Illegal Action by Stella Rimington Page B

hour practising his set recital, checking the pictures for the umpteenth time and arranging the chairs. Instead of the sofa and low table near the door, used for more informal chats, he opted to stay behind the desk at one end of the room. That should give him an air of authority.
    He wished he didn’t look so young. Even the photos he’d seen of his father as a young man made Geoffrey Fane seem at twenty confident, commanding. No one had ever called his father lacking in maturity. The phrase used by Michael’s girlfriend Anna to explain why she was breaking up with him. The memory still rankled.
    There was a sharp knock and the door opened. The brigadier marched in, looking stern, followed by the tall leggy woman from HR. Behind them, standing in the doorway, stood a man in a blue chauffeur’s suit. Simmons. He looked confused.
    “Here he is,” announced the brigadier to Michael. “Shout if you need me.” He and the woman went out, shutting the door firmly behind them.
    “Sit down, Mr. Simmons,” Michael said, pointing to the chair he’d placed in front of the desk. “My name is Magnusson,” he added mechanically, as if he’d said this countless times before.
    Simmons sat down and hunched forward, his legs apart, arms hanging down between his knees. He clasped his hands loosely together and looked at Michael, his face an open anxious book.
    “Can I see your passport please?” Michael asked crisply, holding out his hand.
    Simmons hesitated, then slowly passed it across the desk. He had been instructed to bring it with him. “What’s all this about?”
    Ignoring the question, Michael leafed through the pages. There weren’t many stamps, but passports were no real guide nowadays—Morocco, and Cyprus twice. Holiday locations. “Have you ever been to Russia?”
    “Russia?” Simmons seemed caught off guard. “No. Never. Why?”
    Michael shrugged and made a show of examining the passport some more. He flipped it down on to the desktop, where it spun briefly then stopped, well short of Simmons’s reach. “Have you ever known any Russians?”
    “Well I don’t know about ‘known,’” said Jerry. “When I worked at the Dorchester loads of foreigners stayed there and some of them were Russians. And I work for a Russian now, you must know that, and he’s got lots of Russian friends. What’s all this about?”
    “I work in the Security Service. We’ve had reason to mount a surveillance operation recently, on a member of the Russian Embassy. We followed him to a number of meetings with people, some open and public, some clandestine. One of them was with you.”
    “You must be confusing me with someone else,” said Jerry. But there was colour in his cheeks, and he was clasping his hands tightly now.
    “Possibly,” Michael said, “though they say the camera never lies.” He opened his dossier, lifted out two of the prints and slid them across the desk.
    Jerry made a show of carefully inspecting them. “When were these taken?” he asked, as if they might be snaps from a holiday so long ago he couldn’t remember it.
    “Recently,” said Michael.
    “I talk to a lot of people,” said Jerry. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
    “Of course there isn’t.” Michael smiled fleetingly, though now there was a cutting edge to his voice. “But what are we supposed to think when we find you meeting a Russian intelligence officer? Old friends talking about old times? I don’t think so.”
    “I work for a Russian, for Christ’s sakes. I know a lot of Russians. I told you that.”
    “I bet you do, and we’re going to talk about every one of them. But it’s this Russian”—and he stabbed his finger at the photo—“I’m interested in now.”
    “Does the brigadier know why you’re talking to me?” Simmons asked. He looked to be flailing, like someone pushed out of a boat, trying to determine how deep the water was and whether there was any chance of swimming to shore.
    Michael regarded