Agent of the State (43 page)

‘Of course,’ said Kerr, and edged towards Canning’s private bathroom. Do you mind?’

Kerr locked the door and retrieved a couple of tissues with a few strands of Canning’s hair from the waste bin. The toilet was unflushed, so he dipped a handful of toilet paper in the urine, enclosed it in some paper towels and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands.

Opening the door to his outer office, Canning shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll set things up and give you a bell,’ he said, as Kerr memorised Canning’s mobile number from the whiteboard behind Dorothy’s head.

‘Great to be on board, Theo.’ He smiled broadly again, searching the other man’s face. ‘And I won’t let you down.’

Fifty-two

Wednesday, 26 September, 17.28, Eagle Security Services

Karl Sergeyev was waiting in his tiny office for an evening driving assignment when Yuri Goschenko rang for him. The call came thirty minutes early, leaving him no time to freshen up and snatch some food. Behind with his laundry, he had worn the same shirt for two days, which he would never have contemplated in his previous life. There was a stain on his pale blue silk tie and his suit trousers were creased from hours spent sitting in Goschenko’s limousine.

He had just taken a call from Nancy, the third that day, and her mood had graduated from upset through anxiety to screaming fury. Karl had missed two of the money transfers he had promised her since leaving home. The previous day he had defaulted on a mortgage repayment. The children needed new uniform and shoes for school, and trainers for home. When Nancy said she was desperately short of money Karl knew she was telling the truth, for his own situation had lurched rapidly from tricky to dire. In a week he would receive his final full pay cheque from the Met, a realisation that had already sent Nancy scouring the sits-vac columns. Worse still, his remuneration from Goschenko, in terms of timing and amount, remained worryingly opaque.

A full week after he had watched Olga and Goschenko having sex, Karl still felt wrecked and deeply unhappy. He had not told Olga what he had seen, letting her false denial stand unchallenged. Although she was still angry with him, her sexual passion seemed as hot as ever, and she insisted she wanted to change her life so that they could be together. This confused Karl even more. Obsession, jealousy and humiliation joined forces with guilt over Nancy and the children. His emotions were tearing him apart.

Karl had always been known for his optimism, and now he told himself everything would be all right. He knew that, observing each chapter in his complicated love life, bemused work friends wryly referred to him as the ‘hope-over-experience guy’. Karl had always taken this as a compliment, but his newest relationship was proving a lot more testing. This affair was making him recalibrate the balance with each day that passed. His heart longed for a future with Olga, but his head warned him to keep his rented flat.

Buttoning his jacket, Karl entered Goschenko’s palatial office to find the throne occupied by Anatoli Rigov. Goschenko sat in a slightly more modest upholstered chair to one side of the vast desk, in clear deference to the Russian trade minister. Neither was smiling.

Goschenko spoke first, his hand outstretched. ‘Key,’ was all he said.

Mystified, Karl reached into his pocket for the Mercedes key and handed it over. ‘I warned you, Karl,’ said Goschenko. ‘I cannot employ a man who drinks and drives. Who takes so little pride in his appearance.’

Everyone remained silent, until Rigov broke the atmosphere with a smile. ‘I would put it somewhat differently. For a mere chauffeur in London we have people like Boris. You have the skills to navigate a far more complex world, my friend.’

‘Not any more.’

‘For that I can only express my regret,’ said Rigov, with a sideways glance at Goschenko. ‘Which is why I wanted to see you. I believe you were disciplined because of . . . shall we say over-sensitivity by our embassy officials? I merely informed the ambassador you were being fastidious about your duties that evening. In any event, I apologise. That is what I am here to tell you. I feel responsible for what happened, Karl, and want to help you resume the profession for which you are so well suited.’

Karl was astonished at Rigov’s forwardness, which sent a pulse of excitement through him. His career had come to a shuddering halt just as his emotional life had shot into overdrive, and this work-life imbalance had been another cause of unhappiness. Somewhere deep inside him a gear changed up, but he put on his sceptical face. ‘Oh, yeah?’

‘I have seen you work at first hand, Karl,’ Rigov continued. ‘It pains me to see a brother Russian treated with such disregard. I want to put things right between us.’

