‘No,’ Grantham said. ‘Not a dicky bird.’
Young nodded encouragingly. ‘Well, that’s reassuring. Nevertheless, the PM believes that we have to be seen to respond. He does not relish the prospect of doing nothing and then standing up in front of Parliament — or, even worse, Newsnight — when a bomb goes off somewhere. He is also keen to have an initiative to take to this launch. Congress ignored Mr Zorn. We will not make that mistake.’
Dame Judith cast her sharp eyes in Young’s direction. ‘May one ask what you have in mind?’
‘We need a high-profile event of our own, a proper eco-terrorism summit: senior figures from the intelligence, defence and energy communities; a couple of top energy executives; scientists who can discuss the possible implications of a blown-up oil rig, that sort of thing.’
‘Clearly you will want to make an announcement within the next week or so,’ said Sir Charles Herbert, with diplomatic smoothness. ‘But surely there’s no rush over the summit itself. As I’m sure you’ll know, these things take many months to organize. In fact, I dare say everyone will have forgotten about the idea long before anything can be done.’
Cameron shook his jowly head. ‘No, the PM is adamant. An announcement is not enough. He wants to be seen taking swift, decisive action. It’s got to be put together immediately: tomorrow, in fact, nice and early so it dominates the whole day’s news cycle. So I’d be very grateful if all the relevant bodies would rustle up a few of their brightest stars. To save any interdepartmental wrangling, we’ll coordinate it all from the Cabinet Office. And let me emphasize in the strongest possible terms, the PM wants a real spectacular.’
The men and women of the Joint Intelligence Committee were, by definition, highly experienced, unflappable individuals who weren’t given to panic. But even they had a hard time concealing their shock at what Young had just proposed.
‘Where were you thinking of holding this meeting?’ Sir Charles Herbert asked, hoping that a moment’s consideration of the practicalities would swiftly scupper the PM’s hare-brained scheme. ‘It’s going to be hard getting one of the major London conference venues at such short notice.’
Cameron Young was not deterred. ‘No, we don’t want anything like that. We have to have maximum media coverage, so we need a photogenic backdrop.’
‘Well, maybe you should try an oil rig, then,’ suggested Jack Grantham, wondering to himself just how mad this was going to get.
He, too, had underestimated Cameron Young. ‘No, we considered that option. But it’s always a nightmare getting people to and from rigs, and they can’t cater for the number of visitors we had in mind.’
‘And just think what would happen if the weather got up, and you suddenly found several chopper-loads of dignitaries stuck on a rig overnight with all the media jackals,’ said a man from the Ministry of Defence. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Precisely,’ said Young. ‘We need a controllable environment. And we think we’ve found just the one…’
24
Wentworth
Carver watched as Zorn’s Bentley disappeared behind the gates of his mansion. He rode back up the road a few hundred yards, then pulled into a lay-by, took off his helmet and checked his phone. There was one missed call: Grantham.
‘Learn anything?’ the MI6 man asked when Carver got through to him.
‘Yes.’
‘Anything you want to share with me?’
‘Well, I have one question. Zorn’s never been married, right?’
‘No.’
‘Thought so. Just checking.’
‘You want to tell me why?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Have you worked out what you’re going to do: method, time, location and so forth?’
‘Yes, pretty much.’
‘And…?’
‘And as soon as I’ve finalized everything, and worked out exactly what I need, I’ll tell you.’
‘Big of you,’ Grantham said. ‘Meanwhile, Zorn’s not going to Wimbledon tomorrow, correct?’
‘That’s right. What of it?’
‘I’ve got another little job for you.’
‘Just because I’m not tracking Zorn tomorrow doesn’t mean I won’t be busy,’ Carver objected. ‘I’ve got a lot to prepare, and bugger all time to do it in.’
‘You help me, and I’ll lend a hand with that. I have ways of saving you a lot of time. Access to resources, you might say.’
‘We’ll see about that… what do you want?’
‘Zorn’s given some interview to the BBC. He says the next big thing is energy terrorism — eco-loonies blowing up oil rigs and so forth.’
‘That old chestnut. I spent half my time in the SBS freezing my tits off in the North Sea, climbing on to oil rigs and pretending to kill terrorists who’d occupied them. I’ll bet they still train for that. But we’ve never had a single terrorist on a single rig.’
‘Be that as it may, the PM’s got his knickers in a twist. He’s decided to hold some bloody stupid summit meeting tomorrow morning…’
‘So what do you want from me?’
‘I need you to go. Strictly speaking this is a domestic issue, so our Security Service friends are being annoyingly territorial and saying it’s their responsibility, not ours. That means I can’t send anyone on an official basis. But I need someone there, someone I can trust.’
‘And you think you can trust me?’ Carver asked, with just a hint of amusement in his voice.
‘Not much.’
‘But what’s the point? What can I achieve there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Grantham said, with an exasperation that was principally directed against himself. ‘But this meeting wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for Malachi Zorn. I’m not sure he planned for it to happen: I don’t care how brilliant he is, he couldn’t have predicted that the PM would respond to his interview this way. But he wouldn’t be going on about energy terrorism — and this isn’t the first time, apparently — if he didn’t have a bloody good reason for it.’
‘So this is basically an unknown element in a plan that’s still a total mystery. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, if you want to put it that way.’
‘And you have no idea what good it will do me, or you, if I’m there?’
‘Correct.’
‘Well, if I go, you’d better give me precisely what I need for the Zorn job. And some of it you won’t like.’
‘Well, naturally, the Service can never condone violence, torture or the harming of soft, furry animals…’
‘Naturally…’
‘And there’s one other thing,’ Grantham added.
‘You don’t know when to stop, do you?’
‘That’s why I’m where I am, and you’re not. It’s to do with this Magda Sternberg woman…’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve been doing some digging. She’s an elusive girl, our Magda. But my people think she’s Polish. If she’s who they say she is, she was born Celina Novak. And here’s the interesting bit
that you might be able to help me with. She was sent to Russia to be trained by the KGB.’
‘So what?’ asked Carver. ‘Lots of kids from Warsaw Pact nations spent time in the USSR. It was the communist answer to finishing school.’
