Illegal Action (7 page)

15

T
his is a Fragonard,” declared Nikita Brunovsky, pointing delightedly at a beautiful young woman in a flower-filled garden.

“Marvellous,” said Henry Pennington of the FCO, in an unctuous voice which was beginning to grate on Liz.

Brunovsky had already shown them a small Cézanne, a Bonnard, a Picasso sketch from his Blue Period and a Rembrandt drawing. Liz felt she was back at university, paging through an illustrated textbook on art history. Only none of these were reproductions.

Now Brunovsky stopped in front of the marble fireplace and pointed to a large abstract in a gleaming steel frame above the mantelpiece. Dark purple waves of paint met ebony swirls in a circle of orange fire. “Who do you think painted this?” the Russian asked.

Liz wasn’t going to venture a guess.

“Howard Hodgkin?” asked Pennington.

The Russian laughed gleefully. He was a small man with tousled hair, a sharp nose and dark, dancing eyes. “It is the work of my sister,” he replied, and cackled again.

The grim-faced blonde woman who had escorted Liz and Henry Pennington upstairs had introduced them and disappeared. Brunovsky had greeted them enthusiastically without asking their business. Now, as Pennington tried to match Brunovsky in affability, Liz looked around her.

The previous year she had treated herself to membership of the National Trust and had become a keen visitor to stately homes. But this first-floor Belgravia drawing room was like nothing she had ever seen. The large high-ceilinged room had six long, elegant windows overlooking the square at the front and the garden at the rear. The delicate duck egg blue brocade on the walls served as a subtle backdrop for the art collection hanging there.

But what Liz found startling was the bewildering mixture of furniture crammed into the room. Eighteenth-century English pieces jostled with heavy, ornate Russian cabinets and sideboards. On a corner table there was a large glass model, half castle, half fort, with intricate onion minarets and towers reproduced in exquisite detail. It seemed oddly familiar, until Liz realised it was a replica of the Kremlin.

Above all this, two vast fountain chandeliers glittered like tinsel festooning a Christmas tree. Looking towards the windows, Liz recognised a Regency pier table with a marble top and ornate legs that was similar to the cherished family heirloom her mother kept in her cottage in Wiltshire. Then Liz noticed there were five of them, one between each window.

“Come,” Brunovsky said abruptly, and Liz and Pennington obediently followed the slight, wiry figure out of the room and down a passageway. His high spirits struck Liz as slightly artificial. He was presenting himself to his visitors as disarmingly impetuous, and slightly mischievous as well, like a charming small boy, Liz reflected. There was nothing boyish about his clothes, though: Brunovsky wore an elegant blue blazer with four gold buttons on each sleeve, a well-cut striped shirt, silk tie, flannel trousers and tan Gucci loafers.

Opening a door, he ushered them into a dining room, which had in its centre an elegant burred walnut table. The classical effect was spoiled by the set of chairs surrounding it—Russian monstrosities of oak, each built like a throne, upholstered in gaudy red plush. More paintings hung in clusters on the walls, though these were modern oil paintings.

“My Russian collection,” Brunovsky announced with an expansive sweep of his hand.

Liz noticed that on the far wall there was an empty space in the middle of a group of still lifes. Brunovsky smiled, “You see the missing one, no?”

“Is it on loan somewhere?” Given the quality of what she was being shown, Liz would not be surprised if museums were lining up to borrow Brunovsky’s holdings for their own exhibitions.

“No,” said Brunovsky, shaking his head. “It is not mine to loan,” he added playfully. He walked to a sideboard at one end of the room, and picked up a sale catalogue sitting on top of a stack. Flipping through its pages he stopped at one and handed the catalogue to Liz.

She looked at the page, which was dominated by a colour reproduction of an abstract, its mass of darkish blue broken by a slash of yellow paint. The guide price, she noticed, was £4 million.

“You like it?” demanded Brunovsky.

“It’s very interesting,” said Liz diplomatically.

“Lovely,” said Pennington, peering at the catalogue over Liz’s shoulder. “When are you selling it?”

“
Selling
it?” asked Brunovsky. “I am not selling it, I am buying it. I would
never
sell a Pashko.” There was genuine outrage to his voice.

