“How?”
Thatcher lowered her voice. “You may have heard the rumors that if we win, I’ll be offered Health. It would be helpful to have a friend who works at the coalface and not just go on attending endless meetings with experts who have three degrees and no hands-on experience.”
“I’d be delighted to help in any way I can,” said Emma, flattered by the suggestion.
“Thank you,” said Margaret. “And I know it’s asking rather a lot, but it might prove useful in the long term to have an ally on the West Country area Conservative committee.”
A loud, continuous bell began clanging, almost deafening Emma. The door of the tearoom swung open and a man in a black jacket marched in and shouted, “Division!”
“Back to work, I’m afraid,” said Thatcher. “It’s a three-line whip, so I can’t ignore it.”
“What are you voting on?”
“No idea, but one of the whips will guide me into the right corridor. We were told there wouldn’t be any more votes today. This is what’s called an ambush: a vote on an amendment that we thought wasn’t controversial and would go through on the nod. I can’t complain, because if we were in opposition, we’d be doing exactly the same thing. It’s called democracy, but you already know my views on that subject. Let’s keep in touch, Emma. We Somerville girls must stick together.”
Margaret Thatcher stood up and shook hands with Emma before joining the stampede of members who were deserting the tearoom to make sure they reached the division lobbies within eight minutes, otherwise the door would be slammed in their faces.
Emma sank back into her chair, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted, and wondered if Margaret Thatcher had the same effect on everyone.
*
“Good of you to pop over, John. I wouldn’t have asked for a meeting at such short notice if there hadn’t been a development.”
“Not a problem, Alan, and thank you for the tip-off, because it allowed me to dig out the relevant file.”
“Perhaps you could start by bringing me up to date on Miss Brandt.”
Sir John Rennie, Director General of MI6, opened the file on the table in front of him. “Miss Brandt was born in Dresden in 1944. She joined the communist youth party at the age of sixteen, and, when she left school, went to the East German School of Languages to study Russian. After graduating, the Stasi recruited her as an interpreter at international conferences, which we assumed was no more than a front. But there’s no proof that she did much more than pass on fairly mundane information to her superiors. In fact, we were of the opinion that she’d fallen out of favor until the Giles Barrington affair.”
“Which I assume was a setup.”
“Yes. But who was being set up? Because she certainly wasn’t on our list of operatives who specialize in that sort of thing and, to be fair to Barrington, he’s steered well clear of any honey traps while on government trips behind the Iron Curtain, despite several opportunities.”
“Is it just possible that she really did fall for him?” asked the Cabinet Secretary.
“There’s nothing in your file to suggest you’re a romantic, Alan, so I’ll take your question at face value. It would certainly explain several incidents that have taken place since she arrived in the UK.”
“Such as?”
“We now know that Giles Barrington’s rescue of a damsel in distress from the other side of the Iron Curtain was actually nothing of the sort. In fact, it was a well-organized operation overseen and approved by Marshal Koshevoi.”
“Can you be sure of that?”
“Yes. When Brandt was attempting to cross the border with Barrington by bus, she was questioned by a young officer who nearly blew the whole operation. He was posted to Siberia a week later. That was what caused us to suspect they’d always wanted her to cross the border, although it’s just possible she only fell in with their plans because she really did want to escape.”
“What a devious mind you have, John.”
“I’m head of MI6, Alan, not the Boy Scouts.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Nothing concrete. However, at a recent meeting Brandt had with her handler in Truro, our observer reported that Pengelly’s body language suggested he wasn’t at all pleased with her. Which isn’t surprising, because one of our double agents recently passed some information to her that Pengelly would certainly have reported to his masters back in Moscow, and I can tell you he didn’t, which means she didn’t.”
“That’s a risky game she’s playing. It won’t take them long to work out she isn’t keeping her side of the bargain.”
“Agreed. And once they do, she’ll be on the next flight back to East Berlin, never to be heard of again.”