Provo

He had known her for five years, yet even now he would address her by her first name only if she so indicated, and then only in private.

‘Hello, Roddy.’ The Princess of Wales looked up at him. ‘Family jewels still there?’ There was a laugh on the face and a tease in the eyes.

‘Last time I looked, Ma’am.’

The City of London was still quiet. It was not quite seven in the morning, the summer heat already settling between the concrete and glass fascias of the office blocks and the sky a brilliant blue. An inbound Boeing 747 passed overhead, the sun glinting on it, a white police Granada cruised slowly north along Old Broad Street and a dustcart trundled south.

Gerard Gray turned into the head offices of Barclays International, showed his ID to the security guards in the foyer and took the fast lift to his office. By 7.15 he had read the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal, circling in red items he would follow up on later, by 7.40 he had speed-read the news and financial sections of the other quality dailies, including the New York Times, the European edition of the Herald Tribune and the Irish Times, as well as the city pages of the tabloids. By eight, when the next members of the department arrived, he had spoken to Tokyo and the Middle East.

Gray was in his early thirties, tall and well-dressed, with a first-class honours degree in economics from the LSE. Eighteen months previously he had been appointed Departmental Director, a promotion marking him for the fast stream. He lived in an apartment in one of the new blocks overlooking the Thames in the Wapping area of the old London Docklands, walking to and from the office each morning and evening. Despite his apparent acceptance of the life-style of a City executive he drank little; each morning before work he ran the Docklands section of the London marathon, and he played squash regularly. There was little trace of his Irish origins about him, the slightest hint of an accent creeping into his voice only when he chose, and he explained the scar which ran down his left shoulder by saying that he had been involved in a motor accident.

The morning was busy: at nine he held his first meeting with the management consultancy team brought in from Price Waterhouse to advise on information access to clients associated with the oil-producing areas, at one he met them for lunch in the executive dining suite. The only new member of the team, to whom he had been introduced that morning, was a systems analyst, Philipa Walker. He guessed she was in her late twenties or early thirties. She was tall, dark-haired, slim and attractive, and dressed to match her position: lightweight dark blue pinstriped jacket with padded shoulders and matching skirt. When she talked it was in the fluent and efficient jargon he associated with the Price Waterhouse team; when she had nothing to contribute she listened carefully.

At four, when Gray checked the pound and the FT index, the only movement – and then only a minor flutter – seemed to have been in the electronics and research sector where a company named New World Electronics had been taken over at a rock-bottom price by one of the Japanese giants which dominated the field. In the three hours since the announcement the value of its shares had quadrupled. Not that it would affect the world, Gray thought, most people probably wouldn’t notice. Somebody might have made a killing, though.

He left the City, walked quickly to his flat, changed, collected the BMW from the parking bay below the block and cleared London before the main rush hour reduced traffic on the A12 to a standstill. By 5.45 he had passed Brentwood, just before 6.15 he pulled into the yard of the farm lost in the flatlands of the Essex countryside midway between Chelmsford and Colchester.

The farmer was standing at the kitchen door; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, he still had his boots on and his cloth cap was pushed to the back of his head. He shook Gray’s hand and led him inside.

‘Too nice an evening for London. Thought I’d get some practice in.’ Gray accepted the mug of tea which the man’s wife poured. ‘Sorry not to let you know.’

‘No problem. Danny’ll pull for you.’

Fifteen minutes later Gray and the farmer’s son walked through the farmyard to the clay pigeon shoot in the field behind the house.

‘How fast?’

‘Fast as you can.’

He waited. ‘Pull.’

The clays spun into the air.

Not bad, he thought as they walked back to the house. At least he wasn’t rusty. The drive back to London was relaxed. It would have been a good evening for a river trip down the Thames, he suddenly thought, a good evening to have invited Philipa Walker to dinner.

