Secret Asset (21 page)

“What happened?” she asked, though she had a fair idea she was still alive. If there were an afterlife, she decided, it would not look like this.

“You fainted, Miss.” The man stopped dabbing with his tissue. “It was a bit of a crush.” He got up and looked down solicitously at Peggy. “Take some deep breaths.”

“I don't remember,” said Peggy, feeling puzzled. Then she recalled the insistent pressure on her back, the propelling firmness that was carrying her steadily towards…

The stationmaster was saying, “Lucky for you the woman next to you saw you starting to drop. She said she thought you were going to topple over right in front of the train. But she managed to grab you in time—there was a builder bloke who helped her haul you back. The only casualty was a pair of trousers she'd just bought for her husband.”

“I am sorry,” said Peggy, trying to pull herself together. “Did she leave her name?”

“No, once I arrived on the scene she took the next train. Said she was late as it was.”

And Peggy suddenly remembered her own sense of urgency. She stood up, a little wobbly, but the dizziness soon receded. The man looked at her anxiously. “Are you sure you're fit to travel?”

“I'm all right now,” she declared, then smiled at the attendant. “I'm very grateful for your help.”

He stepped out from the room onto the platform and looked at the board. “You're in luck. The next train's due in two minutes.”

“Thank you,” said Peggy, but she was already moving towards the escalator. She'd decided that in the circumstances, she deserved a taxi, but she would certainly not claim it on her expenses. No one except Liz was going to be told how she'd given in to panic.

45

W
estminster Green, a small patch of grass opposite the Houses of Parliament, is a favourite spot for TV journalists to interview MPs. In rainy weather its microphone and camera positions are protected by umbrellas. Today, in the June sunshine, a small crowd was gathered to watch the BBC's political correspondent interviewing a member of the Cabinet.

From where she was sitting on a bench in Victoria Tower Gardens, across the road, Liz could not hear the interview, although she could recognise the two participants, and she guessed that the subject was the counter-terrorist legislation the Government was attempting to get through Parliament, in the face of much opposition. Like most of her colleagues Liz had her own views on the Government's proposals, but for the most part she chose to keep her own counsel, reflecting that they would make very little change to the nature of her work.

Liz was waiting for Charles Wetherby. When she had rung to ask to see him urgently, to her surprise he had insisted that they meet outside Thames House. She had made the ten-minute walk to the little park, and was now enjoying the warm afternoon, trying to catch some sun on her face. If she were right about her conclusion, she wouldn't be seeing much sun or the outside world any time soon.

When Wetherby joined her on the bench a quarter of an hour later, Liz plunged straight in with a description of Peggy's interview with Tom Dartmouth's ex-wife. Then she summarised her recent interviews, setting out their contradictions which she now thought she had resolved. Through a mix of intuition, logic and Peggy's finds that morning, Liz had come to a conclusion. “Let's go through it all again slowly,” said Wetherby and Liz knew that he was not doubting her analysis, but was trying to assure himself that her conclusion had not emerged from some misperception or misreading which might mislead him too.

“You believe O'Phelan was the recruiter for the mole, at the instigation of Sean Keaney. Just explain again why?”

Liz thought carefully for a moment. “Because,” she said, trying to speak as clearly as she was thinking, “O'Phelan was at Oxford; he held strong nationalist views; and he had a connection to Sean Keaney through this woman Kirsty, who by her own admission befriended O'Phelan at Keaney's instigation.”

A man in pinstripes passed by the bench and nodded at Wetherby. Despite the day's bright sun, he was carrying an umbrella, tightly furled. Wetherby nodded back at him, then smiled at Liz. “The Treasury. One of Her Majesty's more old-fashioned servants. All that's missing is the bowler hat.” He returned to their subject. “Anyway, let's agree for the moment that O'Phelan was the recruiter. How do we know it wasn't Michael Binding he recruited?”

“We don't for sure, but it seems improbable. There can't be any question that the two of them fell out: O'Phelan's original reference could not have been intended to help Binding get into the Service.”

