In 1963 she and her husband had been killed in a car crash, one of those stupid affairs in which a vodka-drunk idiot had driven right into them.
Colonel Nikolayev had flown home from the Far Eastern Command to attend the funeral. But there was more, a letter from his sister written two years earlier.
“If anything should ever happen to me and Ivan,” she wrote, “I beg you to look after little Misha.” Nikolayev stood at the grave beside a solemn little boy just turned seven who refused to weep.
Because both the parents had been employees of the state—under Communism everyone was an employee of the state—their apartment was repossessed. The tank colonel, who was then thirty-seven, had no Moscow apartment. When home on furlough he lived in bachelor quarters at the Frunze Officers’ Club. The commandant agreed the boy could stay with him on a strictly temporary basis.
After the funeral, he took the boy to the mess hall for a meal, but neither had much appetite.
“What the hell am I going to do with you, Misha?” he asked, but the question was more to himself.
Later he tucked the boy into his single bed and threw a handful of blankets onto the sofa for himself. Through the wall he could hear the boy starting to cry at last. To take his mind off things, he turned on the radio, to learn that Kennedy had just been shot in Dallas.
One thing about wearing the medals of a triple-Hero was that it gave the wearer a certain clout. Normally boys go to the prestigious Nakhimov Military Academy at the age of ten, but in this case the authorities agreed to make an exception. Very small and very frightened, the seven-year-old was fitted out in a cadet uniform and inducted into the Nakhimov. Then his uncle went back to the Far East to complete his tour.
Over the years General Nikolayev had done his best, visiting whenever he was home on leave and, when seconded to the general staff, acquiring his own apartment in Moscow where the growing youth could stay during vacations.
At eighteen Misha Andreev had graduated as a lieutenant and not unnaturally had opted for tanks. Twenty-five years later he was forty-three, and a major general commanding an elite division of tanks outside Moscow.
The two men entered the restaurant just after eight, their table booked and awaiting them. Viktor, the head-waiter, was a former tank man; he rushed forward with his hand out.
“Good to see you, General. You won’t remember me. I was a gunner with the One thirty-first Maikop in Prague in 1968. Your table’s over here facing the gallery.”
Heads turned to see what all the fuss was about. The American, Swiss, and Japanese businessmen stared in curiosity. Among the few Russian diners there was a muttered “That’s Kolya Nikolayev.”
Viktor had prepared two brimming tumblers of freezing Moskovskaya, on the house. Misha Andreev raised his glass to his uncle and the only father he could really remember.
“Za vashe zdrovye. Another seventy-four to come.”
“Bullshit. Za vaslze zdrovye.”
Both men threw back the liquid in one, paused, grunted as it hit the spot.
Above the bar at the Boyarsky Zal is a gallery from which the diners are serenaded with traditional Russian songs. That night the singers were a statuesque blonde in the robes of a Romanov princess, and a man in tuxedo possessed of a rich baritone voice.
When they finished the ballad they were performing as a duet, the male singer stepped forward alone. The live band at the end of the gallery paused and the deep, rich voice launched into the soldier’s love song to the girl he left back home, “Kalinka.”
The Russians stopped chattering and sat in silence; the foreigners followed suit. The baritone voice filled the hall … “Kalinka, Kalinka, Kalinka maya …”
When the last chords died away the Russians rose to toast the white-moustached man seated with his back to the tapestries. The singer bowed and took his applause. Viktor was next to a group of six Japanese diners.
“Who is old man?” asked one of them in English.
“War hero, Great Patriotic War,” replied Viktor.
The English speaker translated for the rest.
“Ah, so,” they said, and raised their glasses. “Kampei.”
Uncle Kolya nodded and beamed, raised his glass to the singer and the room, and drank.
It was a good meal, trout and duck, with Armenian red wine and coffee to follow. At the Boyarski’s prices, it was costing the major general a month’s salary. He reckoned his uncle was worth it.
