Chapter Five: Calling in a Debt
It's a long way from Kampala to Kensington. Gabi — who had become Marjaana Järvinen the moment she crossed the border into Uganda — is feeling the chill of an English springtime that can't make up its mind whether to push yet more leaves out on the trees or hunker down against a blast of wind that feels like it's come all the way from the Urals. When she'd left Kampala, it had been a balmy 28 degrees Celsius; here, it veers between thirteen and twenty-two. One minute it's pouring with rain, the next the sun comes out and everything warms up. No wonder the English have this obsession about the weather; they seem to have more of it than most places.
There is one advantage of her relocation: she is able to move about in London without anyone noticing her. No longer the pale skinned female in an area where that is as unusual as a polar bear on the savannahs of Kenya, she blends in effortlessly now. Her short brown wavy hair suits her, making her look younger than she has in years.
It helps her mission. The open spaces around Holland Park give her plenty of opportunity to size up the challenge facing her without attracting attention. It isn't everyday work, breaking into the home of peers of the realm, Lady Elizabeth and her husband, Lord Charles Smallwood, particularly when the former warrants a close protection officer from the Metropolitan Police. The presence of a teenage daughter, The Honorable Alicia Smallwood, could have added an unnecessary complication but thankfully, she is away, a pupil at a boarding school in Kent.
Marjaana is taking her time getting to know the family's London house on Addison Road. During the first day, she was a nanny pushing a pram down one side of the street and then back up the other. She had been amused to find that she wasn't the only nanny doing this; the area is well enough off that such an old-fashioned sight is not unusual. Number 76, the home of the Smallwoods, is one of eleven Georgian houses on the west side of the street which is a line-up of all double-fronted detached homes, most of which have had extensions and garages built on without ruining the architecture's intrinsic sense of proportion and scale. There is money here, but it is held in check by a sense of refined society. It's a bit like the English upper-class, the Finn decides: understated appreciation of cool lines and classical taste. The occupants must have been horrified when the nouveau riche shopkeepers of one of England's most famous department stores had built Peacock House across the street: it's a nineteenth century extravaganza complete with turreted towers, a dome and flash enamel tiling on the outside walls.
The second and third days of observation are easier. By then, she'd sussed out the fact that no fewer than four of the eleven houses are undergoing some form of construction or refurbishment. Today her disguise comes in the form of a hi-viz safety jacket, a hard hat, coveralls with a construction company logo, and a tripod with a Steinberg System automatic level which gives her the chance to perform all the measurements she needs: distances, angles, heights of walls, fences, and surveillance equipment. She blows off the only person curious enough to question her presence—a construction site manager three doors down from the Smallwood's residence—by telling him she's been hired by the local council to make sure that all the construction of the houses is not causing subsidence of the road and pavements. He leaves her alone after that.
As the Chair of the Parliamentary Intelligence Oversight Committee, Lady Smallwood has had her home kitted out by MI5. Marjaana breathes a sigh of relief as soon as she spots the obvious signs. She knows the equipment well enough; she may have been a freelancer, but the equipment used on any operation for the British had to meet their standards. The only more recent innovation she's been able to spot is the inclusion of four swivelling cameras in the birdboxes that have been put in the two trees screening the front of the house. The tripod gives her an opportunity to swap out the auto-level and replace it with a thermal imaging camera.
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Once back in a dingy bedsit less than a mile away, she has time to view the footage and sketch a rough floorplan and an outline the movement of various people in the house. The camera she has now installed in the fence of Peacock House gives her a clear view of car traffic in and out of the house, and she is relieved to see that the cleaners and cook are not live-in, nor does the Met's close protection officer stay at the house after he sees her in.
She is also grateful that the House of Lords appears to be taking a great deal of Lord Smallwood's time; a quick check of Hansard online shows he is leading the opposition in a committee of the whole that is considering transport planning legislation. It means this week he is regularly eating dinner at the House of Lords and not returning to the residence until nearly midnight.