Wetherby nodded in agreement. “I saw the file. After a letter like that, Binding was fortunate to be accepted.”

Across the street, the Minister was holding his hand up, calling for another take. Liz continued: “It's true that their accounts of why they fell out differ: O'Phelan said it was because Binding's work was second-rate; Binding says it was because he had a row at a party with Kirsty.”

“And who do you believe?”

“Binding,” Liz said without hesitation.

Wetherby gave an ironic smile. He knew Liz's opinion of her patronising colleague. “Why's that?” he said, not challengingly, but to try and set out the sequence of argument. Liz thought Wetherby would have made an excellent teacher—he was relentlessly searching for clarity.

“I don't believe Binding was a bad student. He had a First from Manchester, and he'd worked too hard to get to Oxford simply to down tools when he was there. In any case Binding's own story may make O'Phelan look vengeful and malicious, but it doesn't cast Binding himself in a very good light.”

“The ‘go back to your peat bog' remark?” When Liz nodded, Wetherby asked, “If you ruled out Binding as our mole, why did that lead you to Tom?”

“It didn't, until he added his own ingredient, which was an account of O'Phelan that didn't square with what anybody else had told me. Tom claimed O'Phelan was a sexual predator with his male students, yet none of the evidence from Binding and Maguire, or the police investigation into his murder, backs that up. In fact, the student Tom claimed O'Phelan jumped on was the same rugby heavy who, according to Binding, tried to chat up Kirsty at the party in St. Antony's.”

“But if Tom was the mole, why would he invent this story about O'Phelan?”

For the first time Liz felt a slight chill, as their discussion moved from motivation to murder. “To divert attention from the real reason O'Phelan was killed. Which was to shut him up.” Liz didn't need to wait for the next question. “And yes, that means in my view Tom murdered O'Phelan. Just as I think Tom is the mole. There's another thing too,” added Liz, almost as an afterthought. “Tom told me his father was killed in a road accident, but Margarita told Peggy that he committed suicide in New York.”

Wetherby was staring across the street, apparently distracted by the interminable television interview. The lack of attention was unlike him. “Charles?” she said questioningly.

He didn't answer. Liz said, “The problem is that we can't prove any of this. If Tom was recruited by O'Phelan for the IRA, he was never activated. He will never admit it. So unless we can tie him to O'Phelan's murder, I don't see what we could charge him with.”

Charles still didn't seem to be listening. What's bothering him? thought Liz. Is Joanne ill again? Or one of the boys? She said, with a trace of impatience, “We'll have to do
something,
Charles, won't we? I mean I know it may not seem urgent, but—”

Wetherby interrupted her. He said softly, “It is urgent, Liz. That's what's bothering me.” He sighed and clasped his hands together, leaning forward to sit on the edge of the bench. “I didn't tell you before, because it wasn't relevant to your investigation. And I didn't want to jump to conclusions that might have affected your own. But after Dave Armstrong missed the terrorists in Wokingham, he came to see me. What is not widely known—because we've kept it secret—is that the terrorists vacated the house only after Dave had requested Special Branch go in. We know exactly when they left because one of the neighbours spotted them, leaving in a hurry.

“Dave decided there must have been a leak: the terrorists' departure was too hasty and too well timed—twelve hours later and we'd have got them. The leak could have come from anywhere—the local police, the estate agent who let the house. Except Dave thinks the same thing happened at Marzipan's bookshop—when the three men didn't show up. Someone tipped them off as well.”

Wetherby sighed, as if he knew he had to finish the argument but dearly didn't want to. “The only people who knew about both operations were in Thames House. If there was a leak, and I believe there were two of them, we have to think they came from within the Service.”

“You mean there's
another
mole?” asked Liz. No wonder Charles looks preoccupied, she thought. Compared to this immediate threat, an IRA informer who never went to work must seem small beer.

She was about to say this when Wetherby asked, “Did you ever hear the story about the man who's scared to fly in case there's a bomb on the plane?”

“No,” said Liz, thinking this was unlike Wetherby. He had a fine, dry sense of humour, but didn't go in for jokes, especially in situations as tense as this.