It was probably not until he was thirty, and had seen some thoroughly bad officers, not a few in high office, that he understood why his uncle had become a legend among tank men. He possessed something bad officers never had, a passionate concern for the men serving under him. By the time he got his first division and his first red tab, Major General Andreev, looking about him at the shambles in Chechnya, recognized that Russia would be lucky to see another like Uncle Kolya.
The nephew had never forgotten something that happened when he was ten. Between 1945 and 1965 neither Stalin nor Khrushchev had thought fit to erect a cenotaph to the war dead in Moscow. Their own cults of personality had been more important, despite the fact neither of them would have been on top of Lenin’s Mausoleum to take the salute on May Day had it not been for the millions who died between 1941 and 1945.
Then in 1966, with Khrushchev gone, the Politburo had finally ordered the construction of a cenotaph and an eternal flame to the memory of the Unknown Soldier.
Still, no open space was employed. The memorial was tucked away under the trees of the Alexandrovsky Gardens, close by the Kremlin wall, in a position that would never catch the eye of those in the endless queue to see Lenin’s embalmed remains.
After the May Day parade that year, when the wide-eye ten-year-old cadet had watched the rolling tanks, guns, and rockets, the goose-stepping troops and the dancing gymnasts pouring across Red Square, his uncle had taken him by the hand and led him down Kremlev Alley between the gardens and the Manege.
Under the trees was a flat-topped slab of red polished granite. Beside it burned a flame in a bronze bowl.
On the slab was written the words: Your grave is unknown, your achievement immortal.
“I want you to make me a promise, boy,” said the colonel.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“There are a million of them out there, between here and Berlin. We don’t know where they lie, in many cases who they were. But they fought with me, and they were good men. Understand?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Whatever they promise you, whatever money, or promotion, or honors they offer you, I don’t want you ever to betray these men.”
“I promise, Uncle.”
The colonel slowly raised his hand to the peak of his cap. The cadet followed suit. A passing crowd in from the provinces, sucking ice cream bars, watched curiously. Their guide, whose job was to tell them what a great man Lenin had been, was clearly embarrassed and shooed them round the corner toward the mausoleum.
“Saw your piece in Izvestia the other day,” said Misha Andreev. “Caused quite a stir on the base.”
General Nikolayev stared at him keenly.
“Didn’t like it?”
“Surprised, that’s all.”
“Meant it, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose you did. You usually do.”
“He’s an arsewipe, boy.”
“If you say so, Uncle. Looks like he’s going to win, though. Perhaps you should have kept your mouth shut.”
“Too old for that. Speak as I find.”
The old man seemed lost in thought for a while, staring up at the “Romanov princess” singing in the gallery above. Foreign diners thought they recognized “Those Were the Days, My Friend,” which is not a Western song at all but an old Russian ballad. Then the general reached across and gripped his nephew’s forearm.
“Look, lad, if anything ever happens to me …”
“Don’t be daft, you’ll outlive the lot of us.”
“Listen, if anything happens,
I want you to plant me in Novodevichi. All right? I don’t want a miserable civil affair, I want a bishop and all the trimmings, the whole deal. Understand?”
“You, a bishop? I didn’t think you believed in all that.”
“Don’t be a fool. No man who’s had a German eighty-eight land six feet away and not explode doesn’t believe there must be Somebody up there. Of course I had to pretend, we all did. Party membership, indoctrination lectures, it all went with the job, and it was all crap. So that’s what I want. Now let’s toss back the coffee and go. Got a staff car?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because we’re both plastered. You can run me home.”
¯
THE overnight sleeper train from Kiev, capital of the independent republic of the Ukraine, rumbled through the freezing darkness toward Moscow.
In the sixth carriage, compartment 2B, the two Englishmen sat and played gin rummy. Brian Vincent checked his watch.
“Half an hour to the border, Sir Nigel. Better get ready for bed.”
“I suppose so,” said Nigel Irvine. Still fully dressed he clambered to the top bunk and drew the blankets to his chin.