The fewer people home, the better. The conversation she needs to have with Lady Smallwood must not be overheard or interrupted. She makes a phone call to Lady Smallwood's parliamentary office.
"Are you her diary secretary?" She asks the question in a New Jersey accent that brings back memories of her Mary Saunders days. She'd taken pleasure in burning that particular passport, lest it mean that the man who gave it to her could find her again.
The woman in the Parliamentary Office is persuaded by Marjaana that she is a US State Department analyst who is transiting through London briefly, and who would love to have a chance to speak with Lady Smallwood on the advice of a mutual acquaintance, who happens to be high up in the National Security Agency. "Would it be possible to just have a few minutes on the phone with her tonight? I'm at Heathrow waiting for my flight, so is there a time I should call?"
When she ends the call, she knows where and when her target will be coming home to Holland Park; it is always surprising how gullible a PA can be when you know all the right buttons to push. It crosses her mind that Lady Smallwood would be rather easy to assassinate. That sort of thought comes to mind a lot less these days, now that she's no longer in the business of such work. Old habits die hard.
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Entry is not difficult. Once the staff leave, the house will be empty for the next hour. Marjaana avoids the back garden and alleyway security lights by using the next-door neighbour's garden, accessed from Holland Villas Road which runs parallel to Addison Road. The houses on that street have the basic home alarm systems by the way of security precautions, so it's easy to use Number 74's garden to get close. Up onto their garage roof, she then tosses a small hook onto the eaves of Number 76 and then swings across behind and above the motion sensor that lights the path at the front of the Smallwood residence. Why don't people ever think of testing how secure someone's residence really is? Perhaps Lady Smallwood is one of those women who believe they're invincible. The arrogance of those with wealth and power.
Her contacts on the inside of MI5 don't know about Marjaana's true identity, nor her past role with AGRA. To them, the Finn is just an occasionally useful source of intel and humint about what's going on in the Central African Republic, a sort of sideline to her work with the UNHCR. She, however, has worked those contacts to the limit, nicking passwords and using them to gain access to the systems at Thames House. As a result, she knows that Lady Smallwood is considered a moderate security risk, given her closeness to the current Prime Minster, and that her husband is even more so due to some youthful indiscretions.
Marjaana uses the cable to climb up to a second-floor sash window. It is wired as part of the house alarm system but it is a simple matter of running a by-pass cable to keep the connection secure while she opens it far enough to slip into a small room. Once inside what appears to be Lord Smallwood's study, she uses a handheld scanner to identify the presence of the internal security devices. That the scanner is not on MI5's procurement list, but rather on Mossad's, is a bonus; it is unlikely to leave any electronic signature of its own. It had been one of the tools of her trade left stashed with a private storage company south of Waterloo, one of a half dozen such caches hidden around the world. AGRA had always kept one eye peeled for the latest gadgets.
Avoiding the interior security hot spots, she makes her way to the conservatory kitchen, sitting herself down in the comfortable lounger chair and waiting in the dark. She's used a local jamming device to stymie the camera in the corner that the scanner had spotted. It makes her wonder if Lady Smallwood knows that she is being bugged by her the very intelligence service that she is supposed to be overseeing.
Thirty-seven minutes later, when she hears the electronic gates at the driveway being activated, she switches on her own phone and its app, using a frequency that isn't blocked by the jammer. She watches the camera feed from across the street as Lady Smallwood's chauffeur drives the Rolls into the driveway. She gets out of the car with the close protection officer who sees her up the steps to the front door. He opens the door, but doesn't bother to come in. Marjaana doesn't need to see him in order to know that he will have given the front house alarm panel a quick check and then assumed that the place was secure. As he says goodnight, Marjaana is grateful that most officers are rather predictably unimaginative.
