‘Perhaps he keeps his pearls for Gareth because he thinks Gareth is closer to the centre of power and that therefore anything he tells him is more likely to get through to the right people.’

  ‘Perhaps. And perhaps he’s also doing it with no expectation of pearls in return. There’s certainly nothing in Gareth’s write-ups to indicate a two-way conversation with all the trading you’d normally expect. So why is he doing it?’

  ‘He’s not paid, is he?’

  ‘No. And yes. Not officially.’ She hesitated. ‘No names no pack drill. All right?’ Charles nodded. ‘I’ve a friend in Accounts. I took the opportunity to glance over Gareth’s expense claims for his Brussels trips. She didn’t show me sources, mind, I just happened to be in the room when . . .’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, the best hotels, it goes without saying. And lavish lunches or dinners with Timber Wolf – they meet as old friends in public. Also, very generous expenses paid to Timber Wolf, unspecified but described as travel, accommodation etc. Well into five figures over five meetings. This despite the fact that Timber Wolf lives in Brussels.’

  ‘Does he sign for these expenses?’

  ‘No. I guess Gareth would say it’s undignified to demand chits of an old friend, put a delicate relationship at risk and so on.’

  Charles leaned forward, elbows on the garden table, hands clasped. ‘So. Timber Wolf takes money for expenses he can’t have incurred, knowing it comes from an intelligence service. In return, he passes confidential information, which he must assume will be passed by his intelligence service interlocutor, to his government, which is the other party to the negotiations. He does this because – well, we don’t know why. For friendship and old times’ sake, if Gareth is to be believed. Perhaps money comes into it, unstated by either party but implicitly acknowledged.’ He sat back again and folded his arms. ‘Sounds to me like a recruitment in all but name. We’ve done a lot of those. And we’ve also lost good cases by spelling out to them what they’re doing just so that someone in Head Office can tick a box to say that this is a fully recruited conscious source. Not everyone likes to be confronted with the reality of what they’re doing and maybe Timber Wolf is one of those.’

  ‘But motivation and degree of consciousness should always be made clear on the file. Used to be, anyway, when there were proper files.’ Sonia, like Charles himself and others of their generation, believed something was lost with the transfer to screens. ‘There’s nothing about either in Timber Wolf’s screen file.’

  ‘But there should be. There are boxes for it, aren’t there? Doesn’t anyone check?’ In paper-file days there were registries staffed by middle-aged women who had seen everything in their time and were unafraid to badger officers, no matter how senior, who neglected their files. ‘How has Gareth been able to buck the system?’

  ‘By being so senior. He’s in charge of all operations, what he says goes, what he does goes. It would be just the same if it were you getting – or claiming to get – intelligence from an old friend. No one would query how you reported it simply because you’re the chief. I think you sometimes overlook that.’

  Charles found his coffee cup empty again. She shook her head at his offer of more and he poured the dregs for himself. ‘You say “claiming” to get intelligence. Are you implying that you think he’s making it up?’

  ‘Not quite. There’s no evidence that he is. It all chimes with FCO and other reporting and with what eventually comes out in the media. My worry is whether most of it really counts as intelligence. It certainly counts in our report production figures – he’s counted all his memos as five-star reports.’

  That was not a surprise. Gareth had a history of playing the numbers game. In both the overseas stations he headed before promotion to management in London he had energetically boosted the station’s reporting figures, quietly getting rid of officers who failed to produce. Charles had known this when promoting him but the results had justified Gareth’s ambition and self-promotion. Charles had failed to play the numbers game when heading a station, arguing that quality was more important than quantity, that a single report that changed government policy or saved billions was worth more than hundreds that did no more than contribute to existing thinking. Right but naïve, he came to realise, suspecting that his strategy had contributed to his own early retirement some years before under the newly outsourced HR regime.

  ‘But this latest report surely counts as intelligence,’ he said. ‘I mean, you can’t say that advance knowledge of the EU bottom line isn’t hugely significant?’

  ‘Of course it is. It’s intended to be.’ She looked out across the valley. ‘You chose well, coming here.’

  ‘It’s really Sarah’s. She chose well.’

