Dirty Tricks, page 6
Quinn had also been warned many times of the risk that some journalist might hear of the relationship and write about it, stressing the security danger, which could lead to embarrassing questions in Parliament. His reaction was even more robust. The journalist would be damned sorry, whoever he was!
He had a vengeful habit of fixing journalists who crossed him. There had been one occasion recently where a national newspaper had printed a true report about a minor MI6 disaster and, through a distinguished intermediary, Quinn had warned the Fleet Street proprietor concerned that his reporter was not only ill-informed but was suspected of working for the KGB. Under the circumstances, it was pointed out with consummate tact, any further problems of a similar nature might force the security authorities into ensuring that neither the proprietor nor the editor would ever appear in an Honours List.
The name of that journalist, famous as it was, rarely appeared in the newspaper again.
Whatever arguments might have been arrayed against his sexual habits, Quinn was not going to be deprived of a private life simply because he chose to remain unmarried, if only for a peculiar reason which he kept secret from everybody and especially from Angela. He needed close feminine companionship because, as his intimate friends soon discovered, behind the aura of supreme confidence and the resolute set to his features there lurked much doubt. By nature he hated being in a state of doubt, yet he had chosen a profession so beset with it that the best he could usually hope for was a correct assessment of a balance of probabilities. He therefore needed a confidante not only to assist with his professional problems, which were always complex, usually urgent and often daunting in the extreme, but to minister to his psychological need to discuss his secret life with somebody and to support him emotionally, though he would never have admitted that, even to himself. His explanation for confiding in a woman was that the feminine mind worked differently:
‘My job may seem to be about events but it’s really about people. I need to know as much as possible about their characters and how they are likely to react. The feminine mind, which is differently constructed from a man’s, sees things I may miss.’
His relationship with Angela also meant that he received much of her guidance in private and so could avoid giving the impression to his colleagues of being swayed by her, though few of them were fooled.
At fifty-five, Quinn still had an air of youthfulness with his blue eyes, fair, fresh complexion, firm jaw and ready smile, the silvering of his blonde hair being the most observable clue to his age as he sat in the centre of his ‘web’. He had been ‘thinking through’ a projected Intelligence operation in Kenya and was burning his notes in a large glass ashtray, selected for its transparency so that no KGB ‘bug’ could be concealed in it, when Angela entered the room bearing an oblong, yellow dispatch-box. He unlocked it with a key attached to a long gold chain secured to his belt. An Italian belt suited his ‘with it’ appearance for which he took such care that he had his jacket made by one tailor and his trousers by another.
The box was so full that the papers welled out of it as Quinn released the pressure of the lid.
‘You know what the coroner’s verdict on my inquest will be?’ he asked rhetorically, in a voice which still retained a trace of Irish brogue in spite of his efforts to eliminate it. ‘Found dead – under a pile of paper!’
He picked out the top document, originating from the Cabinet Secretary, read it and announced, ‘The President’s been on the hot-line to Downing Street again. The National Security Council met in Washington yesterday. They decided to continue playing the international situation cool. No military alerts. No reinforcement in Europe. Nothing that could be misinterpreted as mobilization. No political speeches drawing attention to the danger. Nothing that might provoke the Kremlin. The PM’s in full agreement. He would be, wouldn’t he? Meanwhile things go from bad to worse – and fast.’
‘What else could you expect from “The Prince of Peace”?’ Angela asked, using Quinn’s cynical description of the Prime Minister. ‘He’s so starry-eyed about Anglo-Soviet trade and cultural relations that he would never do anything to offend the Kremlin.’
Quinn grunted his agreement as he initialled the document with the green ink which he alone in the department was allowed to use. ‘Happily there are some who are more realistic,’ he said. ‘The Home Secretary is making preparations to evacuate the Government, if needs be, to the underground regional seats, and that cavernous shelter near Bath is being warmed up to receive the Royal Family. Meanwhile, we have all the evidence here of what’s happening behind the Iron Curtain.’