“Look the part?” he asked. The ex-soldier nodded.
“Leave the rest to me, sir.”
There was a brief halt at the border. The Ukrainian officials on the train had already checked the two passports. The Russians boarded at the halt.
Ten minutes later there was a tap on the door of the sleeper compartment. Vincent opened up.
“Da?”
“Pazport, pozhaluysta.”
There was only a dim blue light inside the compartment and though the light in the corridor was yellow and brighter, the Russian inspector had to peer.
“No visa,” he said.
“Of course not. These are diplomatic passports. Require no visa.”
The Ukrainian pointed to the word in English on the cover of each passport.
“Diplomat,” he said.
The Russian nodded, slightly embarrassed. He had an instruction from the FSB in Moscow, an all-crossing-point alert, to watch for a name and a face or both.
“The old man,” he said, gesturing at the second passport.
“He’s up there,” said the young diplomat. “Actually, as you see he’s very old. He’s not feeling well. Do you have to disturb him?”
“Who is he?”
“Well, actually he’s the father of our ambassador in Moscow. That’s why I’m escorting him there. To see his son.’’
The Ukrainian pointed up to the recumbent figure in the bunk.
“Father of ambassador,” he said.
“Thank you, I can understand Russian,” said the Russian. He was perplexed. The round-faced, bald man in the passport bore no relationship to the description he had been given. Nor did the name. No Trubshaw, no Irvine. Just Lord Asquith.
“It must be cold in the corridor,” said Vincent. “Cold to the bones. Please. For friendship. From our Kiev embassy’s special stock.”
The liter of vodka was of exceptional quality, the sort no money could buy. The Ukrainian nodded, smiled and nudged his Russian counterpart. The Russian grunted, stamped both passports and passed on.
“Couldn’t hear much under all those blankets, but it sounded good,” said Sir Nigel when the door was closed. He swung down from the upper bunk.
“Let’s just say, the fewer of those the better,” Vincent said, and set about destroying the two phony passports in the sink. The fragments would go down the lavatory hole and be scattered in the snows of southern Russia. One to get in, and one to get out. The exit passports, with their beautifully created entry stamps, were locked away.
Vincent looked at Sir Nigel with curiosity. At thirty-three he was aware the older man could not only be his father, but biologically his grandfather. As a former special forces soldier he had been in some tough places, not excluding lying in the desert of Western Iraq waiting to cream a passing Scud missile. But always there had been mates, a gun, grenades, a way of fighting back.
The world into which Sir Nigel Irvine had inducted him, albeit for a very large fee, a world of deception and disinformation, of endless smoke and mirrors, left him feeling in need of a double vodka. Fortunately there was a second bottle of the special stuff in his bag. He helped himself.
“Would you like one, Sir Nigel?”
“Not for me,” said Irvine. “Upsets the tummy, burns the throat. But I will join you with something else.”
He unscrewed a silver hip flask from his attaché case, and tipped a measure into the silver cup attached. He raised it toward Vincent and took an appreciative sip. It was Mr. Trubshaw’s vintage port from St. James’s.
“I actually think you’re enjoying all this,” said ex-Sergeant Vincent.
“My dear boy, I haven’t had such fun in years.”
The train deposited them at the Moscow terminus just after dawn. The temperature was fifteen below zero. However bleak a railway station in winter may appear to those hurrying home to a blazing hearth, they are still a lot warmer than the streets. When Sir Nigel and Vincent stepped down from the Kiev overnight express, the concourse of the Kursk Station was awash with the cold and hungry poor of the city.
They huddled as close as they could to the warm engines, sought to catch the occasional wave of heat emerging from a café, or simply lay on the concrete trying to survive another night.
“Stay very close to me, sir,” muttered Vincent as they moved toward the ticket barrier, beyond which was the open concourse. As they were heading to the taxi stand, a swarm of the derelicts approached, hands out, heads muffled in scarves, faces unshaven, eyes sunken.
