“I get it” I said, “the usual.”
“Exactly” smiled Marcus, “in the meanwhile I’ll talk to the people in our organisation we need to get authority from, and we’ll be in touch.”
“There is something else,” said Turov.
“What is it now?” said Chris, glancing at his watch.
She got up to pour more coffee and shot him a look. “Forget about the time. This is important. Something happened yesterday, something that convinces me that Belov has been also been targeted by another asset. A man called Fyodor Volk.”
She sat down and told them the whole story, except the bit about us killing and tidying up our attackers in the Tottenham squat. I was grateful.
Alisa spread her hands in front of her on the table, like it was a piano keyboard. “We must assume Volk has been here for a considerable period of time. He will have a number of people groomed to kill Belov. He will have thoroughly prepared them and will have made it a priority to have detailed knowledge of Belov’s movements, businesses and associates.”
“And there’s the Spetzgruppa to deal with too” I said, drawing a cigar tube from my jacket “can I smoke in here?”
“Shit,” said Chris “we don’t need this, we really don’t.”
Marcus took off his glasses and smiled queasily. He wiped them slowly with a small yellow cloth. “Alisa, do you have any more of those biscuits?” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I gave the spooks’ gnarly little bodyguard a wave as we left Turov’s office. He waved back and treated me to a death’s-head grin.
“So, what’s next?” I said to Turov as we walked to her car.
Turov thought about it for a moment. “I think you don’t tell Belov anything about this meeting. The plan is as good as it can be given the circumstances.”
The spooks had agreed to do some work on Volk, promising to negotiate with the mysterious conduit between them and The Firm, and channel instructions via Harry. They also agreed to do some snooping on Misha Baburin, feeding any useful intelligence to us via Alisa. I guessed Harry wouldn’t be impressed when he discovered I’d spoken directly to SIS. In the meantime our role was to concentrate on Baburin and the Spetzgruppa team.
We got in the Ford. “And what are you going to do?” I said “want to grab something to eat?” A weak winter sun was breaking through the clouds. It was almost good weather for the first time in weeks and I was hungry. An afternoon chatting up Alisa over a bottle or two of claret appealed. I like Russians, sure, but I really like Russian women.
“You haven’t got time, Winter” she snapped, “you have work to do. Plus, you eat too many cookies, you have had lunch. You will get fat.”
“Russian women like their men big,” I offered.
“This one doesn’t” she sneered, “you are lazy and fat.”
“I must warn you,” I said in Russian, “that I find rude, arrogant women irresistible.”
Alisa Turov cocked her head as she pulled into the traffic. “Then you are even more stupid than you look.”
We drove in silence after that. I looked around the car, which was spotless and smelt of vanilla air freshener. On the back seat were Turov’s black leather shoulder bag and her coat. In the console behind the gearstick was some loose change and key fob. Under her coat was a magazine. “May I?” I said, pulling it out.
“Sure” she shrugged.
It was a London listings magazine. I flicked through it, noticing that the corner of a page near the back had been folded over. It was the eating out review section, and three top-end French restaurants had been circled. “You like French food?” I said.
“Yes” she replied, “I worked in France for three years. If SVR is paying the bill I take contacts to the best French restaurants in town if I can. And you?”
“I prefer Italian” I replied, “like mama used to make.”
“Peasant food,” she sniffed.
“Fucking hell, what happened to solidarity with the Proletariat, comrade?”
“Grow up.” She dropped me near Swiss Cottage and gave me her business card. “I will talk to Moscow and contact you later. In the meantime you will conduct close target reconnaissance on Misha Baburin, twenty-four hour coverage.”
“You’re not my boss, love,” I said casually.
“No, this is true” she smiled, “as I would never employ someone like you. But in this case I have little choice in the matter. And neither do you.” She pulled the door shut and drove off.
I checked my gun, remembering Alisa’s pick-pocketing the last time I was in the car with her. It was still there. But there was another cookie in my pocket, wrapped in a yellow Post-It note. On the note was a drawing of a pig. I wondered where she learnt to pick-pocket, even if it was in reverse.