  She looked back. ‘My worry is that Gareth might be a fabricator.’

  This was perhaps the second most serious charge that could be laid, after the betrayal of agent identities, the sin against the Holy Ghost of espionage. Its consequences, political and other, were inevitably serious and long-lasting, a devaluation of the intelligence currency. ‘I’ll make some more coffee,’ said Charles.

  She followed him into the kitchen. ‘My suspicions were first aroused during a course at the Castle.’ The Castle was the Service’s south-coast training establishment. ‘Gareth gave the final address. He talked about the evolving political environment, the changing Whitehall culture and how our reporting priorities might change post-Brexit. He didn’t give any detail of the negotiations but gave the kind of succinct summary you would expect from a good FCO briefing. Then a week later I read the report he issued following his latest meeting with Timber Wolf. It was virtually the same, word for word, and I thought, are these Timber Wolf’s words or Gareth’s? Is he putting his own words into Timber Wolf’s mouth?’

  That was not unknown, deliberate or otherwise, especially in political reporting where the facts were known but interpretation and nuance were often what gave meaning. Sometimes it was simply a question of unconscious over-interpretation. ‘He doesn’t record their meetings?’

  ‘I suggested that but he said that Timber Wolf would be insulted, not in keeping with their confiding friendship and anyway it might make him more cautious. He doesn’t need to know, I said, but that got Gareth onto his high horse – “I’m not messing around with all those toys and tricks at my stage of career, surely you’re not suggesting that after all these years of doing it I can’t be trusted to report accurately what someone says to me?”’ She did a passable imitation of Gareth’s Welsh accent, heightened whenever he was irritated or excited. ‘You can see why he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Perhaps I should ask him myself. I could say it’s essential that we’re able to assure ministers of the exact words of the sub-sources Timber Wolf is quoting.’

  ‘He might think you don’t trust him.’

  ‘But he’d have to do it. Refusal would look suspicious. It’s all in the interests of absolute accuracy. I could say I’ve had a request from Number Ten.’

  ‘And if he still refuses?’

  ‘Then he’s off the case. I’d take over, see Timber Wolf myself.’ Sonia stared at him as the coffee percolated, assessing his seriousness. There was no one else serving with whom he could discuss a fellow director in this way. ‘Less dramatically, I could suggest he takes you along to the meetings.’

  ‘I tried that, tentatively, saying it would strengthen the product when I’m discussing it in Whitehall if I could say I’d had it from the horse’s mouth. But he went off the deep end – uniquely personal relationship, Timber Wolf would clam up in front of anyone else, take offence, feel he was being treated as a spy. All of which may be true.’

  ‘I can see why he doesn’t like you.’

  ‘And after that he suggested I take a look at the current favourable terms for early retirement, eighty per cent funded by the Treasury. They’re not going to last very long, he said. Is that right?’

  ‘I’d close them tomorrow if I thought it would keep you.’

  ‘I won’t go until this is sorted out.’ They took their coffees back out onto the terrace. The breeze had lessened, making the A40 less audible. ‘One more thing, while we’ve still got Gareth on the dissecting table, dating from his time as head of the Geneva station. Do you remember Ian Catsfield?’ Charles did not. ‘A probationer under Gareth. A nice boy, rather academic, more analyst than operator. He and Gareth were chalk and cheese. Gareth asked him to cultivate an Iranian scientist who had access to Iranian nuclear. But after a few meetings the Iranian didn’t want to see any more of Ian. Maybe he’d been warned off him, or warned off Westerners in general. Gareth wasn’t impressed. He then got Ian to take on one of his own recruited cases, a Lebanese with terrorist connections. It had never been very productive and became less so under Ian. When Gareth asked why Ian said he didn’t trust the agent, that he was in it for the money and cooking up any old story he thought we would swallow. Gareth took the case back and the product improved – surprise, surprise. The upshot was that Gareth recommended that Ian’s probation should not be confirmed and he was sacked. The Office found him a job – with the Department of Health, I think – but he later left that for a think tank.