The following morning he was at his desk at seven; at ten he met the Price Waterhouse team. The day before Walker had been dressed like a city woman, almost severe, with her hair drawn back. Today, he noted, she wore a dress – casual though expensive – and her hair was looser, hanging round her shoulders. The agenda was tightly scheduled – Price Waterhouse, after all, was costing him a great deal of money—each of the management team leaving when his area of expertise had been covered. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps the way he structured the meeting, that the last item concerned computers and the last member of the team consulted was the woman called Walker. The discussion ended, he thanked her and gathered his papers together.

‘I was wondering if you’d like a drink after work.’ The invitation was either formal or informal, whichever way she chose to take it.

‘Perhaps. Could be we’ll still be working.’

Win some, lose some, Gray thought.

‘Where?’ She smiled as he held the door open for her. ‘Just in case.’

‘Gordon’s Wine Bar in Villiers Street. A hundred yards up on the right from Embankment tube station.’

‘What time?’

He shrugged. ‘Five-fifteen, five-thirty.’

When he left at five the traffic was too busy to bother with a cab. He walked to Tower Hill and caught the underground to the Embankment. Villiers Street, sloping up towards the Strand and Trafalgar Square, was hectic, newspaper stands and flower stalls along the pavement and commuters rushing into the station itself. The first building on the right was dilapidated, a sandwich bar next to it, a lamp hanging from the corner and the name above the door. He went in, then down the stairs into the cellar. It was an odd place for a drink after the sanitized cleanliness of the City bank, he had thought the first time he had come, almost as if he was descending into the bowels of a London which no longer existed. Fifteen stairs, he had counted them the second time he had come, either out of historic interest or because of his fascination with detail.

The room below was built round a central column of brick and wood, the varnish peeling off the wall panelling and the anaglypta paper above it faded and yellow, and covered with old newspaper front pages and photographs. The bar was to the left, a portrait of Winston Churchill on the right. Already it was getting busy. He bought a bottle of Pol Roger, asked for two glasses, and went to the room to the left of the bar. The area was more like a vault than a room, the walls and ceiling curved in a half-circle and the centre of the ceiling less than six feet high. The bricks were grimy, and the only illumination came from candles on the ramshackle tables. The chairs were rickety and the wax ran down the sides of the candles.

He chose one of the three tables still empty, sat facing the entrance to the first room and poured himself a glass. Ten minutes later he saw Philipa Walker looking through the crowd and the half-light.

‘Glad you could make it.’ He stood up and held the chair for her.

‘Amazing place.’ She took the glass he poured for her, then left her briefcase under the table and walked round, easing between the people and looking at the newspaper pages framed on the walls.

The Daily Mirror of Friday, 21 November 1947: ‘A Day of Smiles – The wedding of Princess Elizabeth.’

The London Evening News of Wednesday, 6 February 1952. The photograph of George VI was in the centre of the page, the headline above: ‘The King dies in his sleep at Sandringham.’

The Daily Mail of Wednesday, 3 June 1953: ‘The journey to the abbey begins.’ The main photograph was of the coronation procession beginning its journey from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey, three smaller photographs to the left. The first was of two small children looking through a window, a nanny behind them, the second was of the girl, the third of the boy. Prince Charles watching his mother.

She pushed her way back to the table and sat down. ‘This place is incredible. I never even knew it existed.’

He smiled and refilled her glass.

At 6.30 they left the bar, walked to Charing Cross pier, and caught a ferry to Greenwich, eating at a French restaurant close to the river.

Philipa Walker had a Bachelor’s degree in modern languages from the University of Sussex and a Master’s in business systems, analysis and design from City University – the information came easily as they discussed jobs and backgrounds. She had worked with a number of companies, specializing in fourth-generation computer languages before setting up her own consultancy. Her father was a retired solicitor, both her parents were still alive and living in Orpington. She had a brother, also a solicitor, who was married with two children.

At ten they left Greenwich and caught the ferry back to Charing Cross.

‘Last drink?’

