A Covenant of Spies

by Daniel Kemp

  I picked up the two-inch-thick red paper folder I'd been referring to and nonchalantly tossed it away on to the sofa behind me. “So far I'm sticking with my theory that Faversham was a front for someone able to work the seventh floor and the whole episode of the apprehension of Geoffrey Prime was done simply to cover up someone nobody discovered at GCHQ because nobody looked further than Prime. He was charged, and the door was slammed shut on their disgrace. I'm leaving Prime for now, and not only because of the taste his name leaves in my mouth. I'll start with Nikita Kudashov and see where that goes, Fraser.”

  “Yes, you could be right about nobody looking further past Prime. There was a lecture given to the East German security service, Stasi, by Kim Philby the year before Prime was eventually caught. In it Philby attributed the failure of the British Secret Service to unmask him as due in a great part to the British class system—it was inconceivable to them that one born into the ruling class of the British Empire could be a traitor. That despairing judgement could equally apply to Prime. The early eighties were strange times, Patrick, ones best forgotten but learned from. But I do know someone who dug deeper than just accepting Prime,” he replied with his craggy face turned towards the window.

  Chapter Eight: Monday's Ethnic DNA

  I arranged to meet Kudashov at the place he was staying. It was what we called The Russian House—number 17 Craven Hill Gardens, Bayswater, Paddington. Russian instead of Russia, because most of those who stayed there for any length of time were from a past age rather than being relevant to the present or the future. Whether or not that summary applied to Kudashov, I was about to find out.

  Number 17 was in the second of two well cared for gardened rectangles of Victorian-built properties in a tall long terrace of five-storey buildings, which mainly served as private apartments, hotels, consulates and the comfortable London retreat for wealthy Russians seeking an audience with HM Government. No one tried to conceal the place, why would we? It was convenient for us to see who we had staying and was of interest to those inside the Russian Embassy a short walk away. As of yet Kudashov had attracted no interest from the Russians. Our ministerial car was parked in the nearest spot to number 17 and Hannah strolled the short distance to the front entrance to the building with Frank at her side. I could have sent anyone with her as I had no worries about her safety, but I thought Frank would reassure Hannah and if she needed it, boost her confidence.

  I had learned over our time together that although she had never been instructed in the arts of interrogation, her quiet reassuring voice lured the unsuspecting into revealing more than I, along with most other interrogators I knew, would extract without the use of force. With Kudashov we needed soft hands, and who better to approach a member of the Romanov family than one with the same kind of prestigious ancestral ties as his? In Hannah's case, her lineage was to the ancient European House of Hesse, connected by marriage to the Rothschild family. My thoughts were that our wedding gift of the house and grounds near Hassocks, in Sussex, must have come from one of Hannah's Rothschild relatives purely because of the cost, over three million pounds' worth of luxury. Hannah Sofia Rachel Landgft, to give my wife her full name, was, I thought, my ideal weapon to open up Kudashov's particular box of surprises.

  * * *

  I had the pleasure of attending a meeting once in the Russian House when Fraser Ughert was a mere section head at Group and I was, for want of a better word, his heavy. In those far off days nobody had invented the phrase principal protection officer. The world was less complicated back then. My principal, Fraser, was there, so he told me, to meet a retired Russian translator who had worked at the Polish Embassy here in London. That was the extent of my knowledge, but he might just as well been there to see the Russian President and hand over the Crown Jewels for all I knew.

  What I do know is that it was a hugely impressive place. High vaulted ceilings displayed magnificent paintings of mystical dragons that appeared to be two feet above your head and about to grab you in their open mouths. Marble floors and painted marble pillars. Three life-size sculptures of Lenin, Pushkin and Rimsky-Korsakov were there separating the formal lobby from the carpeted, elegantly appointed reception area. I knew as little about Russian furniture as I do now; however, to my unaccustomed eye the highly ornate tables, chairs, and side cabinets looked distinctly of an Eastern design and the ebony coloured desk at the far wall was, I was told, when I asked the brute of man who followed me everywhere, Empress Alexandra's desk from the Romanov's Winter Palace. I did not stay long that day as Fraser's translator was not there.

  On the return journey to the building that then housed Group, hidden within the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries in Whitehall, we were informed that a person of his description, but not of the same name, had boarded a flight for Ottawa, Canada. A little later on that far flung day, whilst sharing with Fraser a brand of whisky the name of which I've long forgotten, I learned that the man Fraser had an interest in had managed to leave a tape-recording of all that was required to 'burn' a Polish official at their embassy in London.

  On arrival in Canada, the translator was immediately driven to the British High Commission where he made a written statement confirming the name of the politician who was selling Polish secrets to the French in return for a considerable amount of money traceable to an account in Geneva. I can't say who was pleased and who was not in that exchange. All I can report is that the chorus of congratulations heard from Fraser Ughert's offices travelled substantially further than the Bear and Staff public house, Craven Hill Gardens, where the two of us were enjoying any echoes two full glasses of whisky might make as the contents were greedily consumed. All I was able to do this time was pick out Hannah and Kudashov's conversation from the echoes in the marbled reception on the tape-recorder she carried and we were listening to.