The chauffeur is equally discreet once Lady Smallwood is in the house. The camera shows him parking the roller in the garage. From her previous surveillance she knows that he will go from the garage downstairs to the lower ground floor flat where he lives. She can rely on the English class system keeping the staff away from their masters. The fact that the chauffeur is on the payroll of MI5 is something that Marjaana is confident that Lady Smallwood does not know, nor the extent of the internal cameras designed to keep an eye on the couple. For once, that works in her favour: the man won't be able to replace the jammed camera until his mistress is safely out of the house, so Marjaana knows that she will get the privacy she needs for this conversation.
She waits as the lights go on down the hall, and she hears the clatter of keys being dropped on the console table. Marjaana imagines Lady Smallwood glancing in the mirror over it, and perhaps noticing how tired she is. The woman has had a busy day, if her secretary is to be believed. The tap of court heels gives a soundtrack to her progress down the polished wooden floor to the back of the house. The new extension had added a very modern kitchen with a garden room. As the lights are switched on, Lady Smallwood walks straight to the refrigerator, opening it and taking out a bottle of white wine. She thumbs the Vacuvin top off with one hand while opening the cupboard above to take out a Riedel glass. Marjaana watches as the glass is filled to the halfway mark and then, after a momentary hesitation, to the three-quarters full level. She puts the bottle back in the fridge and then comes around the kitchen island, heading for the chair in which Marjaana is sitting.
The tall blonde manages two steps in that direction before stuttering to a halt. "Who the hell are you?"
Marjaana raises her hands away from her black-clad body and says, "The answer to that depends on you, Lady Smallwood."
"How did you get in here? Get out of my house, or I will call the police." She backs up the two steps and puts the wine glass down without shifting her eyes off the intruder.
"No need for that," Marjaana says, waving her hands to show they are empty. "No weapon; I'm not here to hurt you, just need to talk. If you have a problem with that, just shout to the chauffeur. You do you know he works for MI5? Don't bother to wave in the direction of that corner, to the left. That's where I found his camera, which I've deactivated."
"What are you talking about? What camera?" Lady Smallwood looks over into the corner of the room.
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? I'm not kidding; you are being observed by the very people you are supposed to be monitoring."
"Answer my question now, or the next thing I do is call the police."
"You can try. I've put a signal jammer in this room so we could have a talk in private; it works on most phone and wi-fi signals, too. To answer your question, you knew me as Rosemary, the R in AGRA. And you are Ammo*, the person who authorised that operation."
"That operation failed and all involved were killed."
Marjaana giggles and waves. "Surprise! I survived."
"We've never set eyes on each other before. How do I know you are telling the truth?"
"How many people do you know who would have the skill-set to get into this house despite your house alarm system and the MI5 surveillance to organise this little tête-à-tête? Oh, and who also knows that it was you who authorised the operation in the first place? Sort of narrows the field, doesn't it?"
"It was three and a half years ago. What's taken you so long?"
Pleased that Smallwood is being quick off the mark, Marjaana answers, "Given that it was someone in the UK intelligence services who betrayed the operation, I've been careful to cover my tracks."
After the initial shock of seeing an intruder, Lady Smallwood is clearly becoming less and less fazed by the idea of a stranger getting into her house and talking about secret matters. Marjaana watches her make a decision.
The English woman picks up her glass of wine again, and walks closer. "Get out of my chair, and sit over there," she commands, gesturing to a wicker bench. "It's been a hellish day at the office and I have no desire to make it worse."
Marjaana obliges her and is amused that, as soon as she sinks back into the lounger, Lady Smallwood kicks off her shoes, unpins her upswept long hair which falls across her shoulders and puts her feet up. She then takes a long sip from the wine. When that is swallowed and savoured for a moment, she commands, "You've gone to a lot of trouble to get in here. So, now that you're here, talk."
"It's taken me three years because I tried to put a lot of distance between me and what happened in Tbilisi. I got out alive, but the rest of my team didn't, thanks to someone at your end betraying us to the wrong people. I thought you might like to know that."
"How do you know it wasn't me?"