He swivelled his desk slightly and picked up a sheaf of papers. ‘These are further reports of insurrections. There’s every sign that the Politburo will try to resolve its problems by fabricating an excuse for a military adventure against NATO. And what are the gutless politicians doing? Sweet fuck all!’
Angela, who had come to terms with Quinn’s use of coarse language, though such obscenities still jarred, remained silent as he slammed the papers back on the desk.
‘Most of that bumf originated from across the bridge,’ Quinn continued angrily, referring to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in particular. ‘So they know the form. Yet one can never make them understand that the only thing the Russians respect in a potential enemy is resolution. Toughness! They’ll still go on trying to appease the Kremlin when we get proof positive that the Red Army’s on the march. That silly sod Henderson is prepared to see Britain decline to a tiny dot on the map so long as he can go on avoiding war. Politicians! I wouldn’t employ one of them to sweep up!’
One of Angela’s less pleasant functions was to serve as target for Quinn’s tirades against the Labour Government which had pushed Margaret Thatcher from office after two Parliaments. Her hawkish stand against the Russians and their sycophants had been rapidly replaced by a Labour administration fawning on them to ‘make amends’, the Foreign Secretary being second only to the Prime Minister in his longish list of ministerial aversions.
Hoping to calm Quinn down, for she was convinced that such outbursts must be bad for his blood pressure, Angela moved to his desk to replenish his coffee mug. But he was not to be assuaged so easily.
‘What in God’s name is the use of spending millions and inducing people to risk their lives to produce prime-grade Intelligence when it is promptly ignored? All I get back from Whitehall for all our efforts are anodyne decisions with which I am required to agree, the essence of genius in that cloud cuckoo-land being the ability to align oneself with the inevitable. All I shall be able to say when I retire is, “I came, I saw, I concurred!” ’
‘You need a haircut,’ Angela remarked as she returned to her desk. ‘I’ll make you an appointment.’
A flicker of a smile crossed Quinn’s face at this deft deflation. As he returned to his documents, Angela’s telephone rang to announce the arrival of two expected guests, who had telephoned previously.
‘John Falconer and Ed Taylor are here,’ she announced.
‘Ah, I wonder what they are after,’ Quinn said, as he pressed a switch under his desk. ‘Falconer never moves from the centre of his web without damned good reason.’
‘We meet in troubled times, John,’ Quinn remarked after extricating himself to welcome his visitors.
‘Can you remember when they weren’t troubled, Mark?’ Falconer asked.
‘No, but this is looking like a real flash-point situation – maybe a nuclear flash – and I can’t get my political masters to face it.’
‘It’s the same story in Washington, Mark,’ Falconer said, seating himself after the handshakes. ‘It’s words they are interested in, not facts. The trouble with politicians everywhere is that they confuse the two. When they’ve said something they believe they’ve done something.’
‘Would you like some coffee, gentlemen?’ Angela asked.
‘Sure would,’ Taylor replied. ‘You’ll be glad to know, John, that tea isn’t the regular brew in these parts.’
‘No. Whitehall’s the tea centre – down the road,’ Quinn said. ‘Nothing to do with this firm. Well, John, how long do you reckon we’ve got before the Russians claim they’re being attacked by West Germany and invade Europe?’
‘Could be a week. Not much longer. They can’t hold things together for many more days without generating another “Great Patriotic War”.’
‘That’s our assessment,’ Quinn said. ‘We had a meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee this morning and came to just that opinion. But the Prime Minister rejects it. He can’t bring himself to believe that the Russians will attack anybody. “They defend themselves but they don’t initiate attacks,” he insists. Of course, Hungary and Czechoslovakia are conveniently forgotten. He’s just besotted with holy hope!’
Falconer saw his chance. ‘There could be another explanation, Mark. The details are in here.’
He took the red folder from his briefcase and made a flick of his eyes towards Angela, suggesting that, for secrecy’s sake, she should leave the room.