I dialled Oz.
He answered on the third ring. “That plot had at least four special forces operators cutting about on it,” he said.
“Yeah, there was one inside too. It was OK.”
“Who were they? They didn’t look Russian,” said Oz, “in fact I recognised one of them as ex-SBS. He didn’t see me.”
“Our friends from Vauxhall Cross were there,” I sighed.
“Harry will be proper pissed off. You know we’re not meant to meet the brains.”
“I’m not sure I did,” I laughed. “Perhaps, can you ring him and tell him the good news?”
“That’s fucking typical, you oxygen-thief. Me? What do I tell him?” asked Oz.
“That SIS will be in touch, they’ve an interest in this operation. Tell him the meeting was an ambush and I didn’t know anything about it. I’m off to see Belov now.”
“OK, what do you want me and Andy to do?”
“Go and plot up on this Baburin bloke, Spartak security” I said, “give me updates on the hour.”
“What’s your plan after you’ve met Belov?”
“Intelligence-gathering,” I said guardedly.
“You’re going to the pub aren’t you?”
“No, wouldn’t dream of it” I laughed, “I’ll pull tomorrow night’s shift, OK?”
“Roger,” said Oz, ringing off.
I took a cab to Sergei Belov’s townhouse, the guy on the gate letting me in with a nod. The bodyguards inside even spared me the metal detector once I’d opened my coat and showed them I was carrying, but I had to leave the pistol in a safe. My stubby Walther remained undetected in an ankle holster.
“Cal!” said Sergei Belov, giving me a hug. “Tell me, is there any progress?” The fire blazed, and truth be told the office was too hot. He busied himself fixing drinks, but to his disappointment I stuck to iced water.
I sat down and sipped my drink. “Yes, the vagrant who attacked you said a Russian put him up to it. The Russian was supplying him with drugs and girls. We followed the guy who attacked you to his squat, but when we got there he was dead. His throat was slit.” I didn’t mention Volk, the guy we’d killed or my meeting with MI6.
“Yes, Dmitri was very impressed with your techniques” said Sergei approvingly, “do you think the FSB put this tramp up to it?”
“It’s possible” I nodded, “I’ve also spoken with some contacts. There is a Russian in East London who we know is providing the FSB team with equipment and shelter. We’re going to work on him next.”
“What is this Russian’s name?”
“Sergei, it doesn’t matter. You must trust me.”
The Russian downed his vodka and smiled. “You are telling me to take good advice again, eh?”
“Yes Sergei. You pay us to take the risks – leave your people out of it, OK? When dead FSB men start turning up everywhere do you want Scotland Yard knocking on your door?”
“No, you are right. But what if they knock on your door?”
I smiled. “I assume you can afford the best lawyers in the country?”
“Naturally” he replied, “is there anything else you need?”
I shifted uneasily in my chair. “Is there any chance you co
uld quietly leave the country until this dies down?”
“Impossible. I have a court case to attend, Pieter’s case to look after and business matters that require my personal attention. My family are safe in Grand Cayman but I must remain. This is why I hired you.”
I pulled a face. “OK, but I’ll need your diary for the next month.”
“This is no problem,” said Sergei, “I will ask Melissa to arrange it.”
He pressed a button and the PA walked in wearing jeans, riding boots and a black sweater instead of her usual smart business suit. She gave me a dirty look, sat down next to Belov’s computer and typed in a password. Belov asked for his diary to be copied for me.
“Hi Melissa, is it dress-down Thursday?” I said.
“Good afternoon Mister Winter,” she said primly. She slipped a memory stick into the computer, tapped away at the keyboard and gave me the thumb-drive. “This is Mister Belov’s diary until the end of February, password protected,” she said.
I took the memory stick, “which is?”
“The password is chauvinist pig” smiled Melissa, “I trust you can spell chauvinist?” She stood up, nodded at Sergei and left.
Sergei grinned. “She really hates you.”