She shook her head. ‘I still have some work to do.’

They climbed the steps.

‘I was wondering what you were doing this weekend.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘There’s a house party at Hamble. Dinner on Saturday evening, sail over to the Isle of Wight on Sunday.’ He supposed he knew what she was thinking. ‘No pressure, plenty of single bedrooms.’

She waved down a cab. I’ll think about it. It was in the way she turned, the way she looked back at him as she gave the cab driver her address.

Dublin was warm. Conlan crossed the Liffy and turned along Bachelors Walk. Each evening, when possible, he strolled in the city centre, took a drink in one of the pubs in the spider’s web of back streets and alleyways round Custom House and the Quays. Establish a pattern, have an identifiable and predictable routine which the Special Branch tails would come to believe was normal, so that only if he did something outside that pattern would they become suspicious. Then build into it the tiny things – the contacts and the back doors out – which they would not notice.

If, of course, the SB knew about him. Even now he was uncertain whether his role in the Movement and his membership of the Army Council were known to the authorities, but he knew he could not assume otherwise. The surveillance on him so that the authorities could pick him up when they wanted, but also to protect him if London changed the rules and sent the SAS over the border to lift him or, in the euphemism he knew they used, to ‘negotiate’ him.

The lounge of Bachelors Inn was quiet and the floor freshly washed, so that it smelt of cold. Conlan confirmed there were no tails either in front or behind, ordered a Guinness and took it to the table in the corner. The bar was almost empty, a couple sitting against the opposite wall and the priest by himself, though there was nothing about his clothing or general appearance to indicate his calling.

Conlan pulled the ashtray in front of him, took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, shook the last cigarette from the packet and lit it, dropped the empty packet in to the ashtray, then settled back and enjoyed his drink.

The meeting with Sleeper would be the last until the job was done. If the Army Council finally agreed, he was aware. If he continued to enjoy Doherty’s support. And if Quin did not succeed in screwing him.

He downed the Guinness and went to the bar. As he did so the couple stood and began to walk out, past his table. For one moment Conlan froze, thought he had been wrong, thought that neither he nor the priest had spotted the tail. Behind him, he was aware, McGinty had taken a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and would stretch across and take the ashtray from Conlan’s table if the couple showed any interest in it. The couple thanked the barman and left.

Conlan asked for another Guinness, returned to the table and reflected on the irony that it had been Quin who had given Sleeper his name, on the historical quirk which had given Sleeper his cover. Even the smallest mistake on either of their parts, even the most inadvertent slip of the tongue on his own, and the essential cover which Sleeper enjoyed would be destroyed.

It was all part of the game. The Brits and the Provisionals playing their game against each other, himself and Quin playing their game within the Army Council, and the Brits presumably playing their own internal games even though they were supposed to be on the same side. Everyone making their own rules and everyone applying their own assumptions and prejudices to the rules they assumed the other side would be making.

Put a team into London and the Brits automatically looked for them in traditional Irish areas such as Kilburn and Camden Town. Put in an active service unit, an ASU, and the Brits automatically assumed they would be working-class, with manners and covers to match and a safe house in the East End. Put in a shooter and the Brits would automatically look for an Irish accent.

Put in a sleeper, however, English university degree, impeccable qualifications and matching accent, and the cover of an expensive apartment and a job in the City ...

He savoured the last of the drink, then thanked the barman and left.

After ten minutes the priest lit a cigarette – the last in the packet – then leaned across and took the ashtray from the table at which Conlan had been sitting. There had been no ashtray on his table – apparently by chance – and the cigarette he now smoked was the same type as the packet in the ashtray. As he drank he played with the packet; when he stood to leave the packet in the ashtray was his, and Conlan’s – with its instructions to the priest and the coded message to Sleeper, to be placed in the personal column of the Irish Times — was in his pocket.