Marjaana smiles. "I've done my research. There is no motive that would make sense for you to do it. That said, someone in your circle did."
"If so, and you've tried to disappear, why are you taking the risk of talking to me now? And why now, of all times, cluttering up my conservatory at this hour of night?"
"Because I'm tired of running. I want out of the business. The person you knew as Rosemary is dead, and I intend to keep it that way. I want a new identity, new documentation and a nice, quiet life here in England. You're going to provide me with it, without telling anyone that I was that person you once employed."
The woman sitting across from her takes another sip from the wine. Marjaana has to hand it to her; she's a very cool operator.
"Tell me why I would go to the trouble of doing that? You don't work for us now, didn't work for us back then, either; that's the whole point of a freelancer—total deniability and no pension."
Marjaana tilts her head, looking at the woman with a slightly perplexed expression. "Where would you like me to start? Should I point out that it is in your best interests not to have the failure of that operation dragged out in public? I wouldn't have to do anything damaging to my own anonymity. The mere rumour that someone in your office is a mole who's selling operational secrets to third parties who are interested in thwarting British interests would be enough to damage you. That, and an explanation of what went belly-up when a British Ambassador was murdered in an abortive attempt to rescue her, are just the sort of information to be circulated in certain quarters of the intelligence community. I'm sure I don't have to paint the full picture of how that could be a career-limiting move."
That slightly snide dig earns her an icy smile. "Is that a threat or an attempt at blackmail?"
"Nothing so blatant. It's the truth. As is this—I would much rather negotiate a solution to both our problems than resort to anything that endangers either of us."
Before she can continue, Lady Smallwood raises a patrician eyebrow. "I'm not the one with the problem. Just how did you escape the betrayal? Your survival casts doubt on your innocence."
"I never said I was innocent; my work for you and other governments made sure of that. I survived the initial firefight and then made a pact with a devil to get out of Georgia before the locals could capture me. That devil extracted a service from me in exchange for safe passage from Tbilisi to Moscow. That this person was also in on the betrayal of my team is something I've come to realise is a problem—for you as well as me."
Lady Smallwood puts her glass down on the side table and her feet back on the floor. She sits up, a sharp, almost predatory look in her eyes. "Tell me about this devil."
Marjaana purses her lips. "He's not British, not American, and I am sure he isn't Russian or Georgian either. He's not… anything specific. He doesn't talk; he's had a complete laryngectomy."
Lady Smallwood's eyes widen at that revelation. "You… had contact with this person?"
Marjaana nods. She decides to say very little more about this man because clearly, he is a person of interest to the woman. That might prove useful at a later date, so she decides to bank it.
"From a distance, surely?" Lady Smallwood continues, her incredulity evident.
Interesting, that comment. It suggests to Marjaana that one of the reasons Hawking Man had used her to help him disappear is that people like Lady Smallwood know who he is, and that creates problems for him. She decides to obfuscate—tell some truths, just not all of the truth, and deflect attention. "Yeah, he used some sort of voice synthesiser during our Skype audio conversation."
"And he said he was responsible for the failure of the operation?"
Marjaana nods.
"What service did he require from you in exchange for your escape?"
"I carried a package for him over the border into Russia."
"What was it?" There is real urgency in her question.
Marjaana shrugs and decides to lie. "Don't know. It was sealed. And it was taken out of my care a day after we crossed the border."
"By whom?"
"A hospital ambulance driver." She has to be careful here. Even though it was three years ago, it is possible that Lady Smallwood's contacts in the intelligence community could make enquiries.
Her suspicions are confirmed when the woman asks, "Where, exactly?"
"Nalchik, in the Kabardino-Balkaria Republic in the Russian Federation."
"Shape of the package? Size? Weight?"
"Does it matter?"
"It could."
Marjaana extends the lie. "A sealed metal cannister, similar to a thermos flask, disguised in my pack; I was on an organised trekking expedition from Ushba to Elbrus. The container had been welded shut."