“Of course, of course,” Pennington said soothingly.

Liz pointed to the space on the wall, and said, “To go there?”

“Yes!” declared Brunovsky, pleased to see she understood. “It will be the crown of my collection. To me, Pashko is a god. The Russian Picasso. Now let’s go downstairs.”

This time he led them to his study at the back of the house. Motioning them to a sofa in one corner, Brunovsky sat down on a leather chair on casters, on which he began to roll around gently like a restless schoolboy. “So,” he said and grinned, though Liz noticed his eyes darted nervously, “what is it I can do for you?”

Liz let Pennington make the running. After all it was at his instigation that they were there. As soon as Brian Ackers had been told of Victor Adler’s information, true to form, he had decided that something must be done. Much against Pennington’s wishes, Special Branch had been brought in. They were to warn each of the oligarchs of a heightened risk to them from Russia, though without any specific mention of the Adler information.

Pennington, who regarded the police as chronic leakers, had sulkily predicted that as soon as they were involved the whole thing would be on the front page of the
Evening Standard
within twenty-four hours. When he heard that Rykov had recruited a source in Brunovsky’s household, he had leapt to the conclusion that the plot was already under way and had insisted on visiting Brunovsky himself, to warn him to avoid any public criticism of Moscow. Brian Ackers, whose opinion of Pennington matched Geoffrey Fane’s, had asked Liz to go too, to report back on what was said. After a show of reluctance, Pennington had agreed to her accompanying him, though when he discovered that Liz would be using the alias of Jane Falconer, he had huffed about spooks and their unnecessarily secretive ways.

As Pennington delivered what seemed to Liz an especially longwinded warning, her eyes moved discreetly round the room. It was the only room in the house that didn’t look like a museum. Here in his study, she thought, Brunovsky was for once not showing off.

Their host had stopped sliding his chair around and was listening intently. When Pennington had finished, he nodded, still taking it in.

“
Tak
,” he declared at last, his expression now serious, his lips taut. “And you think it is me the Kremlin plans to move against?”

“We can’t be certain,” said Liz, “but you’re an obvious candidate.”

He nodded again and leant back in his chair, then shrugged. “I am not surprised. All of us living here know our government keeps an eye on us. What do you want me to do?”

Pennington adopted a thoughtful expression. “Your views about the present Russian government are well known. It occurred to us that perhaps for a little while you might want to curtail your public pronouncements about President Putin. Just until the alarm is over.”

“Curtail?” Brunovsky raised an eyebrow. “You mean you want me to shut up.” He laughed but his eyes were steely.

“We thought,” said Pennington, moving on hastily, “that you might want to take extra security measures, or have us take them for you.”

“I have a bodyguard already. From one of your country’s most reputable firms. I don’t need another one.”

Liz looked at Pennington, as if to say, now what? He was looking at Brunovsky, with the sympathetic expression of a parent counselling a wayward child. “I can certainly understand that,” he said carefully. “But perhaps there’s an alternative.”

Like what? thought Liz, suddenly alert.

“Perhaps we could assign someone to…,” Pennington paused, searching for the right phrase, “be around. Someone who wouldn’t get in the way, but who would keep an eye open on your behalf, be able to recognise if there was anything to be concerned about and be in a position to…respond if you needed any kind of help.”

Brunovsky looked puzzled. “Would this person be armed?”

“No,” said Liz quickly, wondering what the hell Pennington was talking about. He now also shook his head, but rather more slowly.

“What are we talking about then?” asked the Russian, sounding puzzled.

Don’t ask me, thought Liz, still mystified. She was going to have to speak to Brian Ackers right away, she decided.

Pennington spoke more slowly, almost ponderously, as if this would somehow give greater weight to his words, “Let’s just say it would be someone very experienced in recognising and handling potentially threatening situations.”

“Aha,” Brunovsky said with sudden enlightenment. “Someone from your famous intelligence agencies.” When Pennington didn’t react, the Russian scratched his head and seemed to think about this. Suddenly he gave a sharp nod of assent. “I like that. I like that very much.”

“Why don’t you think it over?” said Liz, infuriated by what was happening and trying to leave space for the withdrawal of Pennington’s impulsive offer.

