Liz Carlyle - 07 - The Geneva Trap Read Free Page A

Liz Carlyle’s name? He must have been posted in the UK at some stage – but even so how had he come across Elizabeth, and under her real name too? Let’s hope she can provide some answers, thought Fane. Because whatever lay behind the approach, it couldn’t be ignored. After the Cold War ended, relations with the Russian Intelligence Services had thawed momentarily but various events had turned the temperature frosty again. The Russians had reverted to their old tricks: it would be useful to know more about their operations, not least in Geneva.
    Fane buzzed his Secretary. ‘Could you do an urgent look up for me on Alexander Sorsky, Second Secretary at the Russian Trade Delegation in Geneva?’
    ‘Yes, Geoffrey,’ replied a youthful, female voice. Fane knew he could have retrieved the information he needed himself from the database on the terminal on his desk but he was set in his ways, and preferred hard copy on his desk, printed paper rather than a screen. He also liked having young Molly Plum bring the files in. She was sweet and very pretty, and young enough to be his daughter. Better still, she seemed slightly in awe of him, which was not an attitude he was inclined to try and change.
    As he waited, he stood at the window, looking out at the Thames, sparkling in a flash of spring sunshine, and thinking about the Cold War; recalling the efforts each side had made to infiltrate the other, and the deep satisfaction he and his colleagues had felt when the Soviet Union had collapsed and the game had seemed over.
    Molly came into the room, carrying the cup of tea he always had at this time of the afternoon. ‘The Swiss have reported Alexander Sorsky as suspected SVR, but they haven’t confirmed it. We have no other traces,’ she said as she handed him the cup and saucer.
    That was odd. It meant that not only had Sorsky never served in the UK but he also hadn’t crossed MI6’s radar anywhere else in the world. So how did the man know Liz Carlyle? Geneva had sent over a photograph, which Fane now examined. It was a low-resolution snap of a group of people; someone had drawn an arrow over the figure of Sorsky. He had unprepossessing features, was losing his hair, and in general looked more like a junior bureaucrat than an intelligence officer. Well, it took all sorts, as Fane knew. At least he’s not another bloody female, he thought grumpily, as he buzzed his intercom again and asked Molly to tell Liz Carlyle he wanted to come and see her.

Chapter 4
    Liz was sitting in a Eurostar train somewhere under the Channel. She had caught an early train so that she’d be back at her desk in good time to face the backlog of phone messages and emails that would have accumulated while she’d been away. But the train had been stationary for the last twenty minutes and, in the absence of any explanation, uneasy conversations had begun as people asked each other what they thought was happening.
    She’d gone to Paris to be with the man she had met more than a year ago, when an operation that had begun in Northern Ireland had unexpectedly taken her to France and close collaboration with Martin Seurat of the DGSE, the French Military Intelligence Service. The professional relationship had become something more, and they now spent most of their free time together. They had just passed a happy week, spending a couple of days staying at Martin’s flat in Paris, then going off to a small country hotel in the Loire, where spring was just arriving. Good food, good books to read, and each other’s company. It had been perfect. Until now.
    Three hours later Liz arrived at Thames House. The train had stop-started its way to St Pancras after a disembodied voice had explained that the one in front had broken down. She dropped her bag in the corner of her office and sat down at her desk with a sigh to face the rest of the day. She had just turned on her screen when the phone on her desk rang.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ said a chirpy female