Another pulse. Karl gave a short laugh as he briefly reached inside his jacket. ‘Not possible.’

‘People change their minds,’ said Goschenko.

‘No chance.’

‘And people can be overruled,’ said Rigov, smoothly. ‘Yuri is concerned about you. He knows of your emotional ties to the girl and your problems at home. Your shortage of money, in particular.’

Karl shot another look at Goschenko. ‘Did Olga tell you that? Have you been talking about me?’

‘Of course not,’ said Rigov, all smiles again. ‘Your face is an open book to us, Karl. Right now we can both read the anxiety written there. It is natural. And I want to help you get your life back at Scotland Yard.’

‘Why?’

‘We hold you in high regard, Karl, as a fellow Russian.’ The smile had not left Rigov’s face. Even Goschenko was looking happy. ‘We have seen you with your family.’

‘You’ve been watching me?’

‘And they deserve a secure future. So does Olga, would you not agree?’

‘And in return?’

‘I want our friendship to grow. You accept my invitation for a discreet drink from time to time to talk about matters of mutual interest.’

Now Karl managed the flicker of a smile. ‘And who would I be talking
with
, Mr Rigov?’

‘Come now, my friend.’ Rigov was regarding him like a long-suffering parent. ‘We both recognised each other the moment we met. Yuri will be here for you if I am away.’

‘And what if I choose not to?’

Rigov shrugged. ‘Then we part as we met, as friends. You owe us nothing,’ he said, with a glance at Goschenko. ‘But Yuri has yet to pay you.’ He paused as Goschenko placed a wad of new fifty-pound notes on the desk. ‘Five thousand pounds, on account. Whether you accept my offer or not, this is yours. Payment for the services you have already rendered Yuri. And a goodwill gift, compensation for the difficulty we have caused you.’

Karl exhaled and sat back in his chair. He stayed silent for a few moments, looking between the two of them. ‘Does Olga know about this?’

Rigov shook his head. ‘No one outside this room. If you allow me to help you, I will arrange a less clumsy method of remuneration, of course.’

Karl had been covering Russian targets long enough to know that ‘parting as friends’ was an old KGB euphemism for murder, sometimes slow and agonising, often violent and bloody. He reached forward for the money and looked from one to the other. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Goschenko spoke first. ‘Just continue being a good intelligence officer at Scotland Yard, of course,’ he said.

Then he caught Rigov looking hard at him. ‘And a faithful Russian for us, naturally.’ The smile returned, but the voice did not sound friendly any more.

Melanie had to loiter around MI5 headquarters at Thames House for nearly two hours before Kestrel appeared. She waited out of sight in Victoria Tower Gardens, a precious stretch of green between Millbank and the river, the route Kerr’s agent always took for the short walk to Westminster Underground. She sprawled with a paperback on a bench beneath overhanging trees looking across the grey, fast-moving Thames to the flashy glass apartments on the south side of Lambeth Bridge.

By the time Kestrel appeared, dusk was falling. Melanie had just climbed the steps beside the children’s playground for another check of the Thames House entrance when she saw him. She watched him turn left outside the front arch and launch himself onto the pedestrian crossing in the busy Horseferry Road. Traffic was racing onto Lambeth Bridge and his sudden appearance forced everything to brake sharply. Melanie heard a screech of tyres, then White Van Man was shouting obscenities through the passenger window. But Kestrel seemed completely unaware, entering the gardens at a rush, raincoat flapping, his comb-over waving in the breeze from the river.

Melanie kept herself invisible as he hurried towards Parliament Square. She caught up with him by the Buxton Memorial, a fountain erected to celebrate the emancipation of slaves.

‘We got it, Jeremy,’ was all she said, lightly taking his arm.

He swung round in a rush, evidently unaware she had been following him. He looked tortured, face sweaty and grey despite the fast walk, his whole body shaking.

‘The video.’ Melanie spoke quietly. ‘Pamela told us everything and John needs to see you again right now.’

Kestrel swung his arm away. ‘Well, he can bloody piss off.’