“You need an expensive English education to be that rude” I chuckled, “but I like to think it’s just the early stages of infatuation. It’s easy to get the two mixed up.”
Sergei shook his head and emptied his glass. “No, I have been married enough times to know real hatred when I see it. She told me that you’d suggested I was her sugar daddy.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Never screw your secretary, Cal. Not only is it a cliché, but why ruin such an important relationship?” He reached for the fridge and pulled out another bottle. “I like to screw my lawyers if I can though, after all enough of them have screwed me.”
I laughed. “Fair enough, if I ever get a lawyer I’ll remember that.”
Sergei patted my back like he was my favourite uncle, not that I’ve ever had one. “Besides, Pieter and Melissa are close, she manages him for me when he gets … difficult.”
I suppressed a smile. “Ah, but she doesn’t know that you pull the strings with Forbiddenfacts.net, does she?”
The Russian shot me a look. “No, and I’d prefer it if she didn’t. Sometimes I talk too much over a glass of vodka. She’s young and idealistic, who can blame her?”
“So how close is she to Van Basten?”
“Close.” Sergei raised his hairy eyebrows, “but not that close. Pieter isn’t interested in women. He is a homosexual.”
“We say Gay nowadays,” I said.
“Trust me, there is nothing ‘Gay’ about Pieter Van Basten, the miserable bastard. But he and Melissa, they are like brother and sister. Did you know Pieter’s only sister died of Leukaemia when she was seven?”
“No.”
The Russian nodded sagely, “when he first started hacking he exposed the pharmaceutical companies working on Leukaemia drugs, he calls it ‘big pharma.’” Sergei struggled with the word pharma, stressing each syllable carefully in his otherwise excellent English.
“I’d like to meet him,” I said.
“Pieter? Ah, now you are beginning to sound like a cop!” laughed Sergei.
I stood up. “Maybe he’s at risk too. If you’ll excuse me Sergei Nikoleyavich …”
“Of course, keep me updated and if you need anything then ask.”
“Actually Sergei, there is something.”
“Just ask.”
“Can you get me a table at short notice at La Minoterie?” It was a three-starred French restaurant in Mayfair that had a six month waiting list for a decent table.
“One of my favourites, you can have my usual table. What time?” he said with a wave of his hand.
“Eight-thirty?”
“Of course, now go. Dinner is on me” said the Russian, “Melissa will book it.”
Picking up my SIG from the safe, I went down to the basement car park and got in the Volvo. In the boot I keep a small but powerful frequency scanner, hidden in a bracket under the spare tyre. I switched on the hand-sized grey console and put it in on the dashboard. Driving to the surface, it started warbling. I’d expected Belov to have my car bugged, and he didn’t disappoint. I found the wiring and disconnected it.
When I got back to my apartment in Hammersmith I put my weapons in the safe and phoned Alisa Turov.
“Are you watching Baburin?” she snapped.
“No, I’m deciding what to wear when I take you out for dinner later. My elite team of seasoned operatives are watching the target for me.”
“Idiot,” she said. Her voice was less harsh than usual.
I looked out over the river. The afternoon sun began to set behind the bridge. “I’ve got us the best table at La Minoterie for eighty-thirty. You like French food, right?”
“La Minoterie? How?” she said suspiciously.
“I’m a man about town. I know someone” I explained, although I wasn’t going to say who, “we can talk this operation over properly.”
Alisa was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. “OK” she said finally, “no need to pick me up, I will meet you there.”
“Good” I said, pulling a chilled bottle of Bohemia Regent Pilsner from the fridge, “see you at eight-thirty.” After I finished my beer, I had a nap. I showered before putting on a dark woollen suit and overcoat. I checked my Walther then decided to leave it in the flat. The counter-surveillance route I prefer to the taxi rank took me another fifteen minutes, during which I enjoyed a smoke: a Romeo Y Julietta No.2.
I took a taxi to Mayfair. We were only stopped once by the police counter-terrorism patrols, but there were more helicopters out tonight, searchlight beams washing over us as they thundered overhead. “You’d have thought there was a war on,” I said to the driver.