  ‘Well, it now appears – in these litigious times – that Ian is involved with lawyers and is claiming unfair dismissal on the grounds that he should have been given a second chance under another boss, that Gareth only gave him dead-end tasks and exaggerated the intelligence product of his own cases. I suspect his think tank, which is pretty left-wing, has put him up to it. So that’s another thing camping on Gareth’s screen at the moment.’

  Gareth hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had the legal advisor who sat on the board and with whom Charles had weekly solo meetings, as with all his directors.

  Sonia held up her coffee cup as if toasting him. ‘Just wanted to get your week off to a good start.’

  Back in London that night Charles went through all the Timber Wolf reports. By the time he had finished it wasn’t only the possibility of fabrication that worried him.

  Chapter Four

  ‘The foreign secretary is delighted, as you can imagine. Very enthusiastic. Even allowing for the fact that enthusiasm is his default position, he’s more than usually enthusiastic about this.’ Robin Woodstock, Foreign Office permanent secretary, glanced at their fellow lunchers in the Travellers Club. ‘I’ll stick to two courses but you go ahead if you want pudding or cheese or anything.’ He raised a hand to someone on another table. ‘You know, when I joined the Foreign Office it was almost de rigueur to belong to this place but looking round now I can see only two colleagues, both retired. Mind you, you and I are part of a rapidly dwindling minority in Whitehall to acknowledge lunch at all. They all eat sandwiches at their desks now, don’t they, still staring at their screens? Fortunately, the foreign secretary is enthusiastic about lunch, too. Another of his default positions. Pity Gareth Horley isn’t around to join us. Even the chancellor was impressed by the latest. Tell him that when he’s back.’

  They were discussing the latest report. Gareth was in Washington, talking to the CIA. The latest Timber Wolf report had been shown to the prime minister but for the time being was withheld from the negotiating team in Brussels in case through their manner they betrayed nonchalance about the EU’s public position. Charles was privately relieved that Gareth wasn’t around to fuel the enthusiasm. ‘Nonetheless, we shouldn’t regard that figure in the report as set in stone,’ he cautioned. ‘They might change their minds about it.’

  Robin’s disarmingly boyish features briefly creased with concern. ‘But the sub-sources are sound, aren’t they? Authoritative? Horse’s mouth stuff?’

  ‘Very much so, yes.’

  ‘And you trust Gareth to get it right, of course?’

  Robin’s appearance of youthful innocence concealed a mind that gripped like a bear-trap. He and Gareth had served together in New York and Charles had the impression of mutual wariness, each ever watchful for chinks in the other’s armour. Charles chose his words carefully. ‘I’m confident Gareth knows exactly what he’s saying. He wouldn’t just get it wrong.’

  ‘But you are sure that what he says is right?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. So is he. It’s just that I’m cautioning against the assumption that the EU wouldn’t ever change their minds about what their bottom line is. Just as we do, now and again.’ He disliked temporising but to do otherwise would risk undermining the whole stream of Timber Wolf reporting, perhaps unfairly.

  ‘The foreign secretary would like a chat with Gareth when he’s back.’ Robin folded his napkin. ‘You see him as your successor?’

  It was another indication that others saw him as becoming the past. ‘A strong contender, certainly.’

  ‘Just make sure you stick around long enough so that no one can argue that we should advertise the post to EU nationals.’

  Gareth would be away for another three days. Charles described the case to Sarah over dinner that night, without revealing Timber Wolf’s identity. He trusted her discretion and, being outside the Office but familiar with it, her perspective was useful. Also, she knew Gareth. Her verdict was swift and succinct.

  ‘You must have it out with Gareth before he sees Timber Wolf again. You must be absolutely straight with him that the meetings must be recorded except that, assuming you want to keep Sonia out of it, you say you’re doing it under pressure from Whitehall. You’ve given them cast-iron guarantees about Timber Wolf’s reports and in so doing you’ve put your own head on the line. You want to be able to tell them that he’s been recorded word for word and you’re satisfied he’s pukka. Gareth can’t reasonably resist a covert recording and if he does you have your answer, don’t you? At least, you’re halfway to it. Also, if I were you I’d be more concerned to please Sonia, given her record and what she did for you, than to avoid offending Gareth. You know what I feel about him. Slimy toad. I hated that weekend we spent with them in Carcassonne, every minute of it. The way he treated Suzanne was so embarrassing, the way he spoke to her, I mean. I couldn’t understand how you’ve been such good friends with him for so long. It’s different between men, I suppose. I wouldn’t trust him an inch.’