“Dear God, this is awful,” muttered Sir Nigel.
“Don’t reach for your money, you’ll start a riot,” snapped his bodyguard. Despite his age, Sir Nigel was carrying his own grip and attaché case, leaving Vincent with one free hand. The former special forces soldier had it lodged under his left armpit, indicating that he had a gun and would use it if he had to.
In this manner he shepherded the older man ahead of him through the crowd, toward the outside pavement where a few taxis waited hopefully. As he brushed aside a supplicant hand Sir Nigel heard the voice of its owner shouting at his back:
“Foreigner! Damned foreigner!”
“It’s because they think we’re rich,” said Vincent in his ear. “We’re foreign so we’re rich.”
The cries followed them to the pavement. “Fucking foreigner. Wait for Komarov.”
When they were safely seated in the clattering taxi, Irvine leaned back.
“I hadn’t realized it had got so bad,” he muttered. “Last time, I just went from the airport to the National and back out again.”
“It’s full winter now, Sir Nigel. Always worse in winter.”
As they drove out of the forecourt a militia truck swung in front of them. Two stone-faced policemen in heavy greatcoats and fur shapkas sat in the warmth of the cab. The truck swerved past and they could see into the back.
Rows of feet, the rag-bound soles of human feet, were visible for a second as the canvas flaps swung open with the movement of the truck. Bodies. Bodies frozen rock solid and stacked one on top of the other like corded timber.
“The stiff wagon,” said Vincent shortly. “The dawn pickup shift. Five hundred of them are dying every night in the doorways, along the quays.”
They were booked into the National, but did not wish to check in until late afternoon. So the taxi dropped them at the Palace Hotel and they spent the day in deep leather armchairs in the residents’ lounge.
¯
TWO days earlier Jason Monk had made a brief transmission, in code, from his specially adapted laptop computer. It was brief and to the point. He had seen General Petrovsky and all seemed to be well. He was still being moved around the city by the Chechens, often in the guise of a priest, an army or police officer, or a tramp. The Patriarch was ready to receive his English guest for a second time.
&n
bsp; It was the message which, beamed across the world to the headquarters of InTelCor, had been retransmitted to Sir Nigel in London, still in code. Sir Nigel alone had the replica one-time pad to unlock the cipher.
It was the message that had brought him from London-Heathrow to Kiev and thence by train to Moscow.
But the message had also been caught by FAPSI, now working almost full-time for Colonel Grishin. The senior director of FAPSI conferred with Grishin while the Kiev-Moscow train steamed through the night.
“We damn near had him,” said the director. “He was in the Arbat district, while last time he was out near Sokolniki. So he’s moving around.”
“The Arbat?” queried Grishin angrily. The Arbat district is barely half a mile from the Kremlin walls.
“There is another danger I should warn you about, Colonel. If he’s using the sort of computer we think he is, he need not necessarily be present when transmissions take place or are received. He can preset it and leave.”
“Just find the set,” ordered Grishin. “He’ll have to return to it, and when he does, I’ll be waiting.”
“If he makes two more, or a single one lasting half a second, we’ll have the source. To within a city block, maybe the building.”
What neither man knew was that according to Sir Nigel Irvine’s plan, Monk would need to make at least three more transmissions to the West.
¯
“HE’S back, Colonel Grishin.”
The voice of Father Maxim down the phone was squeaky with tension. It was six in the evening, pitch-dark outside, and freezing cold. Grishin was still at his desk in the dacha off Kiselny Boulevard. He had just been about to leave when the call came. As per instructions, the switchboard operator heard the word Maxim and passed the call straight to the head of security.
“Calm yourself, Father Maxim. Who’s back?”
“The Englishman. The old Englishman. He’s been with His Holiness for an hour.”
“He can’t be.”
Grishin had spread a large sum of money throughout the Immigration Division of the Interior Ministry and the FSB Counter-intelligence apparat to receive forewarning, and it had not come.
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