Liz Carlyle - 07 - The Geneva Trap (4 page)

‘Good Lord. Was anyone with him?’

‘No. And it doesn’t look as if another car was involved.’

‘There were no witnesses?’

‘None. A local farmer discovered Steinmetz’s car. There’s no way of knowing how long after the accident. We’ve sent a team to assist the police, but right now we think Dieter somehow lost control of the vehicle.’

‘Has his family been notified?’

Leplan nodded. ‘We’ve managed to contact his wife. She’s in Basle seeing her mother. She says Dieter had taken their daughter to the airport and should have gone straight home.’

‘I thought he lived in Geneva.’

‘He did.’

‘So what was he doing near Lausanne?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Madame Steinmetz says she can’t understand it.’

Bech raised a suggestive eyebrow. ‘Maybe he’d planned a rendezvous while his wife was away.’

Leplan stiffened and shook his head. ‘I’ve known Dieter for years, sir. You couldn’t find a more devoted husband. We even used to tease him about it. There has to be another reason why he was up there.’

Chapter 6

That year spring had come early. Even before Easter the lilacs on campus were showing their first blush and at home Liz Carlyle’s mother said the bluebells were already out in the woods. Liz, just turned twenty-one, was in her last year at Bristol University and preparing for her Finals. When she looked ahead, she wondered what she was going to do with her life.

She was half-frightened, half-excited. So much seemed to be happening in the outside world. The Berlin Wall had come down a few years earlier, and now the Soviet Union – once an impermeable bloc – had suddenly fragmented. The glacier of the Cold War, which as Liz grew up had seemed permanent, was melting away: Democratic movements had sprung up in the states of the Soviet Union, and new governments had taken over in the Warsaw Pact countries after free elections; censorship was lifted, private enterprise encouraged – all measures which formerly would have brought in the tanks from Moscow.

As a History student, Liz had learned enough to realise that it was too early to tell if the promise of
perestroika
would be fulfilled and a new, safer world would emerge; or if instead all the changes would bring fresh dangers. Either way, she watched the fast-moving events and waited impatiently to get her degree and a job that would enable her to be part of it. She was working hard; she wanted to do well because she knew that a good degree would open more doors than a poor one – though she hadn’t as yet worked out which door to knock on. One thing she knew for certain was that she didn’t want to stay on at university. Academic research held no interest for her. She wanted to be involved on the front line of something that was happening – something relevant to the changes in the world.

For the short thesis that formed part of her degree, she had chosen to write about the significance of the break-up of the Soviet Union. Her tutor, Dr Callaghan, had invited her to the postgraduate seminars on twentieth-century European history that he held every week. She had found some of the topics pretty obscure, but she was flattered to be included, and one week the guest speaker had seemed particularly relevant to her thesis.

Dr Callaghan had introduced the serious, dark-haired young man at the end of the table as Alexander Sorsky, a visitor from Moscow State University where he was a lecturer in political theory. Sorsky looked little older than the postgraduate students, in his turtleneck pullover and jeans. He smoked unfiltered cigarettes the colour of maize, and spoke in excellent, accented English. He had high cheekbones and a prominent forehead, and though he wasn’t exactly handsome, his large, dark eyes made for an attractive, even exotic appearance.

‘I would like to speak of my own experiences during the recent upheavals in my country,’ he began. Then, talking without notes, he described how he had watched with mounting excitement as the new wave of freedom swept across the countries of the Warsaw Pact, moving inexorably towards the epicentre of the empire that had once contained them. He said that for months he had felt like a child waking up on his birthday morning.

At his own university in Moscow there were student protests against the Communist regime. They had been timid ones at first, then buoyed by events in East Germany and Czechoslovakia they had grown bolder; there was even a series of ‘teach-ins’ – inspired, Sorsky noted proudly, by those held in American universities during the Vietnam War. People started to speak out for the first time in their lives.

The guest speaker brilliantly conveyed the excitement of those days, and the uncertainty – no one knew when the Party might crack down on this new dissident movement, or if the military would intervene. It was only when the Republics of the Soviet Union broke away that it became clear there would be no counter-revolution. At one ‘teach-in’, in fact, a KGB officer had appeared in the lecture room and taken a seat. Out of habit everyone grew nervous in his presence, and the discussion – usually lively – was muted and restrained. But then the KGB man politely raised his hand and asked to speak. He rose, looking slightly nervous, and announced that he was not there in any official capacity. He came simply as a citizen, one who wanted to acknowledge that the time for change had come, and could not be denied. His listeners had applauded him, and to their astonishment the KGB man had burst into tears. To Sorsky this seemed the ultimate symbol of the Communist state’s demise.

He ended his talk on an optimistic note, saying that however difficult the immediate future might be, there could be no return to the heavy-handed days of Party control. Looking at her watch, Liz was surprised to see that the Russian had spoken for more than two hours – yet her interest had never flagged.

Afterwards Sorsky had stayed on to answer questions and several of the students then persuaded him to join them in the bar of the Student Union. Feeling a bit of an outsider among the postgraduates, Liz was about to leave, but Sorsky saw her and said, ‘You come too, please.’

In the smoky student bar, they had all talked until late in the evening, bombarding Sorsky with questions about Russia and his life there. He was entertaining, telling them funny stories about the ridiculous ways of the old bureaucracy, but also asking them about their lives, and insisting on paying for more wine. When they moved on to bottle number three, he had even sung a Russian folk song. As the party finally broke up, he shook hands with the boys and kissed the cheeks of the girls, and said he hoped to see them all again.

