Tomkins asked what he was supposed to say if he was pulled in for questioning.
‘The DG’s away. Soon as she gets back next week, I’ll tell her what’s happened. She’s the only one apart from the people on our team who knows about BOX 88. I’ll tell her that BIRD went missing, that the Iranians were cleaning house. Believe me, she won’t want this getting out. If the Met come asking questions, she’ll shut them down. There are precedents, many of them.’
Tomkins was momentarily reassured that Vosse already had it all worked out, was capable of processing ideas and making rational decisions outside of normal procedure, normal morality. Yet he couldn’t help thinking about Zoltan’s death, the fear of being collared as a witness to murder who had failed to come forward. He knew that MI5 officers were part of a special breed, that the usual rules didn’t apply, but it felt unethical not to go to the police and tell them everything they needed to know.
‘Am I making myself clear?’ Vosse asked. ‘Am I getting through to you?’
Tomkins nodded. He wasn’t sure what the question referred to. He said: ‘Sure.’
‘Go home, Matt. Get a few hours’ sleep. Take a couple of days off. Don’t talk to anyone about what happened. Don’t google the incident, don’t have a crisis of conscience and drive to your nearest police station. The last thing we need is integrity encroaching on all this—’
‘All right!’ Tomkins snapped. He felt that he was going to cry. It astonished him how badly he had reacted to what had happened. ‘I promise I’ll go home. I’ll lie low. I won’t talk to anyone. I won’t do anything.’ He knew that he sounded petulant and noticed a look of irritation flash across Vosse’s face. ‘Sorry,’ he added desperately. ‘I’m just tired. I’m in shock. This is the first time anything like this has ever happened to me.’
‘Sure, Matt. Sure. We all have to go through it some time.’
‘What about Cara?’ he asked.
‘I’ll call a meeting,’ Vosse replied. ‘You don’t need to be there.’
Tomkins could sense that he was being sidelined, but he lacked the energy and the desire to fight for his place at the table.
‘What will happen next?’ he asked.
‘Leave that to me. Don’t worry about it, son. Just take the rest of the week off, get your head straight. Call me in a day or two. OK?’
Cara woke up to a message telling her to get to the Acton safe house as soon as possible. When she arrived, she found Tess and Kieran nursing Starbuck’s lattes, Vosse looking like he hadn’t slept and no sign whatsoever of Matt.
Vosse explained what had happened. Kieran turned the air blue, Tess almost spat out her coffee and Cara suggested that one of them go back to Zoltan’s flat and try to find the burner phone he had used to contact the Iranians. Vosse was impressed that she had thought of this but he’d already been to the flat and discovered that somebody had got there ahead of him, removing both the laptop and any trace of the phone. Cara poured herself a glass of water and listened as Vosse stressed the need for absolute secrecy until he had the chance to tell the DG. Amid the general chaos, Kieran was instructed to watch the car park in case the Iranians came back for the CCTV, Tessa was told to go to the Brighton hospital where Isobel Kite was due on shift and Cara was given the address for Kite’s cottage in Sussex. Both were to try to approach Isobel and find out what she knew.
‘If she’s in a state, chances are she’s hit the panic button and BOX 88 personnel will be on the scene,’ he told them. ‘There might be activity at the house or near the hospital. Get me photos if you can. I want faces of these people. If we can’t follow Kite any more, we can follow one of them.’
An hour later Cara was on the train to Lewes looking at an old-fashioned Ordnance Survey map of the hills surrounding Kite’s cottage, working out which route to take and preparing what she might say if Isobel was at home and answered the door. There was a man in his early twenties on the train sitting across the aisle from her who did that thing that boys on trains always did, which was to stare at her repeatedly, then to shyly look away whenever Cara looked up and tried to make eye contact. They never found the courage to smile, far less to come over and make conversation, and always got off the train without a nod or a gesture of farewell.
She was surprised that she didn’t feel more shocked about what had happened to Pavkov. In a way, Zoltan had been her agent. He would likely still be alive if Cara hadn’t worked out the scheme he was running with the Iranians. As a result of her interference, a man was dead: he’d made contact with the people who had kidnapped Kite and they had cut his throat. It was brutal and shocking. Why, then, did she feel so little? Was it delayed shock? She was more concerned about Matt, who had apparently been all over the place after seeing Zoltan’s body. Poor bloke. He lived at such a pitch, kept himself coiled so tight and anxious, he was bound to unravel when things got nasty. Cara knew that she was made of sterner stuff. If she was the type of woman who was going to mourn for a corrupt Serb who’d sold out Lachlan Kite for three grand, she was in the wrong job.
The train was on time. Cara caught a cab from Lewes station and was
