They had none of the prolonged satisfaction of the Department D people who ran their networks of agents, or ‘friends’. They just came in when the wheels had come off an operation and someone was in real trouble, or when Whitehall wanted people on who, they could turn their.
The Acton Fairies were the striking arm of the service. When MI6 began recruiting operatives in earnest in 1939 they gave the training of unarmed combat, marksmanship and the black arts in general to the most feared man the Royal Marines had ever produced. Sergeant Norman Tidwell was famous for his slanderous accusations of the sexual preferences of his pupils and in time, rightly or wrongly, the name became part of the service law. The Acton Fairies were still trained in Acton but, since then, the black arts had become blacker, the exponents less careful about covering their tracks – and, in 1981, three of them had badly botched the kidnapping of an Argentinean within yards of Gatwick Airport. Two bystanders had died and, because both were third world immigrants only minutes into the land of milk and honey. the Left’s reaction was swift and virulent.
It was this indiscretion that had directly led to Callows’ appointment Sir Martin’s job was to control Milburn. Those that knew about these things didn’t argue that the department had its place in the scheme of things but a low profile was of the utmost importance, or those who didn’t know would be demanding its demise.
Milburn was run by career Six men who were seconded to the department for anything up to three years. There was one man who had been there five and it was generally acknowledged that he wouldn’t be going back into the MI6 mainstream. He had made a mistake – and mistakes, where lives were concerned, are not forgotten. It was he who took the tapes and transcripts from the driver of the battered Citroen and carried them up the steep dark stairs past the silent ex-Fairy porters to Sir Martin’s office.
Sir Martin himself was a large crag-faced man with a thick mane of grey hair, hooded eyes and a voice like gravel. He had rarely raised it, speaking only in moderate tones punctuated by harsh barks of dry laughter. He was tipped to be the next Director General and was, everyone agreed, a real bastard. Since his arrival at Milburn he had taken the department in his huge fist and shaken it until it began making the right kinds of noises.
There would be no more bungled jobs and embarrassed Governments.
Callow took the large brown envelope from the man and, without raising his head, said, “Get Burmeister up here,” into his intercom.
Finally, he pulled the papers clear and began reading, his leonine eyes creasing as they scanned the transcript.
Thirty seconds later, John Burmeister knocked and entered through a second door. He was one of the career men on attachment from D, the intelligence gathering section, and looked the part in a Saville Row suit of dark blue wool. He was wearing a Royal Artillery tie he wasn’t entitled to, but he was one of those men who didn’t give a damn. Dropping into one of the easy chairs that Sir Martin was indicating, he crossed one leg over the other, looking like a city banker with his iron grey hair and his air of confident wealth.
Sir Martin gave a porcine grunt and thrust the transcript across.
“Read this. Yuri Simonov’s temper tantrum is laced with something that smells.”
Burmeister took the typed pages and began to slowly read, knowing better than to hurry and miss anything.
Fifteen minutes later, he spoke.
“My God, she’s saying…”
“She’s telling us we have a mole,” Sir Martin finished.
“Christ, where are we looking?”
“In Six certainly,” Sir Martin replied. “Here at Milburn possibly. Who knows.” Then he leaned inward and uttered two words with unutterable force. “Find him!”
“Sir Martin,” Burmeister appealed, “I’m not George Smiley...”
“By the time this is over, you will wish you were. Get on with it. I will get you a sniffer dog across from C, but I’m not having Five or Special Branch nosing round my bailiwick. Not yet… I don’t want him flushed until we’re ready. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir Martin.” Burmeister stood. “I’ll want to go down and talk to Simonov myself, of course.”
“No, leave it to the shrink. That woman has found his key. She’s bloody good, John. She judges at Crufts, you know. Dogs and defectors! Ha!” He barked his laugh and then his eyelids dropped menacingly. “Find him for me, John. Use the sniffer, give him access to everything, create a reason for it that will cover his work, and give him whatever support he needs. I will hang this bastard at the gallows!”
Burmeister knew he would do just that.
Forty minutes later, Sir Martin joined Sir Gordon Tansey-Williams at his club, the latter already clutching his habitual drink, a fiery Cape Brandy, in his fist.
“Thought I would find you here,” Callows began.
“Well Martin, what have your yobbos been up to?” Tansey-Williams replied jovially. He had had a good day.
“I wish it were that simple,” Callows muttered, beckoning a waiter. “Let’s take a walk.” He nodded towards the billiard room, usually deserted at this time of the day, and together they headed in that direction. “We have a little problem…”
“What sort of problem?”
“Moscow Centre. They have someone inside Six.”
That was all it took. Thirty seconds later – Callows’ drink untouched – they were on their way back to Tansey-Williams’ offices, the Director General’s day now ruined, and within twenty minutes they were back within Century House, the electronically swept sterile environment of the Secret Intelligence Service
Soon, Callows’ brief was over and Tansey-Williams leant back in his leather chair.
“Firstly, how much credence do you place on this Simonov?”
“I am inclined to believe it. It slipped out. It wasn’t meant to.”
“Not telling us what he thinks we want to hear, eh?”
“Certainly not, and it’s not fibs either.” He used the current jargon for the normally
