for it, or for just screwing up the job, he goes into a feeder system where he gets work, and that does two things – it keeps tabs on him, but it also keeps him sweet, and, more importantly, quiet. That’s what a bung is all about: keeping the house in order.
I wished they would give me one. Only a few months earlier I’d been escorting an IG called Clive to a service apartment in London. These apartments are paid for, furnished and run by the Intelligence Service. Nobody lives in them; they’re used for meetings, briefings and debriefings, and as safe houses.
Clive had had a bit of a drama with Gordievsky, the Russian dissident who’d years ago defected to the West with a headful of secrets. The former KGB chief was briefing the Intelligence Service at one of the training establishments near the Solent on the south coast. Clive and two others refused to go to the presentation, on the grounds that Gordievsky was a traitor, and it didn’t matter which side he came from. I happened to believe they were right, but they still got cut away. After all, it was very embarrassing for HMG to have its people calling an inbound defector a scumbag. Two went quietly with a pay-off and jobs supplied by the Good Lads’ Club – the City. Clive, however, refused to go. The best way, it seemed to the service, was to offer him a bigger wad than the other two. If that was refused, then he could have as much pain as money can buy.
I persuaded him into a flat in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, and listened as they offered him 200 grand to shut up and fuck off to the City. Clive picked up the money, ripped it out of its plastic bank wallets, opened the window and scattered it like confetti. As the hundreds of notes fluttered down onto the corner pub on Cambridge Street, the punters must have thought Christmas had been brought forward to June. ‘You want to fuck me off?’ Clive said. ‘Then it’s going to cost you a fucking sight more than this.’
I thought it was great and wanted to join the pub crowd fighting for fifty-pound notes. To my mind the boy had done good; nobody likes a traitor, no matter what side you think you’re on. I really hoped Sarah wasn’t one, because I liked her. Actually, I liked her a lot.
I asked Elizabeth, ‘And you’re sure that she hasn’t been lifted?’
She looked at Lynn. ‘Lifted?’
It was a bit like being at Wimbledon, sitting between these two. Lynn had to interrupt again because Elizabeth seemed about as switched on to real life as Mickey Mouse.
I asked, ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
Elizabeth kept it very simple. ‘Find her.’
I waited for the rest of the sentence. There was nothing. It was the most succinct aim I’d ever been given.
‘Do you know where she could be? I need a start point.’
She thought for a while. ‘You will start in Washington. Her apartment, I think, would be best, don’t you?’
Yes, I didn’t disagree with that. But I had another question: ‘Why don’t you get the Americans to help you? They’d have the resources to track her down much faster.’
She sighed. ‘As I thought I was making clear to you, this matter needs to be handled with the least possible amount of fuss, and speedily.’ She looked at Lynn. He cleared his throat and turned to face me. ‘We don’t really want to involve any American departments yet. Not even our embassy staff are aware of the situation. As you might imagine, it’s somewhat embarrassing to have one of our own IGs missing in the host country. Especially with Netanyahu and Arafat in the US for the Wye summit.’ He paused. ‘If you fail to find her they will have to know, and they will have to take action. This is a very grave situation, Nick. It could cause us a lot of embarrassment.’
I had been given the shortest aim ever, and now I’d also been told the clearest reason why. Lynn showed the worry on his face. ‘We need to find her quickly. No-one must know. I emphasize, no-one.’
I hated it when
I wished they would give me one. Only a few months earlier I’d been escorting an IG called Clive to a service apartment in London. These apartments are paid for, furnished and run by the Intelligence Service. Nobody lives in them; they’re used for meetings, briefings and debriefings, and as safe houses.
Clive had had a bit of a drama with Gordievsky, the Russian dissident who’d years ago defected to the West with a headful of secrets. The former KGB chief was briefing the Intelligence Service at one of the training establishments near the Solent on the south coast. Clive and two others refused to go to the presentation, on the grounds that Gordievsky was a traitor, and it didn’t matter which side he came from. I happened to believe they were right, but they still got cut away. After all, it was very embarrassing for HMG to have its people calling an inbound defector a scumbag. Two went quietly with a pay-off and jobs supplied by the Good Lads’ Club – the City. Clive, however, refused to go. The best way, it seemed to the service, was to offer him a bigger wad than the other two. If that was refused, then he could have as much pain as money can buy.
I persuaded him into a flat in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, and listened as they offered him 200 grand to shut up and fuck off to the City. Clive picked up the money, ripped it out of its plastic bank wallets, opened the window and scattered it like confetti. As the hundreds of notes fluttered down onto the corner pub on Cambridge Street, the punters must have thought Christmas had been brought forward to June. ‘You want to fuck me off?’ Clive said. ‘Then it’s going to cost you a fucking sight more than this.’
I thought it was great and wanted to join the pub crowd fighting for fifty-pound notes. To my mind the boy had done good; nobody likes a traitor, no matter what side you think you’re on. I really hoped Sarah wasn’t one, because I liked her. Actually, I liked her a lot.
I asked Elizabeth, ‘And you’re sure that she hasn’t been lifted?’
She looked at Lynn. ‘Lifted?’
It was a bit like being at Wimbledon, sitting between these two. Lynn had to interrupt again because Elizabeth seemed about as switched on to real life as Mickey Mouse.
I asked, ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’
Elizabeth kept it very simple. ‘Find her.’
I waited for the rest of the sentence. There was nothing. It was the most succinct aim I’d ever been given.
‘Do you know where she could be? I need a start point.’
She thought for a while. ‘You will start in Washington. Her apartment, I think, would be best, don’t you?’
Yes, I didn’t disagree with that. But I had another question: ‘Why don’t you get the Americans to help you? They’d have the resources to track her down much faster.’
She sighed. ‘As I thought I was making clear to you, this matter needs to be handled with the least possible amount of fuss, and speedily.’ She looked at Lynn. He cleared his throat and turned to face me. ‘We don’t really want to involve any American departments yet. Not even our embassy staff are aware of the situation. As you might imagine, it’s somewhat embarrassing to have one of our own IGs missing in the host country. Especially with Netanyahu and Arafat in the US for the Wye summit.’ He paused. ‘If you fail to find her they will have to know, and they will have to take action. This is a very grave situation, Nick. It could cause us a lot of embarrassment.’
I had been given the shortest aim ever, and now I’d also been told the clearest reason why. Lynn showed the worry on his face. ‘We need to find her quickly. No-one must know. I emphasize, no-one.’
I hated it when
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