, thought Liz. ‘And this is my colleague, Miles Brookhaven. To date we have received no specific negative information relative to the conference.’

Liz suppressed a groan. What was it with so many Americans? Met informally, they could be the friendliest, least pretentious people in the world, but put them on a stage and they turned into automatons.

Bokus went on. ‘Liaisons with the Federal Bureau of Investigation are ongoing. So far, also negative. A representative of that agency will attend any future meeting.’ He paused. ‘The Secret Service may also attend.’

‘Really?’ asked a tall, sandy-haired man, leaning back languidly in his chair. Oh God! It was Bruno Mackay, an MI6 officer Liz had run up against before. She hadn’t seen him for several years but he hadn’t changed at all in that time. Still the deep tan, the sculpted nose and mouth, the beautifully cut suit that spoke of Savile Row. Mackay was clever, smooth, charming and infuriating in equal measure -and also, in Liz’s experience, deeply untrustworthy. Now he caught her looking at him, and he stared back into her eyes with cold, professional detachment, until suddenly he gave an unmistakable wink, and his face broke into a wide grin.

Ignoring him, Liz turned her attention back towards the rest of the table, and realised that Mackay’s intervention seemed to have flustered Bokus, who was now silent and frowning at the chairman. Clearing his throat, Mr Faceless remarked in hushed tones, ‘Although it is not widely known, even among departments and agencies – and I would ask you all to protect this information for the present – there is a strong possibility that the President will attend the conference.’

Well, perhaps there is a chance of a breakthrough after all, thought Liz. The President certainly wouldn’t be attending if this was going to be just another pointless summit. As if to confirm that this was something different, the door to the room opened and a man came in, walking briskly towards the chairman’s seat.

He looked familiar to Liz, and she was at a loss for a moment until realising why. It was Sir Nicholas Pomfret. She had never seen him in the flesh, but recognised him from his many appearances on television and in the press. A saturnine figure, bald and dark-skinned, with coal-coloured eyebrows, a hawk nose and sharp, intelligent eyes, he was a near-legendary political Mr Fixit. But he also had a solid core of government experience; for many years he’d been a civil servant at the Home Office, before becoming senior political adviser to the last prime minister but one.

He’d left government for a while, becoming first CEO then chairman of a leading investment bank. Then, after the election of the new Prime Minister, he’d returned to number 10 Downing Street. The PM had sent him on several overseas missions as his personal ambassador -soothing ruffled Saudi feathers when an arms deal was threatened by a hostile UK press, helping various British firms with difficulties doing business in Hong Kong under mainland Chinese control.

Most recently, he had been named as the new security major-domo, reporting directly to the PM. His appointment had caused muttering when announced, since he was a political veteran rather than a security professional. But long tenure in the Home Office meant he knew the ins and outs of both the police and the intelligence services and his status as the PM’s personal advisor meant that he had influence with foreign heads of government, so he was now generally accepted as a good thing among that most closed of worlds, the security community.

His presence at this meeting suggested an urgency. Liz found herself sitting slightly more upright as, after a nod to the chairman, Sir Nicholas began to speak.

‘Sorry to miss some of your proceedings, but I’ve just come from the Prime Minister. One of the things we’ve been talking about is this conference, and I wanted to say a few words to you before you go.’

He paused dramatically, knowing he now had everyone’s attention. ‘A month ago one might have been forgiven for thinking the prospect of another conference on the Middle East distinctly… unpromising. With only the usual participants lined up, it was hard to see how any progress could be made.

‘Today, however, I’m very pleased to say that things have changed. It now seems increasingly likely, thanks to prolonged and intensive lobbying by Her Majesty’s Government, in which I was privileged to play a part, that all the relevant parties to the conflict in the Middle East are likely to be at Gleneagles. Israel, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, and even Iran have indicated their intention to participate.’

He’s revelling in this, thought Liz, though there wasn’t any doubting the importance of what he was saying. ‘Gleneagles could be the breakthrough that’s so desperately needed. It’s a great opportunity, but if it fails, there won’t be another peace initiative any time soon. I’m sure the seriousness of what I’m saying is apparent to us all.

‘That’s why I’m here. I must tell you in the utmost confidence that we have very recently received intelligence – highly classified intelligence – that an attempt will be made to abort the conference, possibly before it even begins. I can’t be more precise than that for the moment – the intelligence is vague, but highly reliable. Those agencies who have a need to know will be briefed in greater detail by our colleagues in MI6. I can assure you that the threat is real. Nothing must be allowed to derail the talks. Thank you for your time’. He stood up. ‘Now I have to get back next door.’

Later, when the meeting broke up, Liz looked out of the corner of her eye at Bruno, who was lounging back in his chair, looking immensely self-satisfied. It wasn’t hard to guess why. How typical, she thought, feeding intelligence in at the top for maximum dramatic impact, rather than briefing colleagues in the normal way.

Making her way downstairs, through the familiar glass security doors and out into Whitehall, Liz found herself in the company of the younger of the two CIA men, the Ivy Leaguer with the horn-rimmed glasses and the striped tie. It had been raining and there were puddles on the ground. He was wearing a Burberry raincoat that looked absurdly new.

Smiling, he held his hand out. ‘Miles Brookhaven,’ he said in a soft voice, his accent mid-Atlantic. The afternoon traffic was light and they had the wide pavement to themselves. ‘Going this way?’ he said, indicating the gates of the Horse Guards building, twenty yards up Whitehall.

She hadn’t intended to, but found herself reflecting that she could just as well get back to Thames House by walking across Horseguards Parade as by going down Whitehall and getting involved with the complicated crossings around Parliament. They turned into the gates together, passed the sentries in their boxes and emerged through the dark archway into the sunshine reflected off the red gravel of the parade ground.

‘Your Sir Nicholas,’ Brookhaven said appreciatively. ‘Is that what they mean by a mandarin?’

Liz laughed. ‘Strictly speaking, a mandarin is a civil servant. He was a mandarin once, but now he’s got himself a profile – these days he’s a politico.’

Brookhaven was walking quickly. A shade under six feet, he was lean and athletic-looking. He seemed to glide effortlessly over the pavement and though Liz was hardly a dawdler, she found it hard to keep up. Out of the corner of her eye, as they crossed the gravel, she saw Bruno Mackay climbing into the driving seat of a flashy-looking car. How on earth had he got one of the special passes that entitled him to park there? In fact, how had he got out there so quickly?

‘What do you make of what he said?’

‘Sir Nicholas?’ Liz shrugged. ‘Oh, I think we have to take him at his word, for the time being anyway. No doubt Six will pass on the intelligence when it’s been assessed. There’s nothing we or anyone can do until we know more.’

She changed the subject. ‘How long have you been stationed here?’

‘Just two months,’ he said, before adding quickly, ‘but I know England well. My school had an exchange