Free Illegal Action by Stella Rimington

with petrol, get it washed or take it for its quarterly service; otherwise, he killed time by waxing and polishing the car until it gleamed, by making himself useful around the house (he was good at DIY) or just by reading.
    It could be a long day sometimes, especially when there was an evening engagement, but his weekends were usually free, since Brunovsky liked to spend them in the country where he kept a Range Rover which he drove himself. And the money was good enough, so he wasn’t complaining, especially now that he had the generous top-up from Rykov.
    He had had two more meetings with Rykov, though they had been brief. He’d given accounts of his employer’s comings and goings, and supplied what little information he had about where the man might be going next. It had seemed skimpy even to Simmons, but Rykov had not complained. And he’d paid him well.
    Still, it violated what Simmons knew should be his professional code: a man had one employer, and therefore one loyalty; less clearly, it also stirred some unease, since Jerry was well disposed to the Russian and it seemed obvious that Rykov’s close interest in him was a threat of some sort.
    Not that he knew his employer very well. He was small and wiry, but seemed a cheerful bloke. His English was excellent, and he always said hello to Jerry in the morning and asked how he was. He would apologise if his schedule changed unexpectedly, or if he had to go out suddenly in the evening. But they didn’t have much other conversation, and when he was on his mobile, which seemed most of the time, or Tamara was with him, he spoke in Russian.
    Tamara was not so friendly. Frosty, fortyish, dyed blonde hair, she spoke English with an accent that got on his nerves, though that was nothing compared to her manners, which were high-handed and officious. She wasn’t Russian herself, but from some country Jerry could not identify. Macedonia? Montenegro? Something like that, though you would think she had been born on Park Lane the way she behaved. Her demeanour suggested that although she too worked for the Russian, she was not a mere employee—which someone like Jerry, who was a mere employee, should not forget.
    Yet she was the only unpleasant note in the household, which had a sizeable retinue—Mrs. Grimby the cook, a housekeeper named Warburton who didn’t say much but was friendly enough, a series of temps who helped Tamara when she found typing beneath her, a young maid, two gardeners and Monica, Brunovsky’s girlfriend. She was nice, Monica—a looker of course, but not stuck up. He was sometimes asked to chauffeur her on shopping expeditions, though most of the time she seemed happy to drive herself. Who wouldn’t, given an Audi 6 coupé and licence to knock up as many parking fines as they wanted?
    This morning he was collecting his tea from Mrs. Grimby when he heard voices in the corridor upstairs, speaking in Russian. He was used to the voices of Tamara and the boss, and today there was a strain to their exchanges, which Jerry could detect without understanding a word.
    “Is he going to the gym today?” he whispered to Mrs. Grimby. Stout and white-haired, she wore an apron around her ample waist and was opening a canister of flour.
    “I don’t know,” she said equably, “though he’s here for lunch. But I think something’s upset him.” She raised her eyes; upstairs, voices continued in an agitated staccato of Russian. Suddenly he heard the noise of clacking heels come down the stairs, and Tamara swept into the kitchen.
    “Jerry,” she said shortly, “when did you get here?”
    “Just a minute ago,” he said. She looked even tenser than usual. “Is something wrong?”
    Tamara ignored his question and turned on her heel. Leaving the kitchen to go upstairs, she called back over her shoulder, “Sir will be down shortly.”
    Sir, thought Jerry sarcastically, who was happy enough to address his employer that way, but was buggered if he’d use the