all academic? In Sean Keaneyâs time frame, there hadnât been any IRA terrorist activities for the mole to assist. And MI5 hadnât lost any informers. Its reputation had not been damaged. So did that mean the mole had simply retired from business, having never been activated? Perhaps he had just quietly left the Service.
She tried imagining the situation from the moleâs point of view. There he was, all primed and ready to go, when the message came from his masters: we donât need you anymore. Or, perhaps worse, no message came at all.
What would that have felt like? How frustrating would that have been? Did our friend the mole cheerfully accept the order, and spend the next decade loyally doing his best in MI5? Was he just one of us, no different from everyone else?
It didnât seem likely.
Liz swallowed a mouthful of tepid mineral water. Time for bed, she thought. As she brushed her teeth, she thought how nothing in the last ten years indicated the mole had done anythingâfor the IRA. But what if the mole had done something else?
Arranging the over-stuffed pillows, she undressed and got into bed. Could the mole have been placed in MI6? She didnât think so. Surely the original idea had to have been to place him in MI5, where he could subvert the Serviceâs work against the IRA. The fact remained that the original recruitment of the mole had an Irish lynchpinâSean Keaneyâs idea to put a mole in place. But as it turned out, the idea had lost its value, like currency taken out of circulation.
She lay back and thought again, uneasily, of OâPhelan. What was it that bothered her about the interview? It wasnât just a feeling that he hadnât told her the truth. There was something else.
Why hadnât she focused on it before? It was obvious: sheâd known it all along. When OâPhelan had got up, gone over to the door and spoken to Ryan, the so-called student waiting in the hallway, no other voice had spoken. Because, of course,
there wasnât anyone there
.
OâPhelan had got up to create a diversion. To disguise his reaction to something sheâd said. What had they been discussing that made him do that? They hadnât been discussing anything, she realisedâshe had been reciting the names on her list. Patrick Dobson, Judith Spratt, Tom Dartmouth, etc. That was clearly what bothered OâPhelan, enough for him to try and distract her.
OâPhelan knew one of the names.
She closed her eyes but her mind went on churning all the images of the day. But she was too tired to focus on any of them. She would start again in the morning.
And only then did she remember. She had forgotten to ring her mother.
15
A t 9:18 the next morning, as Liz finished her coffee in the dining room of the Culloden Hotel and got ready to check out and drive to the airport, the watcher in Doris Feldmanâs flat rang Dave Armstrong. He was at his desk in Thames House, writing up his report on his abortive trip north.
âMarzipan hasnât shown up,â the watcher said.
âPerhaps heâs running late,â said Dave, annoyed to be interrupted in mid-sentenceâwriting reports was for him the worst part of his job.
âHeâs never been late before. We thought youâd want to know.â
âOkay,â said Dave, suddenly attentive, for he realised that what they said was right. Sohail was
always
punctual. âRing me in ten minutes and let me know if heâs shown.â
By ten oâclock they had rung three more times. There was still no sign of Marzipan. Very worried now, Dave decided to ring Sohailâs mobileâsomething he would normally have been reluctant to do, in case he was with someone else. He was trying to combat the knot in his stomach, hoping this was all a false alarm.
It wasnât. The number rang and a man said, âHello?â
An Englishman, Dave noted, with an Estuary accent. Dave asked
She tried imagining the situation from the moleâs point of view. There he was, all primed and ready to go, when the message came from his masters: we donât need you anymore. Or, perhaps worse, no message came at all.
What would that have felt like? How frustrating would that have been? Did our friend the mole cheerfully accept the order, and spend the next decade loyally doing his best in MI5? Was he just one of us, no different from everyone else?
It didnât seem likely.
Liz swallowed a mouthful of tepid mineral water. Time for bed, she thought. As she brushed her teeth, she thought how nothing in the last ten years indicated the mole had done anythingâfor the IRA. But what if the mole had done something else?
Arranging the over-stuffed pillows, she undressed and got into bed. Could the mole have been placed in MI6? She didnât think so. Surely the original idea had to have been to place him in MI5, where he could subvert the Serviceâs work against the IRA. The fact remained that the original recruitment of the mole had an Irish lynchpinâSean Keaneyâs idea to put a mole in place. But as it turned out, the idea had lost its value, like currency taken out of circulation.
She lay back and thought again, uneasily, of OâPhelan. What was it that bothered her about the interview? It wasnât just a feeling that he hadnât told her the truth. There was something else.
Why hadnât she focused on it before? It was obvious: sheâd known it all along. When OâPhelan had got up, gone over to the door and spoken to Ryan, the so-called student waiting in the hallway, no other voice had spoken. Because, of course,
there wasnât anyone there
.
OâPhelan had got up to create a diversion. To disguise his reaction to something sheâd said. What had they been discussing that made him do that? They hadnât been discussing anything, she realisedâshe had been reciting the names on her list. Patrick Dobson, Judith Spratt, Tom Dartmouth, etc. That was clearly what bothered OâPhelan, enough for him to try and distract her.
OâPhelan knew one of the names.
She closed her eyes but her mind went on churning all the images of the day. But she was too tired to focus on any of them. She would start again in the morning.
And only then did she remember. She had forgotten to ring her mother.
15
A t 9:18 the next morning, as Liz finished her coffee in the dining room of the Culloden Hotel and got ready to check out and drive to the airport, the watcher in Doris Feldmanâs flat rang Dave Armstrong. He was at his desk in Thames House, writing up his report on his abortive trip north.
âMarzipan hasnât shown up,â the watcher said.
âPerhaps heâs running late,â said Dave, annoyed to be interrupted in mid-sentenceâwriting reports was for him the worst part of his job.
âHeâs never been late before. We thought youâd want to know.â
âOkay,â said Dave, suddenly attentive, for he realised that what they said was right. Sohail was
always
punctual. âRing me in ten minutes and let me know if heâs shown.â
By ten oâclock they had rung three more times. There was still no sign of Marzipan. Very worried now, Dave decided to ring Sohailâs mobileâsomething he would normally have been reluctant to do, in case he was with someone else. He was trying to combat the knot in his stomach, hoping this was all a false alarm.
It wasnât. The number rang and a man said, âHello?â
An Englishman, Dave noted, with an Estuary accent. Dave asked
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