‘No, that’s all right,’ Quinn assured him. ‘I have no secrets from my personal assistant. Whatever it is she would have to know anyway.’
Falconer gave a slight but discernible shrug of disapproval and passed the folder to Quinn. ‘The blunt truth is that you have a KGB agent inside your Cabinet – in the shape of the Prime Minister himself.’
Angela was obviously startled by the assertion, but Quinn remained impassive as he thumbed through the summary and the supporting documents.
‘You don’t seem to be surprised, Mark,’ Taylor could not resist commenting.
‘In this game nothing surprises me any more! Not after Philby,’ Quinn responded quietly, referring to the so very British senior Intelligence officer who had shattered MI6’s belief in itself when he had turned out to be a KGB spy.
While Quinn turned the pages at his usual rapid rate, Falconer gave Angela a closer inspection, noting that she had a good head, bold eyes and fine legs which, in his experience of both horses and people, were signs of good breeding.
Quinn made a mental note that some of the defector’s statements could account for unexplained leaks which had worried him in the recent past. Then he said, ‘You know, John, since I took this job on I’ve frequently thought that if Kim Philby could have become Director-General of the Secret Intelligence Service – and there’s no doubt that he could – then the KGB can get an agent into any political position. Indeed, it should be much easier. Given a dedicated man with unlimited patience and nerve, the door to Number Ten Downing Street is wide open. That MI5 bastard, Anthony Blunt, even got into the Palace!’
Falconer nodded. ‘Well you know, Mark, we’ve often taken issue with the superficial way you check out politicians with access to secrets.’
‘And quite rightly,’ Quinn responded, keeping his eyes on the documents. ‘But we are not permitted to do anything about them. And it’s not just politicians either. Remember the British ambassador we had to pull out of Moscow because he fell for the crudest KGB trick in the book – the all-too-willing chambermaid. And all those heart-searchings about a certain head of MI5, though nothing would surprise me about that outfit … ’
Falconer and Taylor exchanged glances. They could appreciate the rivalry between MI6, responsible for Intelligence operations abroad and MI5, responsible for security in Britain, for they had similar problems back home with the FBI.
‘You are completely satisfied with your defector’s information?’ Quinn asked.
‘Absolutely. He was a high-level KGB officer. He’s been feeding us with prime source information for months. You’ve already had most of it. Now he’s come over.’
‘As you’ve got him, I assume you can now give him a name.’
‘Fair exchange for “Uncle Vanya’s”?’ Falconer asked without much hope.
‘No way! He hasn’t come over yet and I hope he never has to.’
‘OK. It’s Victor Kovalsky.’
‘Kovalsky! I thought he was being groomed for stardom by our dearly beloved Comrade Sergei Yakovlev, God rot his soul. What made him defect?’
‘He claims that he was for the high jump. Once Yakovlev reached the top he got scared that Kovalsky might oust him. Apparently our defector has an admirer in the Soviet Premier, Volkov.’
‘So Yakovlev was going to purge him! Sounds in character. When am I going to get a sight of him?’
‘We’ll turn him over to you as soon as we’ve finished debriefing him. That is if he stays alive.’
‘Why? Is he ill?’
‘Not yet. But the KGB has already made one attempt to kill him.’
Quinn looked suitably impressed. ‘The KGB gets all the executive action and we get none. I used to envy you your freedom in that respect. It can solve so many problems. But now you are as ham-strung as we are.’
‘Yeah, but it’s no good longing for the good old days,’ Falconer sighed. ‘They’ll never return. But what do you propose to do about Henderson? I felt he was your pigeon.’
‘He certainly is,’ Quinn agreed. ‘And we will move smartly. But you do realize, don’t you, that whatever we discover will have to be hushed up? We did an in-depth study some time ago as to what would happen if we found out that any senior minister was a KGB agent. The view here was unanimous – “Operation Cover-Up”.’