  * * *

  “I shall come straight to the point of my visit, Mr Kudashov. I'm here to find a sustainable and adequate reason for this country to become involved in the extraction of the person whom you say is your granddaughter, one Cilicia Kudashov, daughter of your son Ludvík, and his wife Karina Kudashov, from Moscow, or any other part of Russia. We believe there has to be something other than this Data Mining, which although it's intriguing, is a process we are aware of. But our door is far from closed to you. We are in the market for other wares you may have to offer as you have certainly piqued our interest. Please, trade away.”

  She had not disappointed me. The recorded conversation was a long, drawn out affair of almost an hour or so where neither of the participants felt able to finish the negotiations in one sitting. It was when I was beginning to tire of references to Kudashov's ancient relatives and long lines of historic confrontations between various titled European families with nothing being added to Cilicia's relevance to us, other than her communications skills, that Hannah altered track and asked what I had requested.

  “When you met my husband last Friday you were with a friend whom you claimed to have known for a considerable time, when in fact you had met for the first time the previous Tuesday. A rather unusual mistake to make, Mr Kudashov. It is also recorded that you may have seen my husband in the past, in another country, but you made no reference to that sighting. Is there a reason for these omissions?”

  He went into his shell for a while, denying that he had ever seen me before, until Hannah asked again, this time dangling more than a carrot. “My husband would very much like to meet with you and discuss both the past and the future, but I have nothing from our discussion to offer as an incentive for him to alter his busy schedule. Your granddaughter has an obvious appeal to us, but as I already said, we do know of the NSA programme and we are aware of their capabilities. I need something of a higher value to serve to capture his interest.”

  “Would the body of Dalek Kava be of interest to you both, or your husband as your husband, or your husband as the chairman of your joint intelligence committee? Which person named Frank Douglas would fear the discovery
the most, do you think, Mrs West?”

  * * *

  Hannah arranged the meeting to take place in my club at lunchtime the following day. She accompanied me and I was reintroduced to Nikita Sergeyovitch Kudashov. I sat with my back to the sun as if I was a gunslinger about to draw on a card cheat.

  “Frank Douglas in Prague and Patrick West when home.” His eyes were squinting into the sunlight, but the hawkish brown colour was still distinguishable amongst the lines of age that crisscrossed his mottled face.

  “It's a question I've always wanted to ask a spy, and that's do you ever get confused by all the changes of names you must go through, Mr West?”

  To assimilate information about the character of a person you're sitting opposite to from just the face and eyes was a custom I was familiar with, and so I tried it with Kudashov. His eyes registered excitement as well as disappointment, which was clear when I replied to his question with one of my own. On first appraisal I thought both sentiments to be genuine. In regards to his face, there was little movement to reflect his emotions. The lines around his mouth showed more frowns than smiles and so it was at the table we shared. His offer was certainly tempting. Any intelligence on rivals or friends and enemies is never to be sneered at, but be that as it may, the offer of a benevolent hand should always be tempered with circumspection. If there was nothing else discernible from his facial appearance, there was experience etched deeply into every line of his skin.

  “But surely you would know the answer to that, Mr Tomsa. Were you not also Petr Tomsa in Czechoslovakia, as well as being Ivy in other theatres of global influence?”

  “My code name was, as you know, Ivy, but I'm guessing you spent your time in many aliases. As far as the name Petr Tomsa goes, then I know nothing of the person. If your intelligence has me posing with that alias, then someone has screwed up in a big way. Either it is intentional misinformation or you have a really crap filing department within the SIS.”

  The summer sun faded behind a dark dense cloud threatening to add more showers, and I instantly felt the irony of trying to discover secrets about another country and in another time, whilst there was something hidden away as a secret in my own. Most things in the intelligence game are based on assumptions and theories; once one of those theories is proven correct, a piece on the chessboard can move, but the art is knowing which chess piece to move and where to move it. I was spared making that decision for the time being, despite the fact that Petr Tomsa had only a Czech and Polish file, yet the man sitting in front of me was who Miles Faversham had detailed as Jana Kava's Prague Control. It did nothing for my appetite. Who was Petr Tomsa if not Kudashov?

  “It would seem I have been allocated a second token of information to barter with, Mr West, or are you simply speculating on the name, Tomsa? Perhaps now would an appropriate time to be less formal in our discussions, Patrick. Please, call me Nikita. It's what my friends call me.”

  “I will, and now we've got that out of the way, can we discuss the real reason for your visit to this country?”