  Charles was well aware of her feelings about Gareth. ‘He’s good at his job, always has been.’

  ‘Maybe that says something about the job.’ She smiled and put her hand on his arm. ‘I don’t mean that. Well, only half. I’m sure you’re good at it too and you’re not like Gareth. So far as I know.’

  Charles wasn’t so sure. He had always felt that he and Gareth had quite a lot in common, at least in the professional sphere. Their assumptions, judgements and instincts were usually close enough to dispense with explanation, itself suggestive of some deeper commonality that he preferred to leave unexamined, for the time being at least.

  Sarah smiled again. ‘Anyway, it’s my turn now. I have a dinner agenda item too.’ She had that day spent thirty minutes with an MI5 desk officer as a result of Michael Dunton’s request to Charles. ‘At desk level MI5 seem more worried about Daniel than Michael suggested to you. She – the woman who came to see me – said he’s left the mosque near where they live and has joined a small breakaway one, every member of which has at some time or other been suspected of plotting or aspiring to do something awful. One of them is a Guantanamo graduate, picked up in Afghanistan doing alleged charity work, apparently, and released a couple of years ago. Since when they believe he’s re-engaged with his dodgy charity work. They don’t have a mosque as such; they meet in each other’s houses or flats, about half a dozen of them. They have a self-appointed imam who has already served time under the Prevention of Terrorism Act on a conspiracy charge. The police wanted to get him for something more serious but that would have meant a lot more surveillance at a time when resources were very stretched and they didn’t want to risk him committing some awful atrocity that they missed. So they went for disruption.

  ‘Well, it now appears that the imam and my beloved godson are pretty thick with each other and she wanted to know whether I thought Daniel was recruitable as a source on the rest of the group. None of the others is remotely recruitable, apparently. I rather got the impression she’d like us to recruit him for them, though she didn’t actually say so in so many words. I said this was all much more your sort of judgement than mine and I’d talk to you about it, since you know him too. I also said we’d try to get the happy couple round for dinner soon, which we ought to do anyway. Then you can write a report for MI5. I said you’d be very happy to do that. So, diaries, dates.’ She was smiling as she took her phone from her handbag, then took Charles’s pocket diary from the drawer where he kept his wallet and credit cards and put it on the table before him. ‘When will you get round to using electronic diaries? You must drive them mad in your office.’

  ‘First thing that happens when I get in in the morning is that Jenny grabs my diary and puts any new entries on screen. So both diaries are always up to date. Much more reliable than trusting me to do it.’

  ‘But why use a paper diary at all when you’ve got your phone and laptop? Such a duplication of effort.’

  ‘I like my diary.’

  ‘You just like being awkward and getting attention.’

  Gareth’s absence meant there was time for another session with Sonia before Charles confronted him. Not wanting to give the impression even to his private office that there was anything untoward, he arranged another out-of-office briefing, this time over an evening pizza at home in Cowley Street.

  ‘Since Swinbrook I’ve been through all the Timber Wolf write-ups again,’ said Sonia. ‘I’ve also asked Cheltenham for a printout of his cyber footprint. As with all of us, it’s much bigger and more densely populated than you’d think. Gets around, does our Timber Wolf.

  ‘Aged forty-seven, born in s’Hertogenbosch, father a lawyer, mother a teacher, educated locally, then at university in Nijmegen where he read law. Then he somehow got a place at ENA, you know, the French academy for administrators through which the entire French elite perpetuates itself. Then the Dutch foreign service and Geneva where he met Gareth, also a number of other of our people and the Foreign Office’s. Next he’s posted to Brussels as part of the Dutch mission to the EU, then he resigns and joins the EU itself. His Brussels contacts are many, as you might imagine, but interestingly they don’t appear to include any of the current EU negotiating team who are so regularly indiscreet with him, according to Gareth.’

 

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