• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1038 0

eighteen-hour days for almost a month without cease, his account of the Kostov operation was matter-of-fact to the point of bloodlessness. The men from MI5 listened in awed silence to the litany of SIS deceits: from Bill Taylor, a subordinate of McCreery’s, issuing instructions to a Tracy Frakes for the theft of Bone’s letters from Elgin Crescent and Torriano Avenue; to McCreery himself engineering a meeting with Ben at the British Museum at which he had lied about Keen’s workin Afghanistan and misleadingly blamed the CIA for Mischa’s recruitment. Taploe and Quinn’s proper astonishment, however, was reserved for the story of McCreery’s entirely fictitious son, Dan, and his difficult wife, Bella, invented apparently as a means of gaining Ben’s empathy and trust.

‘That was a quality touch,’ Quinn said, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Really first-rate, mate, really classy. What was that about, eh? Showing Ben we’re all human? Implying he’d been wrong about his dad? Jock’s children don’t really understand their parents so Christopher’s didn’t as well? What was the thinking behind it? Share your wisdom and experience with the rest of the class.’

‘Can we get just back to the subject?’ Dulong said, before McCreery had a chance to retaliate. He looked genuinely angry at being spoken to in such a manner by a junior officer.

‘Of course we can,’ Taploe said. His approach was conciliatory, because he had nothing left to lose. ‘So what happened with Macklin? We heard this morning that Roth tipped him off.’

‘He’s in Grand Cayman,’ Dulong replied, stumbling on another bit of awkward news. She was at the angle of the table, just a few feet from McCreery, a white polystyrene cup of water lying untouched at her right hand. ‘And it wasn’t a tip-off,’ she said. ‘Sebastian just flew off the handle.’

Standing by the door, Taploe spoke in a voice that was barely audible.

‘Come again?’

‘I said, Sebastian flew off the handle.’ Dulong’s voice was clipped and authoritative, the faint Lothian accent becoming increasingly pronounced with stress. She smoothed out the sleeves of her white blouse as Quinn stared at her, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I telephoned Sebastian last night as soon as I learned of your investigation. I wanted to arrange an emergency meeting with him, to discuss the best way to proceed…’

‘… and Roth then called Macklin straight away,’ Quinn said contemptuously, arms folded into a visible reproach.

‘Against his better judgment. And against my strict instructions.’

‘And how long did you say you’ve been running him?’ Taploe asked.

‘About three years.’ Dulong was fighting for a way out. ‘A long time before you started to have your suspicions about Libra, in any event. Roth has been doing some very important work for us on the Russian government. His government contacts in London are also first-rate. It’s important that you both realize he brings in pedigree CX on a vast range of subjects.’

Quinn stirred. ‘And you’re - what - here to tell us how determined you are to keep him on board, to keep that sort of information rolling into the Cross?’

He could see it happening, even if Taploe could not, could already sense what they had come for. The fix. The deal. All the hard work on Kukushkin lost for the sake of a few careers.

‘That is certainly one of my aims,’ Dulong conceded.

A long silence ensued. The trepidation of a game of cards. Then Taploe moved forward, emerging from the corner of the room as if from within his own shadow.

‘So what are SIS saying?’ he asked. His manner was oddly deferential for one who held the FCO in such high contempt. ‘What is the exact purpose of this meeting?’

McCreery answered on Dulong’s behalf.

‘We’re saying that it won’t have escaped your attention that Sebastian Roth is an immensely well-connected young man.’ As he spoke he tapped a Biro on the surface of the table, as if to reinforce his point. ‘He has friends in high places. His father, for example, is a Tory peer who sits in the Lords…’

‘Who Roth never speaks to,’ Quinn said quickly.

McCreery dropped the pen.

‘Do you think that I might