  “There is an old saying in Russia: even a good horse can stumble. You will find this Tomsa without too much trouble, I'm sure. Probably a silly administrative error made in a filing department, not important. However, you will never find what I have to offer without my help, Patrick. Let me be honest here. I am not a scientist, and I cannot give you the scientific breakdown of the list of sequenced eukaryotic genomes and ethnic DNA that has been assembled and experimented with in the laboratory that I have knowledge of. But what I can tell you is from the solid information I have been given, the work on these chemicals in that place will become more lethal to human life than any nuclear threat has ever been. I was disgusted by what I discovered and I'm determined to make it known, but despite my abhorrence I cannot allow my name to be disclosed whilst I have family that are beyond my protection.”

  “By that you mean Cilicia, or is there someone else as well as her?” It was Hannah who asked the family related question.

  “I refer to Cilicia, yes. I lost my son and his wife some years ago when the aircraft he was flying crashed near the Russian border with Finland. My wife died some considerable time before that sad happening. My dear granddaughter is all I have left in the world. She is precious to me. I will not leave her in the position she is.”

  “Following on from what you've just said, can we assume this laboratory is in Russia?” she asked.

  He did not answer the question. “I have a good, well-practised memory, but it's not as it once was. I forget things now that I would not have done when I was a field agent. Here.” He reached inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket and removed a torn, perforated sheet of note paper on which were four outwardly innocent words: Diatom, Apicomplexan, Microsporidium, and Leishmania Major.

  I knew the last one to be a parasitic protozoan, a microscopic, one-celled organism that can rapidly multiply in humans and can be the linchpin to many devastating diseases. “What do these organisms have to do with ethnic DNA you mentioned, Nikita? I noticed you stressed the word ethnic when you were speaking.”

  “Ah, there you have the reason for my disgust and one of the reasons why I'm here. I did consider going to the Americans with what information I've found, but I'm scared they might use it themselves. It really is as dangerous as I've indicated and I will not put my trust in them. The British had a sense of loyalty and honour at one time. I'm hoping that it is still alive here anchored in you, sir.”

  I went to speak but he would have none of it, waving my attempt away. He continued speaking after our plates were cleared and the club sommelier poured the remnants of our wine into our glasses. “I understand the work in the laboratory that I know of is towards targeting particular population groups with a ricin base virus engineered as a eugenic weapon, which is possible to immunise against. So the country that unleashes it can vaccinate their own military beforehand. In theory, if this weapon is fully developed, it can determine who is killed and who is left alive without damage to the infrastructure. Now, can you see what a time bomb I have to offer for my granddaughter and me to live in peace and quiet together?”

  “I can, yes. Do you know how long it will be before this scientific project becomes a viable weapon?” I asked, swallowing hard on what he'd said.

  “I was in the hands of a reliable source when I was informed of this. She told me it could take anywhere between five and ten years, maybe more, maybe less. The science of discovery relies on skill as well as luck and we all three know how luck can alter our lives in the click of our fingers. All I know for sure is that it's underway and prospering. In my expert's opinion it should be stopped before it has a chance to snowball.” His expression had a grave countenance whilst he detailed the threat we faced, but then had a laughing smile to it when he finished.

  “You must excuse my ineptitude with your language, but I think I've heard that word, snowball, used in such a way here in England.”

  I ignored what needed no response other than praise for what he already knew was anything but inept.

  “Has this anything to do with what your granddaughter has to offer us with the Data Mining, or is this purely an addition to what you say she has to offer?” Hannah asked.

  “Yes, of course, it's in addition. Yes, it is, Mrs West. The two are separate. I'm just the go-between. I know very little of the specialised work Cilicia does and even less of the experiments into the eugenics. But I want Cilicia out at any cost and I can provide something extra to galvanise your interest.”

  “Go ahead, Nikita, we're all ears,” I agreed nonchalantly.

  “My source from the laboratory told me that the Kurdish population was to be the first target for this eugenic cleansing agenda, and the chosen area for its inaugural testing was the southeast of Turkey.”

  “I know very little of Turkey and even less of the Kurdish population in the region. However, would I be correct in assuming that the laboratory producing all that's needed for this genocidal attack is site
d inside Turkey, or at least close to the Turkish border? Give us some clues, please,” I implored him.

  He didn't fall for it. “Of course you know nothing of Turkey and its Kurdish population, Patrick. And it naturally follows that your lack of regional knowledge would extend to not knowing anything of the south-eastern area of Turkey being the capital of the once Armenian Empire and known as The Great House of Cilicia. I'm sure you've never come across that before.” A mischievous grin covered his face, narrowing the shape of his eyes and adding extra lines to his forehead. Another area where he was not inept, and that was in playing me. He hadn't finished.

  “Nor of course would you know of an Armenian German by the name of Henry Mayler, Patrick. Or, come to that, anything about his connection to the Rosicrucian Fraternity. I should have known that you are purely the symbolic head of the best secret service in the world and somewhere you have hidden the real chairman of the joint intelligence committee.” The smile had left his face, but the mischievousness still remained in his voice, taunting me over his lack of response to my plea for more clues.