As Liz walked back to the hall of residence with Sylvie, a postgraduate who lived on the same floor, she said, ‘That was fun.’

Sylvie agreed. ‘Wasn’t it just? And isn’t that Sorsky a charmer? He certainly seemed to take to you.’

Liz would have thought no more of it or of him, but a week later she ran into Sorsky coming out of the Library. He seemed pleased to see her, and suggested going for coffee. Liz hesitated – she was revising hard – but it seemed churlish to say no. So they went into a nearby café, where after some initial awkwardness they talked easily.

Liz found herself describing where she had grown up – Bower Bridge – and realising how much she missed the contryside. Which Sorsky seemed to understand at once – he told her he was from a small village himself, and that however much his professional life lay in the capital these days, his heart was always in the country.

Liz had warmed to him; so much so that she’d told him how her father had been diagnosed with cancer the year before, and how she had had to spend time at home helping her mother run the estate while her father underwent first chemotherapy then radiotherapy. He seemed better now, she said cheerfully, though inwardly she knew her father’s remission might prove all too temporary. Sorsky had been sympathetic, but tactful too; sensing Liz didn’t want to say much more about her father, he had changed the subject to the seminar he’d addressed. He’d been surprised when she explained she was still an undergraduate, and had asked what she was going to do next.

‘I don’t want to be an academic,’ she said firmly.

‘Good,’ he said, and waved one hand dismissively, ‘that’s the last thing you should do. You seem very interested in the world – you should do something that makes you part of things.’

Which was exactly what Liz had been thinking. The problem was, what? He must have seen the doubt in her face for he said, ‘There are lots of opportunities for someone like you – you just need to find them. We need people who think clearly about the world – you could work in business, looking at foreign events and interpreting them. Or do something with the UN, if you want to travel. Or for your own government.’ He was looking at her appraisingly now. ‘The Foreign Office, or perhaps something closer to home. I will be interested to hear what you choose.’

‘Or more likely what chooses me,’ said Liz with a laugh, beginning to feel embarrassed that she’d told him so much about herself. She glanced at her watch, ‘I had better get back to my books,’ she said.

Sorsky stood up. ‘I understand. But perhaps before I go back we could meet again.’ He was watching her face.

‘That would be nice,’ said Liz. Would it? Yes, it would; she liked this man.

‘Let me give you my phone number – I’m staying in one of the university flats. Perhaps after the Easter break you would ring me, and we could meet again.’

Liz took the slip of paper and they said goodbye. She couldn’t really make him out. Was he interested in her? It seemed odd to have given her his number, instead of asking for hers. Perhaps that was the Russian way. But she decided she would call him after the break.

And she almost certainly would have, especially since just two days later a friend happened to show her an advertisement in that day’s
Guardian
.

Are you interested in doing

something completely different?

Something important – even if you can’t crow about it?

Are you decisive, level-headed, logical, and calm in a crisis? Then we might be for you …

Liz had never even remotely contemplated joining the Security Service, since everyone knew MI5 and MI6 were filled with Oxbridge public-school types, and very few women.

But something in the ad spoke to her, and she wrote off for an application. When the form arrived, she broke off from her last-minute cramming and filled it in. As she licked the stamp and posted the envelope, she realised that if she hadn’t had coffee with Sorsky she would never have answered the ad –
You should get a job that makes you part of things.

But after Easter, while Liz was still at home in Wiltshire, her father took a sudden turn for the worse. She stayed an extra week, trying to study when she wasn’t helping her mother keep him comfortable and making sure that his instructions for the estate were carried out. Only when his illness plateaued did she go back to Bristol where, with only ten days left before her exams began, she revised frantically.

And when she finished her Finals she felt so washed out that she didn’t do anything for days. She thought at one point of ringing Sorsky, but then she received an answer to her application – she was wanted for interview on the following Tuesday in London. The letter warned her that this was just the first step in a long process, and reminded her that she should keep the fact of her application to herself and very close members of her family.

The interview had gone well, and then there had been another, and another after that. By then she had forgotten all about Alexander Sorsky, who must have returned to Moscow when the term ended.

Chapter 7

‘And I never saw him or heard from him again,’ she finished.

Fane sat silent for a moment, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, fingertips meeting steeple-like. Liz had omitted any mention of her own feelings towards Sorsky at the time he was showing an interest in her. She knew only too well what Fane would make of that.

Lifting his head to look straight at her, he gave a sardonic smile. ‘So Sorsky’s the reason you joined MI5?’

‘Hardly,’ said Liz. ‘Apart from that one conversation, we didn’t discuss my future plans. And the Service was never mentioned at all.’

‘I don’t mean he recruited you.’ Fane gave a short laugh. ‘But he put the idea into your head. He obviously made an impact on you – and you on him. It explains things.’

‘Does it?’ It was true enough, she thought, that without Sorsky’s encouragement to look further afield, she would probably have ended up as a teacher or working in business; certainly something quite different from the intelligence world. But it was very difficult to see how Sorsky’s casual piece of advice of twenty years ago could have triggered this situation. His insistence that he would speak to Liz and only Liz was most likely a calculated move to ensure that his approach was taken seriously and was passed on by the Geneva Station. Though how he had learned not only that she’d joined MI5, but that she was still there, was a mystery.

Fane must have been asking himself the same question. ‘Did Sorsky know that you applied for MI5?’

‘No. I told you that the last time I saw him was before I’d even seen the advertisement in the
Guardian
.’