Two mornings later Liam Conlan packed the fishing rods and gear into the estate car, taking his time in case he was under surveillance, waved goodbye to his family, and drove the four and a half hours to the cabin set fifty yards back from the shore of Lough Corrib, in the west of Ireland. He had been a fisherman since boyhood, and the trips to Kilmore were as established a part of his routine as the strolls along O’Connell Street and the drinks round Custom House or the Quays. By one o’clock he was sitting, seemingly contented, the rod in his hand, the peak of his cap pulled down and the collar of his windcheater turned up, so that his face could barely be seen. At seven he returned to the cabin; thirty minutes later the smell of cooking and the sound of singing drifted from its door and across the lough. At ten, the dusk gone and the half-moon shining, the priest who had taken his place walked to the lough, the peak of Conlan’s cap pulled down over his face, the collar of Conlan’s windcheater turned up, and his hands stuffed into the pockets of Conlan’s trousers. By the time he returned to the cabin Conlan was half-way to the location eighty miles away, the priest’s car running smoothly and his own still parked by the side of the cabin at Kilmore. In the old days, he supposed, it would have been a fishing boat, snuggled against a quay, the lights dimmed and the men hurrying in the dark. Tomorrow morning it would be a private airstrip and a Cessna 208A, Pratt and Whitney single turboprop engine and 1100-mile range.

Gerard Gray woke at five, ran his circuit of Docklands, showered, had a light breakfast, and was at work by seven as usual. The first newspaper he read was the FT and the fourth was the Irish Times. At 9.30 he rang the internal extension used by the Price Waterhouse team and asked for Philipa Walker.

‘I’m sorry. Something’s come up and I can’t make the weekend party we talked about.’

‘It’s all right, I couldn’t have come anyway.’

‘Another time, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps.’

The following morning – Saturday – Gray slept late, rising at seven, and running two Docklands circuits. By nine he was back at the flat. The day was hot and the sky a brilliant blue. He showered, skimmed the newspapers, including the personal columns, and left the flat.

Roddy Fairfax left Onslow Square at nine, taking the M4 west towards Bristol, the route already busy with holiday traffic. At junction 17 he left the motorway at the Cirencester exit, bypassed Malmesbury, then swung on to the Tetbury road. At 11.30 precisely he stopped the 944 at the gates which marked the beginning of the driveway to Highgrove. A police Land-Rover and two men, neither apparently armed though he assumed both were, were at the gates.

‘Yes, sir.’ The policeman bent over the car, the second standing back.

‘Fairfax, I’m expected.’ He showed his army ID card and knew they had already checked the registration number of the Porsche.

‘Thank you, sir.’ The policeman stood back and waved him through.

The driveway was short, curving right to the house, a number of other cars already parked. He just had time to pull the bag from the boot when his host appeared, the two boys beside him.

Initially at least, the Prince had always considered Fairfax one of his wife’s circle, and her friends were not necessarily those he would choose for himself, just as his friends were not those she would choose. Fairfax was different, however. He was good company, talked not just about the London scene, or whatever the word was nowadays, but about other matters, politics and pollution. In the long and difficult months before the couple had separated Fairfax had refused to take sides, arguing forcefully and honestly with both of them. Even now, perhaps especially now, he remained friendly and loyal to both. And Fairfax was a soldier. Three tours in Northern Ireland, two of them at times when things weren’t too pretty.

‘Good to see you, Roddy.’ Charles came down the steps and shook his hand. ‘Glad you could make it for the weekend.’

An hour earlier, Gerard Gray had stopped outside the flats in Maida Vale. It was correct that there were single beds at the river party at Hamble, but there were also double ones, plus king size, and a water bed if you organized yourself properly. And if Philipa Walker was not sure about it, then he was better with someone who was.

Philipa Walker had woken on the first ring of the alarm at five. By 7.30 she was at Dover’s Western Docks. She bought a return ticket to Ostend, paying cash, and caught the 0810 jetfoil, arriving at 1050 local time, taking the 1101 train to Antwerp, changing at Ghent. For the next hour she surveyed the restaurant tucked inconspicuously in the corner of the Handschoenmarkt, below the western façade of the cathedral. Only when she was satisfied that no surveillance was in place did she go in.

