Liz Carlyle - 07 - The Geneva Trap by Stella Rimington Page B

wanted to do was get out of the flat and go home.
    To distract him from this new idea, Sorsky began talking about work, asking about other postings Boris had had and how they compared to Geneva; telling a few stories of his own about some escapades he’d had when he’d been stationed in the Ukraine in the year the Soviet Union had broken up. Then, with no particular intention but probably because it was at the front of his mind, he found himself mentioning the recent briefing they’d had on Operation Clarity from the Moscow bigwig who’d flown in. He said to Boris that it was all very well being asked to find out more about the British–American defence programme, but the chances of infiltrating it seemed virtually nil. How could they be expected to put an agent in there? Or, even more unlikely, to turn someone who was already working inside?
    Pausing for a moment then, Sorsky turned and looked at Liz. ‘You know the history. In the thirties the threat of fascism was enough to make Communists out of a whole generation of young Englishmen – including many who were working in the very heart of the Establishment. But now the only lever we’ve got is money – blackmail or just pure cash. And first you’ve got to find the person with the right access. The security for a programme like Clarity would be buttoned up tight.’
    He’d said as much to Boris, but his colleague had shaken his head, saying that British security wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. When Sorsky started to argue, Boris cut him off, and it was then that he said something startling – he said that another country had already managed to plant an agent in the British Ministry of Defence. Not in the Clarity programme itself, but close enough. Sorsky remembered the exact words – close enough, Boris had said.
    Sorsky had been astonished by this, and had asked which country had managed this remarkable feat. But by then Boris seemed to be past talking. He was either pretending to be comatose or he really was. After waiting for a short time to see if he’d say any more, Sorsky left the flat and went home.
    His story finished, he leaned back on the bench in silence. Across the lawn the two women were packing up and putting coats on the children. Liz said, ‘So that’s how you learned about the spy?’
    Sorsky nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to learn anything more.’
    At work the next day, Boris had acted as if their drunken conversation hadn’t happened; when Sorsky had made some passing remark about the infiltrator, he’d just looked blank. He clearly didn’t want the subject brought up again.
    ‘What is Boris’s job?’ said Liz hopefully.
    ‘I’m not prepared to tell you any more about him,’ said Sorsky. ‘Except that his name is not Boris.’
    Damn, thought Liz, they seemed to have reached a dead end. At least Russell White at the Geneva Station should know who Sorsky’s colleagues were and perhaps there would be CCTV outside the PussKat Club which the Swiss could get hold of. It might show who Sorsky left the club with.
    But he wasn’t finished. ‘I have managed to find out something else …’
    Liz looked at him. ‘I hope you were careful.’
    He shrugged. ‘Nothing to be careful about – it landed in my lap. You see,’ he said, ‘Boris has a secretary.’ He hesitated. ‘For a time, we were friendly. Not so much any more.’
    A faint flush was settling over Sorsky’s cheeks. You old Russian smoothie, she thought, as a capsule version of the affair ran through her head: the junior secretary, pretty but unsure of herself, falling for the veteran intelligence officer who took such an interest in her when no one else paid  attention. The office chats by the proverbial water cooler, then the ‘accidental’ bumping into her outside work; the innocent drink, the second time for drinks (by then less innocent), the invitation back to his place; the initial infatuation of the man followed by gradual detachment;