Lady Smallwood digests the description. "No idea about the contents? Liquid or solid?"
"It was no heavier than you would expect from a thermos. It could have been completely full of liquid—though I heard no sloshing—or a gas, for all I could tell."
The blonde nods, almost to herself, and Marjaana files that away, too. So, British intelligence is worried about something that shape and size, likely a liquid rather than gas. She will need to ponder that and how it might link to Hawking Man. "So, we're negotiating. I've just given you something valuable; what can you do for me?"
"We're not in the business of providing safe havens for freelancers. One could easily become an embarrassment rather than an asset."
"I want to be neither. I want an ID and documentation of a British national; then, I will disappear into normality. If you need me to deal with something that might come to light later about the voiceless man, then you'll know where to find me."
"Sounds tame for someone with your job experience."
"Tame is good. In fact, it's ideal. I'm ready to be normal. Settle down, find a man, raise a family. You have a daughter of your own; you know the pull." She looks around the kitchen. "My needs are more modest than yours. I don't aspire to this standard of living, and don't need to appear on anyone's budget. In fact, it's a pre-condition. No one apart from you must know."
Lady Smallwood leans back in the lounger and lifts her feet back onto it. "Funny, you're the second person who's said that to me today."
"Should I care who the first one was?"
"Not really, but this may be a rather useful coincidence. I need someone who is totally off the books, not known by anyone in any capacity in the intelligence world, to do me a favour."
"I just told you, I'm no longer in the business."
"And what if I told you that is exactly what I need? I want a normal person to get close to a civilian, keep an eye on him."
Lady Smallwood laughs. "Not at all. He's an innocent without any ties to British or foreign intelligence. An ordinary English GP working at a surgery in south London."
"Why does an ordinary person warrant scrutiny?"
"He doesn't. However, he does need protection. You'd be more like a guardian angel. You can do that sort of thing, can't you? Not exactly demanding of someone with your skills. Get close, keep an eye on him. Make sure nothing nasty happens to him."
"Why would something nasty happen to an ordinary GP?"
She smiles and has another sip of the wine. When she's done, she answers, "I doubt anything of the kind will happen, no. But I was asked by someone who is doing me a favour to make sure that this GP gets on with his ordinary life by getting someone who is not part of the intelligence services to keep an eye on him."
"That's a more complicated chain of favours than I'd like. I told you; I want out of the game, not get tangled up in it more than I already am."
"I assure you that this is a favour to a friend rather than a proper covert operation. And you will be totally outside any intelligence service, just as you want. No one but me will know."
"Even so…" She can't help her scepticism, but maybe, just maybe this will work. "It sounds like serendipity."
"It does, doesn't it? Call me Elizabeth. If we are going to be in this little cabal of ours, it makes sense not to stand on ceremony."
Marjaana smiles. "Call me by whatever name you want, so long as the documentation is legal."
"It's a deal." Elizabeth gets up and goes to the fridge. "My husband won't be home for another hour. I'm assuming you'll join me in a glass? It's a rather unassuming Chablis."
"Love to; just the one, though. My exit from your second-floor window needs a clear head."
They raise a glass to one another in a wordless salute.
Author's Notes:
There is a general misunderstanding that Vivian Norbury was "Ammo" (even the bakerstreetwiki has it wrong). In fact, "Amo" is the Latin word for "Love" which is Lady Smallwood's code name and on the basis of that, Mycroft suspects her of being the traitor, once Sherlock tells him that the traitor used the code word which people misheard as "ammo". Sherlock meets Norbury at the Aquarium, where she confesses to being the one who sold state secrets that the British Ambassador to Georgia had uncovered, so she was the one who authorised the change of plan. She is the person who Mary referred to as "Just another voice on the phone, and a code word, Ammo [….] like ammunition." It was Norbury giving Amo's approval of the "last minute adjustment" in the AGRA rescue attempt that therefore ended in the death of the ambassador.