The restaurant was still full and the waiters busy. As she entered Liam Conlan rose to greet her.

The first and last cover, he thought, the single item he had driven deep into his subconscious as the foundation for the rest of his subterfuge. The one discipline above all others which he had fought to impose upon himself: in his discussions with Doherty, in his briefings with the Army Council, even in his sleep.

That he should always refer to Sleeper as him.

3

The target codenamed PinMan, Conlan had said, a member of the British royal family. The operation within the next twelve months. She should aim to wrap up her preliminary research as soon as possible, and communicate her decisions through the system of codes and dead letter drops already in use. The Army Council knew of the operation, but had not yet given its final approval. He had been forced to inform the Council of the existence of Sleeper, Conlan had also told her, but had given no details.

Walker’s flat, on the third floor of a Victorian terrace close to Primrose Hill in north London, was that of a successful and independent professional woman. It consisted of two bedrooms, a large split-level lounge with a marble fireplace and bay windows opening on to a balcony, a smaller room off it which she used as an office, plus a kitchen and bathroom. She had bought it when the property market was still rising and redesigned it herself. Except for the study the flat bordered on the luxurious without being ostentatious: the furniture, decorations and lighting were modern; yet the hard edges were softened by the small personal touches she had added – a wall-hanging from Turkey, an icon from Russia, an Impressionist-style painting she had commissioned from an art student after seeing his work on the boarded-up window of a shop unit standing empty in a new shopping precinct. The study, by contrast, was cold and clinical – a world of computers and computer logic, shelves of manuals and software, the black ash desk facing the window but the sunlight from outside cut off by a blind, and the lighting efficient and functional.

In many ways Philipa Walker’s two lives were similarly organized. Just as there was no indication of the austerity of the study in the rest of the flat, so there was no indication in her everyday life of the second into which she occasionally disappeared. Her day-to-day existence was also divided and equally organized: she had professional colleagues and personal friends, the two rarely coinciding. Her affairs were seldom casual ones, almost always lasting more than six months; the most recent had ended two months before. It was a life-style Conlan had encouraged. Build a cover, he had told her the day she had committed herself, establish yourself so that no one will ever suspect. Continue the life to which her own background automatically pointed and she would be so immune she would be untouchable. Establish a career that allowed her to take time off, so that no one would even notice when she slipped from what had become her cover into the sub-world to which he had introduced her.

In the strictest definition, Walker was not a sleeper. A sleeper is an agent recruited from or infiltrated into an organization and required to remain inoperative until activated. Walker’s role was neither of these, yet in a less traditional sense her background provided everything a sleeper could require: layer upon layer of cover built up over the years – in her case a background provided by the very establishment she now opposed.

She locked the flat and walked to the top of Primrose Hill. In the distance, glistening white, were the modern tower blocks of the City; in the middle ground Oxford Street; just below the hill, less than three hundred yards away, was London Zoo. Sometimes she would lie awake and pick up the faintest smells, reminders of those places her official passport said she had not visited. Sometimes – even at two or three in the morning – she would leave the flat and sit on the top of the hill, draw in the night air for a taste of those places. Occasionally, just occasionally, they would waft across the hill and drift through the window of the flat when she was making love. Then the images would come back to her: then she would slip into an almost subconscious memory of the places where she had executed the profession to which Conlan had led her. Not those where she had been trained. Rather, those where she put her craft into practice.

She returned to the flat, percolated coffee, poured herself a cup, and took it back into the study. It was 3.30 in the afternoon, the first children passing below the flat on their way home from school. The windows of the lounge were open and she could hear them laughing. It had been this time in the afternoon – the thought was not quite subconscious. Autumn going into winter, though, the smells of a new season and the first hint of cold ...