“There ain’t been a bomb for while” he moaned, “but I still get turned over three times a day.”
“Are there are no bombs because of all the patrols?” I wondered out loud.
“I doubt it” said the driver, a lardy East Londoner wearing a West Ham shirt, “more like they want to scare the shit out of those fucking rioters.” Ever since Greece went up in smoke, groups of anarchists had been sending letter bombs and attacking bankers in the streets. Public sympathy was conspicuous by its absence.
I got him to drop me at a pub opposite the restaurant. I was an hour early. The boozer was full of after-work city types and couples dressed for a night at the theatre or opera. I got myself a pint of London Pride and sat by the window, watching the comings and goings from the restaurant, which had a small frontage clad in honey-coloured stone blocks. Perfectly manicured pot plants stood outside, along with a sharp-suited doorman in black tie who looked impervious to the cold. Black-uniformed security guards, who the rich now employed to protect them from the rest of us, lurked nearby.
I spotted the first surveillance operator shortly afterwards. He was in his fifties, wearing jeans and a dark zip-up jacket. I noticed him mumbling into a hidden mic as he settled into his bar stool and unfolded a newspaper. Again, Sergei hadn’t let me down and clearly trusted me about as much as I trusted him. Across the road a glamorous couple walked towards the restaurant. He wore a dark suit and a silk turtle-neck sweater, the woman a shimmering silver dress. They dipped their heads as they spoke into something the woman tucked in her clutch bag. The man discretely performed a three-sixty look around as he neared the doorway. I had no doubt they’d be at a table near mine.
I waited for another forty-five minutes, enjoying another beer and spotting two more operators loitering around and taking up positions. I was hoping that my meeting tonight would be enough of a trigger for Sergei to tell me what he knew, if anything, about Alisa Turov. I hate to generalise, but in my experience Russians love secrets and plots, but sometimes need a gentle push to cough them up.
Finally I crossed the road and waited for a few minutes. Alis
a was five minutes early, wearing a little black dress and boots under a grey double-breasted greatcoat.
“Good evening” I said, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Zdravstvujtye,” she said, almost shyly, using the formal ‘vih’ term for good evening.
I held my hands up. “It’s going to be like that, is it?”
“No, of course not” she said in English, “shall we?”
The weather-resistant doorman gave us a brilliant smile and a bonsoir.
We walked through the door, into La Minoterie.
I had a table at the best restaurant in town, a beautiful dinner companion and somebody else footing the bill. If it wasn’t for the hostile surveillance it had all the ingredients of a good night out.
CHAPTER NINE
The room at La Minoterie was formal and dimly lit, with impeccable service from Guardsman-smart waiters. I ate lobster tails in Norman cider, then venison with pears and foie gras. To finish I wolfed down a chocolate tart, along with a bottle of an eye-wateringly expensive 1977 vintage Chateau d’Yquem Sauterne. The sommelier was thrilled. Along with the two bottles of 1993 Margaux we’d drunk beforehand, I hoped Sergei would notice my good taste when he settled the bill. I patted my stomach and ordered cheese, coffee, brandy and petit fours.
I’d spent eleven years eating either army composite rations or boarding-school stodge in the officer’s mess. Working on The Firm meant Third World street food or takeaways. Coming to fine dining relatively late in life, I reckoned I had some catching up to do.
Belov’s surveillance operators were sat two tables away. They were good, paying each other lots of attention and only occasionally snatching a glance at us. They drank little, the woman in the silver dress tapping away at her phone now and then. Eventually, satisfied they couldn’t hear our conversation, I began to ignore them.
Alisa Romanovna Turov, to use the patronymic she offered, was good company. She ate scallops; a fillet of beef cooked bleu with steamed vegetables, skipped pudding but polished off a bottle of the Margaux. She told me about herself in fast, slang-laden Russian. I had to assume it was all a carefully-constructed lie, but I was interested anyway and nodded politely at the salient parts.
The Ninth Circle Page 8