“Okay,” said Brunovsky, but before Liz could relax he pointed at Pennington. “I will telephone you tomorrow.”

As they said their goodbyes Liz just managed to contain her anger but when the door closed behind them and they descended to the pavement, she rounded fiercely on the Foreign Office official. “What on earth was that about?” she demanded.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Pennington. He refused to meet her stare, making a show of looking around for a taxi.

“You know perfectly well this isn’t something for the intelligence services. If Brunovsky’s in danger, he needs protection from Special Branch, not a babysitter from Thames House.”

“You saw yourself he wasn’t keen on having another bodyguard.”

“Then you should have insisted. You can’t just offer MI5’s services.”

A taxi braked sharply and its window descended. Pennington leant in to speak to the driver as Liz opened the back door, determined to continue the argument on the way back to Westminster. “Sorry,” said Pennington, still avoiding Liz’s eyes. “You’ll have to get another cab. I’m going the other way.”

As he drove off, Liz stared after him with unconcealed fury. Wait until Ackers hears what you’ve done, she thought, starting to walk towards Green Park Underground station. He’ll have an absolute fit.

16

B
ut it was Liz who almost had the fit. “I’m supposed to be
what
?” she demanded. Outside, low cloud piled up like dark balls of wool. It had been threatening to rain all day.

“Considering Brunovsky’s art interests, it seemed apt. We couldn’t have you posing as a platinum expert, could we?”

“I’d rather not be posing as anything, thank you very much. The whole thing’s preposterous.”

Ackers looked taken aback, and fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. Liz realised he was unused to his staff arguing back. Hadley, his right-hand man, was a classic yes-man; sometimes it seemed he even yawned at the same time Ackers did. Liz sensed that her boss wasn’t altogether happy with the new blood that had arrived in his department almost simultaneously: Michael Fane, Peggy Kinsolving and Liz—especially Liz. She looked at Brian and could see him thinking, “Difficult woman.”

He said reluctantly, “If you must know, Brunovsky himself asked for you.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Brian didn’t reply so Liz continued, “And you say I’m going to pretend to be a ‘mature student’ who’s studying Pashko?”

“Yes. That was also Brunovsky’s idea.”

“Brian,” she said patiently, trying not to show her annoyance, “I read history at university, art history only just came into it. When Nikita Brunovsky showed me the painting he’s planning to buy at Northam’s I could no more have told you who painted it than I can tell you how to make a nuclear bomb.”

“We thought as much,” Brian said, and Liz wondered who this “we” was. Geoffrey Fane, doubtless. “It’s been decided you should have a quick brush-up on art history, and some intensive tutorials into this Pashko.” He enunciated the name carefully. “You’re not going to be posing as an expert, never fear. Just an enthusiast—someone doing a diploma or whatever, who’s writing a short thesis about him. Only what’s needed to justify your presence in Brunovsky’s household.”

“Where am I going to have these intensive tutorials? At the Courtauld?” she added, unable to suppress her sarcasm.

“No,” said Brian measuredly. “But it’s probably just as good. You’re to spend a week in Cambridge. There’s a woman there, a don at Newnham, though I gather she’s retired. She is an expert on Pashko.” He added as an afterthought, “And she’s a Russian.”

“Whose idea was this?” asked Liz, thinking, I bet it’s bloody Geoffrey Fane again. She glanced out towards the Thames and noticed that the first spits of rain were streaking the windows.

Liz was still fuming as she left Thames House to go home. Her mood was not helped by the rain, by now sheeting down and being blown erratically sideways by a gusty westerly wind. The umbrella her mother had given her last Christmas, while handily compact when folded in her handbag, was completely useless against these conditions. By the time she got to Westminster Tube station she was soaked from head to toe and her navy blue suede shoes, chosen more for visiting Brunovsky than for wet pavement walking, were squelching hopelessly.

The rain had let up a bit by the time she emerged from the Underground system, still soaking wet, at Kentish Town and she wondered briefly whether to ring Dave Armstrong, her old colleague and friend from Counter-Terrorist days, and entice him out for a pizza and a moan about Brian Ackers. But remembering this was one of Piet’s weekends, she decided instead to stop at the Threshers wine shop, open late as usual on a Thursday, and indulge herself with a bottle of the New Zealand Sauvignon they kept in their fridge, and a hot bath, before tidying up the flat.

