7
Sir Peter Clark’s office was the only deliberate reminder in the building of their connection with the mandarins of Whitehall and the Foreign Office. Panelled and finished in the highest Civil Service good taste, it acknowledged that the Director-General of MI6 was still a servant of the Foreign Secretary despite his privilege of direct contact with the Prime Minister if he felt it necessary. And “necessary” usually meant when some MP was heading for something worse than a domestic scandal, something that could affect national security. The old-fashioned and rather ornate office was neither typical of the man’s character nor a sign of self-importance but an overt symbol of the D-G’s awareness of his political masters.
Once a top Civil Servant himself in the Ministry of Defence when it was called more frankly the War Office, Sir Peter knew where the levers of Whitehall lay and how to operate them. Tall and lean, he looked like something out of P.G. Wodehouse but it was totally deceptive. A double-first at Balliol, a blue for boxing and a brain that had won him the respect of both the soldiers and the politicians.
He looked across at his deputy, Hugh Morton, one of the organisation’s old China hands who had survived the swings and roundabouts of MI6’s turbulent fortunes because he was a wise assessor of both men and situations. Sir Peter pointed at the file that lay on his desk between them.
“What did you think of that little lot?”
Morton shrugged. “Looks more like a job for Five and Special Branch to me.”
“Why? Because Maguire-Barton’s an MP?”
“Yes.” He had smiled. “And a government MP to boot.”
“Maybe that’s why Five have suggested that we handle it.”
“Did they give any reason why they suggested that?”
“Yes. They see Grushko, the Russian, as the one who really matters. Not Maguire-Barton. They think he’s just a stooge.”
“I’d agree that Grushko is the one who really matters but I don’t see Maguire-Barton as a stooge. He’s too sly and too ambitious for that.”
“What’s his rôle then?”
“Who knows? Agent of influence maybe.”
“Influence in what area?”
“We’ll know more when we’ve looked them over. He’s got influence in the House. Cultivates journalists. Appears on chat shows and TV. He’s got plenty of opportunities for pushing the Soviet view either openly or covertly.”
“Who’ll you get to handle this?”
“Shapiro.”
Sir Peter pursed his lips. “Is it important enough for Shapiro to handle?”
Morton smiled. “You don’t like him do you?”
Sir Peter shrugged. “Like, maybe not. Admire, yes. He knows the Soviets inside out, but when an MP’s involved I wonder if somebody less obsessed might not be more suitable.” Sir Peter paused. “But I leave it to you.”
“Any comments on our submission for an increased budget?”
“Plenty. Most of them unfavourable. The opposition hate our guts and there are plenty on the government side who’d like to cut us down to size. The only consolation I ever have at the budget meetings is that they give Five even more stick than they give us.”
“Why do you think this is?”
“It’s a combination of two things in my opinion. It’s popular with the media to denigrate our intelligence services and on the other hand they’re scared of what we know about them.” He laughed softly. “Of what they think we know about them. When I hear them talking on the budget committee I can hear the skeletons rattling in their cupboards.” He shrugged and stood up slowly. “Thank God it’s only once a year. I don’t mind the criticisms but the sheer hypocrisy angers me.” He paused. “Keep me in touch from time to time about Maguire-Barton.”
“Is it urgent?”
“I don’t know, Hughie. We won’t know that until Shapiro and his chaps have found out a bit more.”
Harris, sitting at his desk, wore a faded blue denim shirt and twill slacks to mark the fact that it was a Saturday morning. Chapman wore a light-weight grey suit and a dark blue cravat instead of a tie. There was some sort of emblem or coat of arms on the cravat. Hand-embroidered.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing since you came into SIS.” *
“All the way back?”
Harris nodded. “It’s not all that way back. But yes.”
“I did the basic three-month training course and then six months at St. Antony’s on the history of the Soviet Union and the organisation of the KGB and the GRU. I got Beta-minus on both. Then I worked for Lowrey for a few months on surveillance.”
“What kind of surveillance?”
“The Oxford Group and Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“On your own or with Lowrey?”
“Both. About half and half.”
“Go on.”
“I did surveillance as part of a team on the Czech Embassy and then I did solo on two suspected KGB safe-houses.”
“Which ones?”
“The small one in Highgate and one in Kensington.”
“Who did you report to?”
“Joe Shapiro.”
“Tell me about Joe Shapiro. What kind of man do you think he is?”
“I didn’t really get to know him. He’s a bit high up for me.”
“You must have got some sort of an impression. What was it?”
Chapman hesitated. “He won’t be told what I say, will he?”
Harris raised his eyebrows in obvious disapproval of the question. “No. And I doubt that he’d be interested anyway.”
“I found him a very strange man. Absolutely dedicated. Any crumb of information about the KGB or the Soviet Union was pounced on as if it might be vitally important. He wanted to know every detail. What they wore. Did they look pleased or unhappy. Had they had their hair cut since I last saw them. If they ate out he expected to know everything they ate.” Chapman smiled uncertainly. “He even said that he wondered if lip-reading ought not to be part of our training.” Chapman paused, hesitating. Then he went on. “He made me feel that he was very like a KGB man himself. More than just dedicated … fanatical.”
Harris’s face was non-committal. “Go on.”
“I guess that’s about it. I admire him. His knowledge and his expertise. But … you know, when he was de-briefing me I felt that he got a kick out of