He fingered the knot in his silk tie and sat back on the bench. “He's sufficiently scared that he won't fly anywhere, so one of his friends tries to help. He tells the man that the odds of there being a bomb on his flight are at least several million to one. But the man isn't satisfied—even these odds seem too short for comfort. So then his friend points out that the odds of there being
two
bombs on the same flight are more than a
billion
to one. Therefore the obvious solution is for the man to take the flight, and bring along a bomb.”

Liz laughed, but Wetherby's expression grew serious. “I hope you see my point,” he said. “The odds of there being two moles in MI5 are about the same as the odds of having two bombs on the same flight.”

Liz felt a sudden sense of alarm. “You mean, that if Tom's the IRA mole, he also tipped off the terrorists?”

“Yes. That's exactly what I mean. I just don't know why. There's something else I should tell you,” said Charles. “I think you were at the last FOXHUNT operational meeting. You may remember that Dave said that the Dawnton woman, the one who lives next door to the house where the suspects were living, had told him that a white man had called at the house next door. Dave said that she'd seen this man clearly and thought she could identify him. That wasn't true. Dave made it up to see if it flushed anyone out. It did. After the meeting, Tom went to see Dave to find out more. He was clearly worried.”

“I wondered what Dave was doing when he said that.”

Liz's mobile rang, and she looked at the number on the screen. “Excuse me, Charles, it's Peggy. I'd better take it.” She pressed the green button and said a quiet “Hi.”

“I can't find him, Liz,” Peggy said at once. “He's not in the building and he hasn't been seen since this morning. No one knows where he is. Dave Armstrong tried his mobile, but there was no reply.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Liz, and turned to Wetherby. “I sent Peggy to look for Tom, but he's nowhere to be found. And no one's heard from him.” Which was very odd: it was a cardinal rule, especially for such a senior officer, to be contactable in case of emergency. An hour, two hours out of touch might be excusable—a mobile phone failure, a family emergency. But not eight hours during the middle of a crucial investigation. He's gone AWOL, thought Liz.

“I see,” Wetherby said grimly. “Please ask Peggy to find Dave Armstrong and have him meet me in my office in fifteen minutes.”

When she'd rung off, Wetherby stood up. “I had better get back,” he declared, adding easily, “Why don't you walk with me? If Tom's done a runner, it doesn't matter if we're seen talking together.”

Liz said, “When Peggy went to see Tom's ex-wife this morning she was convinced she was being followed. Then afterwards, she thought someone tried to push her off the platform at High Street Ken—just as the train was approaching. It sounds unlikely to me, and Peggy admits she may be wrong about this, but I thought it best to be on the safe side. I sent her to find Tom on a pretext, so he'd realise she'd already briefed me on her meeting. That way, if he had any idea of silencing her, he'd know it was too late.”

“You were right to try and protect her,” Wetherby said, “though I'm sure you're right to think Peggy was imagining it—she's very young and inexperienced. Still, she shouldn't go home tonight for her own peace of mind. Could you have her to stay with you? I'm going to have Dave start looking for Tom, though I don't want word to spread. If by any chance Tom does come back with an explanation for his absence, I don't want to alarm him until we have all our cards in order. But my hunch is, he's gone.”

She nodded in agreement. Wetherby gave a weary shake to his head, and looked out over towards the politician who was still being interviewed. “What we have to work out is what Tom's next move will be. I have a terrible feeling we haven't much time. We know the nature of his IRA link, but not what his connection is with the terrorists.”

“Could it have started in Pakistan?”

“Possibly,” said Wetherby pensively. “I think you should go and talk to Geoffrey Fane. I'll ring him as soon as we get back.”

“I'd better talk to the ex-wife as well. She's the only family connection to Tom we have.”

They crossed the street and passed the small patch of green where, his interview finished at last, the Minister was heading with several minders towards a large parked Jaguar. The television cameraman, still standing on the grass, shook his head at the reporter. “Six takes,” he shouted, in a loud exasperated voice. “For about twelve seconds of film. And people say politicians are too
glib.
”