Inside Enemy (3 page)

‘One damn thing after another,’ said Charles. ‘Life, that is. According to the Duke of Wellington. Surprised George hasn’t used it.’

‘He will if he hears it.’ She looked down and jabbed her keyboard but the screen remained blank. ‘So much for the paperless office.’

‘The lights are back on. Why isn’t it working?’

‘There’s more to it than that. You’ll hear soon enough. I won’t go into it now.’ She sat, indicating a chair to Charles. ‘I’ve got the perm secs’
weekly meeting in ten minutes. What began as an informal update, exchange of views, KIT – which is what we now have to call keeping in touch – and coffee, has grown into something with
an agenda that has to be minuted. It’s becoming a bureaucracy. Next we know it’ll be a department.’ She yawned. ‘Sorry, Charles. I’ve been trying to sort out my ailing
mother, get her into a decent home. If there are any. Keeps me up half the night and awake the other half. Of course, it’s not clear whether you’ll be there or not.’

‘Not yet, I hope.’

She smiled wearily. ‘Perm secs’, I mean. No-one’s even thought about your grading. Your predecessor was grade 1, like the others, but the SIA was much bigger than your MI6
slice of it will be. You can come if you’re 1a but there are no 2s there. Don’t know whether there are any precedents. I’ll have to ask the Cabinet Secretary. Congratulations on
your marriage, by the way. I’m not sure I ever met your wife when she – when she was—’

‘Married to Nigel Measures. Possibly not. They kept their professional lives quite separate. Her name’s Sarah.’

‘Bad business about Nigel’s treachery and attempted cover-up. Can’t say I ever took to him, frankly, but he was able. She is your first wife – you weren’t married
before?’

‘No, a late marriage. Hope for us all.’

She looked down again with the slightest shake of her head. When she looked up her expression had resumed seriousness and purpose. ‘There are various things to sort out. I take it your
vetting’s up to date?’

‘It will have lapsed after I was kicked out of the SIA.’

‘Of course, Nigel had you arrested, didn’t he? Evil man. But the vetting can be quickly reinstated. I’ll get someone on to it.’ She made a note. ‘And there are
briefings, of course. You’ll be briefed by your own board, which is already in place’ – she did not look at him as she said that – ‘and you should arrange early
sessions with your main customer departments – MOD, Home Office, Treasury, Cabinet Office, the Bank – us, of course. And various others. Also there’s a meeting starting in two
hours which you should come to. I won’t say any more about it now, it’s – well, we’re all sworn to secrecy. I’d better let the Chair indoctrinate you. Meet me outside
the Cabinet Office and I’ll get you through security. You don’t have any passes now, do you? Finally, there’s your head office – Rosewood House, part of the old Home Office
empire in Croydon.’

‘Croydon?’

‘Money’s tighter than ever and with so much of the Whitehall estate sold off and somewhere needed quickly it was a case of grab it while we could, I’m afraid. Nowhere else on
offer within the M25.’ She looked as if she was suppressing a smile, just.

‘But we’ll spend half our lives on the train, coming up to see people. No-one will come to see us.’

‘Well, you are supposed to be a secret service, aren’t you?’

‘What about the former SIA building in Victoria Street? A few floors would do.’

‘Sold to Gulf developers. Luxury apartments. Plus affordable housing, of course.’

‘Where are MI5 and GCHQ?’

‘MI5 are returning to their old home in Thames House on the Embankment and GCHQ remain in Cheltenham but they’re getting a new London office as well, somewhere in Curzon Street. I
dare say if MI6 had had a chief in place during the negotiations you might not have ended up in Croydon, but they didn’t and you have. You could always turn the job down, of
course.’

Charles crossed Parliament Square in bright cool sunshine, cutting through Dean’s Yard into the quiet streets behind the Abbey. With a pleasing sense of novelty, he unlocked the door of
the small terraced house – the smallest in the street – and picked his way between the packing cases and haphazardly placed furniture. Most of it had been moved in only the day before
but already there was crockery on the shelves, food in the fridge, there were clothes in the wardrobe, flowers on the kitchen table and a platoon of pot plants in the tiny back garden. It was
different, being married.

