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Authors: James Barrington
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entitled her to the official acronym ‘PA-C’. Perhaps predictably, she was known in the spacious corridors of Vauxhall Cross as ‘The Pack Horse’.
‘Yes, Mary?’ Gerald Stanway had recognized her voice immediately.
‘There’s a heads and deputy heads meeting in Conference Room 2 in fifteen minutes.’
Stanway glanced at the wall clock opposite his desk. ‘I’ll be there,’ he replied, then replaced the telephone handset and began clearing his desk. In Vauxhall Cross, the
avant-garde headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service on the south bank of the Thames, all offices operate a ‘clear desks’ policy. This means that no officer ever leaves his room
with papers of any description remaining in view. Everything, including desk diaries, have to be locked away in the officer’s personal safe.
Stanway glanced back at his desk for a final check before spinning the combination lock on the safe door. Then he sat down again, in front of the computer terminal, and systematically closed all
the open programs. When the display prompted for a username and password, he switched off the screen and left his office.
As Stanway walked in, he found Sir Malcolm Holbeche sitting at the head of the long table in the conference room. Two other heads of department followed him and, once all were seated, Holbeche
began.
‘This briefing,’ he stated, ‘is classified Top Secret, and no notes of any sort will be taken. Is that clear?’ The men seated around the table nodded agreement, and
Holbeche continued. ‘This situation is somewhat embarrassing, and has potentially very serious implications for both us and the rest of the security establishment, not to mention our
“special relationship” with the American CIA. As Moore here will now explain.’
Holbeche leaned back in his chair, with a gesture to the man sitting on his right. William Moore opened the file in front of him, and glanced quickly round the table.
‘Three days ago,’ he began, ‘a low-level Russian clerk – but one working at Yasenevo – walked into the British Embassy in Moscow and asked for asylum. There was
some confusion over who should handle this matter, and the Russian began to get visibly perturbed. It’s possible that he was worried that he would be refused asylum, or might even be arrested
and handed over to the Russian authorities. Eventually, after half an hour or so, the clerk ran out of the embassy and vanished into the streets of Moscow.’
Moore looked around, at a collection of puzzled faces. ‘Nothing much to get excited about? You’re quite right. By itself, this episode would be of no real consequence, but what
elevates it from the mundane to the significant is what the clerk left behind him at the embassy.’
‘Which was?’ somebody prompted.
‘A small package of papers,’ Moore said. ‘Most of it apparently was the usual sort of stuff you’d expect a defecting clerk to bring with him, in order to bargain with. We
haven’t seen this material yet, because our people in Moscow are still going through it, but a copy of it has been sent to us, and should arrive here later today. What alarmed our Head of
Station over there involved just one sheet of paper.’
Moore paused significantly. ‘It was simply a list of file names with a number handwritten against each one. Our Head of Station thought he recognized some of the file names, so he
signalled us promptly. He was right to do so, because several of the names listed were those of SIS files. More importantly, all are classified as Secret and above, and most relate in some way to
Russia or the CIS.’
‘And the numbers?’ Holbeche prompted.
‘Oh, yes,’ Moore replied. ‘On initial analysis, we deduced that the numbers weren’t directly relevant to the files – meaning they weren’t, for example, sizes
or creation dates or access history or anything like that. What we think is that they indicate sums of money. The Head of Station’s
‘Yes, Mary?’ Gerald Stanway had recognized her voice immediately.
‘There’s a heads and deputy heads meeting in Conference Room 2 in fifteen minutes.’
Stanway glanced at the wall clock opposite his desk. ‘I’ll be there,’ he replied, then replaced the telephone handset and began clearing his desk. In Vauxhall Cross, the
avant-garde headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service on the south bank of the Thames, all offices operate a ‘clear desks’ policy. This means that no officer ever leaves his room
with papers of any description remaining in view. Everything, including desk diaries, have to be locked away in the officer’s personal safe.
Stanway glanced back at his desk for a final check before spinning the combination lock on the safe door. Then he sat down again, in front of the computer terminal, and systematically closed all
the open programs. When the display prompted for a username and password, he switched off the screen and left his office.
As Stanway walked in, he found Sir Malcolm Holbeche sitting at the head of the long table in the conference room. Two other heads of department followed him and, once all were seated, Holbeche
began.
‘This briefing,’ he stated, ‘is classified Top Secret, and no notes of any sort will be taken. Is that clear?’ The men seated around the table nodded agreement, and
Holbeche continued. ‘This situation is somewhat embarrassing, and has potentially very serious implications for both us and the rest of the security establishment, not to mention our
“special relationship” with the American CIA. As Moore here will now explain.’
Holbeche leaned back in his chair, with a gesture to the man sitting on his right. William Moore opened the file in front of him, and glanced quickly round the table.
‘Three days ago,’ he began, ‘a low-level Russian clerk – but one working at Yasenevo – walked into the British Embassy in Moscow and asked for asylum. There was
some confusion over who should handle this matter, and the Russian began to get visibly perturbed. It’s possible that he was worried that he would be refused asylum, or might even be arrested
and handed over to the Russian authorities. Eventually, after half an hour or so, the clerk ran out of the embassy and vanished into the streets of Moscow.’
Moore looked around, at a collection of puzzled faces. ‘Nothing much to get excited about? You’re quite right. By itself, this episode would be of no real consequence, but what
elevates it from the mundane to the significant is what the clerk left behind him at the embassy.’
‘Which was?’ somebody prompted.
‘A small package of papers,’ Moore said. ‘Most of it apparently was the usual sort of stuff you’d expect a defecting clerk to bring with him, in order to bargain with. We
haven’t seen this material yet, because our people in Moscow are still going through it, but a copy of it has been sent to us, and should arrive here later today. What alarmed our Head of
Station over there involved just one sheet of paper.’
Moore paused significantly. ‘It was simply a list of file names with a number handwritten against each one. Our Head of Station thought he recognized some of the file names, so he
signalled us promptly. He was right to do so, because several of the names listed were those of SIS files. More importantly, all are classified as Secret and above, and most relate in some way to
Russia or the CIS.’
‘And the numbers?’ Holbeche prompted.
‘Oh, yes,’ Moore replied. ‘On initial analysis, we deduced that the numbers weren’t directly relevant to the files – meaning they weren’t, for example, sizes
or creation dates or access history or anything like that. What we think is that they indicate sums of money. The Head of Station’s
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