‘Yes, I do realize that the public won’t be told anything, but Henderson will have to be removed,’ Falconer asserted.
‘It won’t be that easy,’ Quinn replied. ‘If I telephoned the Leader of the Opposition now and told him that Henderson, whom he detests, is a spy, he’d insist on secrecy. Parliament’s a club you know, and a scandal of this magnitude would be regarded as devastating for the whole membership. So you can imagine what members of the Government would do to convince themselves that your claim is false. The civil servants would take the same line. I promise you, John, that the noise of various ranks closing would be deafening.’
‘It would be just the same in the States,’ Falconer said quietly. ‘But surely we are not going that public. We don’t want to repeat the political mess the West Germans made when they insisted on prosecuting that guy Guillaume. That should have been handled under the counter. The public trial put Guillaume in jail, but it ruined Chancellor Brandt and sent the KGB’s stock soaring.’
‘That’s the last thing I intend to do,’ Quinn said firmly. ‘That bastard Yakovlev’s doing too well as it is. No, if there is going to be any swift executive action on this at all we shall have to take it ourselves. In the old days we might have arranged for Henderson’s accidental demise. He might have “caught measles”, as I believe you used to put it. So would Yakovlev, if I’d had my way.’
‘I’m not sure that it would have been wise to liquidate Yakovlev, Mark,’ Falconer demurred. ‘At least he’s civilized, and a dog you know is always better than a dog you don’t know.’
Wondering whether Falconer’s use of the word ‘dog’ in connection with Yakovlev might be deliberate in view of a lacerating memory it held for him, Quinn replied tersely, ‘Our criteria of civilized behaviour must be different, John. I only hope that one day the Good Lord will deliver him into my hands. But as regards Henderson I must first go through the motions of getting confirmation of your allegations.’
‘But won’t that mean surveillance?’ Falconer asked anxiously. ‘And won’t that take more time than we’ve got?’
‘It will mean surveillance,’ Quinn replied quietly. ‘But with the Prime Minister that’s no problem.’
‘How come?’ Falconer inquired.
‘Oh, it’s never been all that difficult in Downing Street, though it varies with circumstances, as it must with you in the White House. One of the best runs we ever had was in Harold Wilson’s day. MI5 had a steady informer on the Downing Street staff and they used to send us copies of all his reports – details of where the Prime Minister went, who he saw … Marvellous stuff.’
‘Is that informer still active?’ Falconer asked hopefully.
‘Sadly not. There was a bad leak in this building, I’m sorry to say. Somebody gave a journalist details of one of the reports MI5 had sent us and he published them along with a claim that Wilson had been bugged. There was quite a nasty inquiry by Callaghan when he succeeded Wilson as PM.’
‘I recollect it,’ Falconer said. ‘There was some suggestion that we were involved. Didn’t Callaghan categorically deny that Wilson had been bugged by anybody?’
‘After a lot of consultation he issued a statement denying that Downing Street had been bugged electronically. Nothing was said about the “human bug”.’
‘You don’t still have him, do you, Mark?’
‘No, and I don’t suppose, after that row, that MI5 had the nerve to replace him. In any case, our relations with MI5 have never been quite the same since. They are still sore at the way the leak here fouled up their operation.’
‘So how will you cope with the Prime Minister now?’ Falconer asked.
‘We have our own informer – the PM’s private detective. He belongs to Special Branch but we offered him some fringe benefits to keep us in the picture. He goes everywhere with the PM, knows how he spends every minute, who he meets and where.’
‘He defected to you,’ Taylor could not resist exclaiming in admiration.
‘You could say that. Regrettably, it doesn’t happen often. But it’s damn useful when it does. You must have similar situations with the FBI, John?’
Falconer raised his hands in mock solemnity. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that. Has your detective come up with any lead?’
‘No. The PM doesn’t seem to be seeing anyone he shouldn’t. But our friend will now be taking a closer look.’