‘This is too serious to leave, Jeremy.’

‘And you, too.’

Melanie kept her distance as Kestrel raced off towards the Tube without looking back, half running now. On the busy approach to Westminster Bridge he charged across the road without waiting for the lights to change, and Melanie almost lost him in the crowds converging on the station. She managed to get alongside him again as he went through the ticket barrier, following him onto the escalator and standing on the step above him. He was heading for the District and Circle Lines, rather than his normal Jubilee which would take him home. An alarm bell immediately rang in Melanie’s head, for she knew that only Jubilee Line trains were separated from the platform by Perspex security screens, making it impossible to jump onto the line.

Kestrel seemed desperate now, looking about wildly for anyone who might recognise him as they descended into the depths. She spoke directly into his ear. ‘Jeremy, you have nothing to fear. We’ll protect you. But we can’t let this go. None of us.’

When she touched his arm again he seemed to go crazy, yelling, ‘Thief! Thief! Leave me alone!’ at the top of his voice and pushing her away from him. As they rumbled downwards the scene was unambiguous. Commuters saw a respectable man in a suit, just like them, being threatened by a woman from the underclass.

But it was not the suits who fought her off. At the bottom, a couple of workmen in fleeces and paint-spattered trackie bottoms grabbed Melanie and flung her to the ground, allowing Kestrel to lose himself in the crowd, pushing and shoving to reach the platform. One of the men kicked her and called her a lazy bitch, then both abandoned her to run for their train. Melanie suddenly felt sick, not from pain but from anticipation. She knew what Kestrel was about to do. She raced after him as warm air rushed into the tunnel, pushed ahead by the approaching train.

The curved platform was packed, a human mass taking a single step towards the edge, then becoming still again as the train lights appeared in the mouth of the tunnel. Then she locked onto Kestrel, just five metres away to her right. He was easy to spot, for his was the only body still moving on the entire platform. He was heading for the space nearest the tunnel mouth, the point of entry where the train would still be at its highest speed. The people surrounding him were mostly young women and she saw wisps of hair and his shoulders heaving as he pushed through them. Some turned their heads in irritation. Melanie saw one girl say something to him, then turn quickly away. She must have caught his look of fear, as if something in Kestrel’s face signalled what he was about to do.

Melanie was shouting his name now, but her voice was drowned by the platform announcement. It warned customers to stay behind the yellow line, just as Kestrel reached the point of no return. She saw his body suddenly rise as he leapt from the platform, not simply to drop beneath the wheels but to leap at the cab in a kind of charge, as if taking on the whole train. There was the screech of the train’s whistle, then the rush of air brakes and the crump of body versus metal as the train shuddered past her into the station.

The crowd that had been edging forward as one now uttered a single gasp. Silence filled the platform for several seconds, broken only by the grind of the escalators nearby, and Melanie saw the driver, ashen-faced, get out of his cab. Then came a crescendo of shouts and screams as people began to register what had happened. ‘Person under a train’ was a concept they only heard about in the abstract, an irritation beneath someone else’s transport. In a split second, that sense of remoteness had evaporated. The suicide, the selfish bastard who’d made them late for work or home, had chosen to end his life while moving among them.

The announcer was on full volume again, calling for calm. Shock, distress, fear and panic flooded the platform. Melanie had seen far worse things in her career, and felt none of these. Instead, quietly escaping to the surface, she found herself drowning in guilt and remorse.

Fifty-three

Wednesday, 26 September, 21.33, Paula Weatherall’s office

Kerr knew Weatherall and Ritchie would be having a late-night catch-up after her return from the Birmingham conference because Donna had told him so. He decided to give them ten minutes before gatecrashing Weatherall’s office, which was just as well because Robyn called from Rome. Unable to sleep, she wanted to know if he had any news about Gabi. Kerr tried to reassure her, saying Gabi’s flatmates had promised to phone him immediately if they heard anything. But there was real anxiety in Robyn’s voice. She recalled someone Gabi had met on Facebook, a guy called Sam. He was interested in what he called her ‘political integrity’, and Gabi had thought it might be good to link in with Robyn’s work in Rome.