He texted Sarah, who had been called into work that afternoon. City lawyers, Charles was learning, were never off duty. He told her the job was agreed, which would please her, and added a moan
about Croydon. She texted congratulations, had a client just arriving, would speak later. He had just put the kettle on when Angela rang: the Cabinet Office meeting had been brought forward, could
he come now. He set off back through Dean’s Yard, where the trees had lost nearly all their leaves but the grass was strikingly green. Already it felt good to be back in harness, to be wanted
again. Except for Croydon.

S
arah was in her office off the Blackfriars Road, billing clients. Hitherto a task for a secretary or clerk, billing was now complicated and
multinational, even for part-time solicitors who did only private client work. And now, for no reason she could discover, a whole tranche of bills suddenly had to be done by yesterday. She had not
responded to Charles’s moan about Croydon, partly because she had a new client arriving but partly too because she didn’t want to betray irritation. He had only one thing to do that
afternoon, so far as she was concerned: meet the Foreign Secretary and get himself appointed. Well, he had got the job, a great thing after finding himself on the scrapheap or worse, yet all he had
to say about it was that he didn’t like Croydon. Now, lucky man, he could spend the rest of the day arranging things in the new house.

She wished she had the leisure to do that. The moment they had walked into the little house, she had felt it was one she could love. Snug, charming, secure, in a quiet, almost private, street,
it was within walking distance of nearly everything they wanted in London. But instead of having a delicious few days to potter and domesticate, she had to return to the office and get all the
wretched bills out while catching up on other business and handling their own conveyancing. She also had to complete the agreement on the Sussex cottage they were renting, an absurd extravagance
given that they had between them an embarrassment of properties, each with an unsold country place on the market. It was too late to get out of the agreement now but she was determined they must
not renew it unless their other properties were sold. Secretly, she was glad she still owned her Cotswold house and suspected Charles felt the same about his Scottish eyrie. So far, it was a
conversation they had avoided.

Naturally, the conveyancing took longer than it should have, with the Land Registry seemingly in chronic decline. They blamed their computers, of course, perhaps this time with more
justification than usual. Now, on top of the move, the conveyancing and the clients’ accounts, she had to see a woman whom one of the partners had wished upon her as ‘a potentially
significant private client opportunity’. Charles, meanwhile, who only ever seemed to do one thing at a time, appeared blithely unaware of how much she was doing. That was really why she had
shown no sympathy over Croydon.

Her secretary buzzed to say that the client opportunity had arrived. Sarah looked again at the name, Katya Chester. It was faintly familiar, associated with Charles, with something he’d
said. She checked herself in her mirror and waited.

Katya Chester was tall, blonde and beautiful, with high Slavic cheekbones, green cat’s eyes and pouting lips. She was expensively dressed in a light grey suit, the jacket tailored. Her
white blouse, open at the neck, revealed a large sapphire surrounded by diamonds on a gold chain, with matching earrings. She wore no wedding ring but had a diamond band on her wedding finger. Her
handbag was expensive, probably Mulberry. She looked in her late twenties, possibly thirty, the sort of woman whose entry anywhere was an immediate provocation to her sex. When they shook hands her
American celebrity smile showed a too-perfect set of too-white teeth.

‘It is very good of you to see me. I know how busy you must be but I hope I shall not waste your time.’

It was an educated foreigner’s English, careful, precise and overlaid by an American accent. She declined coffee, disappointing Sarah who had delayed her second cup in anticipation, and
sat with a crossing of her elegant legs and susurration of tights. It was bad luck for Ms Chester, thought Sarah, that she wasn’t received by a man.

‘I am buying a house, a house in Belgravia. Just a small house, not extravagant. I should be very grateful if you would handle the conveyancing for me. I also have a friend who is very
rich and who wishes to buy other properties in London and who will need a good lawyer. I should like to introduce you to my friend.’ Her introductory paragraph ended with a wide smile.

Sarah opened her notebook. ‘That’s very kind of you but so far I have only your name and work telephone number.’ It was a 219 area code, which she remembered from Nigel’s
political contacts included the houses of parliament.