As she opened the front door she saw the flashing red light of her answerphone reflected in the glass pane. Mother, she thought guiltily. She had been meaning to ring her for days, but hadn’t. Ever since her father had died, Liz had felt responsible for her mother. Not enough to persuade her to agree to give up her “dangerous” job and her life in the “squalor” of Kentish Town and come back home to share the running of the garden centre and marry a nice steady young man. But enough to make her drive the long journey down to Wiltshire every month and to keep regularly in touch by phone.

Susan Carlyle lived at South Lodge, the house in the Nadder Valley where Liz had grown up. When Liz was a child the pretty octagonal lodge had guarded the entrance to the Bowerbridge sporting estate, where her father had been the manager. But Jack Carlyle had died and so had the estate’s owner. Bowerbridge’s woods and coppices had been sold off, and its gardens had become a specialist plantsman’s nursery. Pressed for money, Susan had started work there; now she ran the place. Last year she and Liz had had a scare when a lump Susan had detected had turned out to be malignant. Thankfully, surgery seemed to have been successful, though who could be sure, and she was back working just as before in the nursery.

Unfortunately the illness had coincided with the investigation of the mole in MI5 and Liz still felt guilty that she had not been able to be more available.

So, shedding her wet clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, wrapping herself in her dressing gown and pouring herself a glass of wine, she dialled her mother’s number, bracing herself for a long chat.

Her mother answered on the second ring. “Hello, darling. I’m so glad you rang. I wanted to ask you a favour.”

What on earth is this going to be? wondered Liz, noticing her mother’s unusually bright and brisk tone.

“I’ve been asked to the theatre on Saturday evening and I wondered if I could come and stay with you.”

“Well, of course you can,” said Liz immediately, trying to disguise her amazement. Her mother had never once expressed any interest in coming to London since Liz had lived there. Quite the opposite. She had always given the impression that she thought London a sink of iniquity. “Who are you going with?” asked Liz.

“No one you know, dear. I met him when I was ill. He’s got some tickets for that play with Judi Dench in at the Haymarket, on Saturday evening. So if that’s fine with you I’ll catch a mid-morning train and get a taxi from the station. Be with you about two o’clock.”

“All right, Mother,” said Liz, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. “Shall I come and meet you at the station?”

“No need, darling,” came the reply, “I’ve got your address and I’m sure the taxi man will find it. Must dash now. See you Saturday.”

Liz sat down and drained her glass of wine. What on earth was going on? Her mother, with a boyfriend. Is that what it was? It sounded like it. She couldn’t believe it and she felt a flash of resentment. All those weekends she’d forced herself to drive down to Wiltshire when she would much rather have stayed in London. Now there was her mother happily paired up while she still had no close boyfriend.

What could he be like? She hoped he was suitable. What if he was a fortune hunter? How ridiculous you are being, she said to herself. Mother hasn’t got a fortune. But though she tried to laugh herself out of it, she went on feeling faintly uneasy and disturbed at this totally unexpected turn of events.

As she sat and brooded, she suddenly remembered Piet. He was expecting to come on Saturday. She would have to put him off. She did not want Piet sharing her bed whilst her mother was in the spare room next door, so feeling very confused and thoroughly disappointed at the ruining of her weekend she rang Piet.

At the end of that conversation she felt worse. When she’d explained what had happened, Piet had replied that he was about to ring her. His meetings in Canary Wharf had been discontinued and he would not be coming to London so often. He had in any case been meaning to tell her that he had met someone in Amsterdam whom he was now seeing regularly, so he thought it best if they stopped seeing each other. He added charmingly that he would miss her and the jolly weekends they had spent together and he wished her the best of luck, before ringing off.

So, thought Liz, that’s that. Well at least she couldn’t blame the job for the end of that relationship. But as she sat in the bath in her bright, freshly tiled bathroom, she reflected that everyone’s life seemed to be improving except hers. And now she was stuck with this ridiculous scheme dreamt up by Brian Ackers and Geoffrey Fane and was going to have to spend a week in Cambridge with some mad old Russian bat.