Katya Chester was happily forthcoming. The house was perfect for someone like her, an American citizen on her own in London where it was necessary to be so careful. Belgravia was a nice area.
The house needed improvement, of course, but that was to be expected. There were so many beautiful old houses in England, not only in London, but there was always a price to pay for charm.
Fortunately, she was able to pay it. Another smile. She was a cash buyer, her husband, Mr Chester, having left her with more than enough money for her modest needs. Fortunately, too, she had an
interesting job working for a member of parliament, a perfect sequel to her postgraduate studies in politics at university in New York. The MP she worked for was a very good MP, quite well-known,
Jeremy Wheeler. His constituency was in Sussex – Sarah knew him, perhaps?

Sarah knew him; he had worked for her late husband and was the owner, she had discovered only that day, of the Sussex cottage they were about to rent. Charles, who had served with him in MI6,
would be horrified. But she wondered why Katya Chester should associate her with Sussex. She had only been there once, to see the cottage. And she worked under her maiden name, Bourne, not as Mrs
Thoroughgood.

‘Were you born in America?’ she asked conversationally.

‘My parents were Russian. I was born there.’

‘Your English is excellent.’

‘Thank you.’ Another smile.

‘You’d better give me details of the house and the estate agent.’

She claimed to have enough money in the bank to buy the house outright. No need to sell shares or get anything from Mr Chester.

‘Sorry, I’d assumed from what you said before that he was dead,’ said Sarah.

‘In his mind he is dead. His body still functions. He is in a special home. He is older than me. I have what you call here power of attorney.’

‘He was – is – a very rich man?’

‘He was a banker.’

‘I must give you a statement of our charges and conditions. There’s a paper copy here – somewhere – yes, here – but I’ll email another anyway. I must ask you
to sign and return it when you’ve read it.’

‘I can sign it now.’

‘I think you should read it first.’

‘I am quite sure it will be all right.’ She took the form and signed in a large loopy hand with a slim gold pen.

Sarah took it reluctantly. ‘I won’t act on it until you’ve had a chance to read the copy I’m emailing, just in case you change your mind. Where is your current home, by
the way?’

She gave an address in Hans Crescent, behind Harrods. There was no tenancy agreement, so she could leave when she wanted. ‘It belongs to my friend. He lent it to me until I could find
something to buy. That was two years ago and this is the first house I have looked at.’

The winsome smile again. It struck Sarah that the woman was probably a one-track charmer who as a pretty little girl had learned a way of pleasing that life had reinforced ever since, with the
result that she had become a prisoner of her own beauty. She might never have had to get her way by argument.

‘A generous friend.’

‘Yes. He is the man I wanted to talk to you about.’ Her green eyes widened and she leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘He is Mr Mayakovsky, a Russian billionaire who has moved to
London and wishes to invest in valuable properties. I would like, if you wish it, to introduce you to him. He could bring you much business.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Chester. I am sure I – and the firm – would appreciate that. Meanwhile, you’ll see on the form you’ve just signed that
there’s a question—’

‘He could bring you so much business that they would make you a partner.’

She ignored that. ‘– a question asking how you came to us for this business.’

Sarah expected her to say that she knew the partner who had dumped her on Sarah’s desk. But there was a moment’s silence, just the wide green eyes and eager-to-please expression.
‘I heard – someone told me—’

‘For example, was it by personal recommendation, or through an advertisement, or professional research—’

‘By personal recommendation, yes, someone told me that you were very good.’

‘Me? Or the firm?’

Another hesitation. ‘Both. You and the firm.’

‘Well, that’s very gratifying.’ Sarah smiled. ‘Mr Mayakovsky, I imagine?’

‘No, no, it was not him. It might have been Jeremy, Mr Wheeler.’

She seemed emphatic that it should not be Mr Mayakovsky. Sarah made a note to ask the partner concerned, though she wasn’t sure that she would hear from Katya Chester again. She seemed the
sort who might be on her way to call on another firm with the same story, then engage a third before changing her mind about the house at the last minute. They parted with handshakes and smiles.
Sarah felt suddenly weary.