“Apparently, nothing of any significance was found in the burnt-out shell of the helicopter, certainly no laptop, disks or memory sticks,” Pearce said.
So this was just a lull to create a false sense of security before the real strike. A strike he could perpetrate entirely on his own, from any country in the world. They had to play him at his own game. Where was the last place anybody would look for him?
“Russia!”
Pearce stared at Conrad incredulously. “Isn’t that the last place he’d go?”
Disguise was second nature to Plushenko. That’s how he had survived without being sussed out all these years. He was a master manipulator with a devastating ability to employ psychological and cyber warfare. Conrad wanted him; he wanted him badly.
“He’s originally from St. Petersburg. He’s clever and arrogant enough to try to outwit the Russian Security Services. He would know the best way to avoid detection. It would give him a buzz knowing he was outwitting the FSB. It’s counter-psychology. Besides, he’s done it before when the KGB organised his ‘fatal accident’ in Berlin.”
Pearce shook his head. “We can’t be sure he’s in Russia. He could be anywhere – South America, the Far East.”
“He probably has forged passports in a dozen different names,” Conrad interjected, “and he speaks several languages fluently. I want to go after him.”
Pearce pondered the consequences for Conrad if the security services discovered he was military intelligence. Most of his recent assignments had been in the Middle East, but there was always a chance he would be recognised.
“The Ruskies are in complete denial about Plushenko’s death. They can’t accept that he’s duped them, which will be to our benefit. We’ll drop the hint that our man wasn’t Plushenko after all. A bit of egg on our faces is a small price to pay.”
Pearce nodded in agreement. “I hope you’re right.” With a sigh he walked into the outer office to arrange details for Conrad’s false identity papers.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
St Petersburg, February 2017
Conrad sipped his coffee as he studied the crowds through the window of Cafe Zinger on Nevsky Prospekt opposite Kazan Cathedral. He was travelling as a tourist under the name Gordon Schofield, an accountant from Reading with a passion for Russian architecture.
It was freezing outside, but like most buildings in Russian cities it was sweltering inside. The restaurant had been refurbished since his last covert visit over ten years ago. Now it sported deep green walls and chair covers. Even staff wore matching green and black uniforms. The babble of conversation illustrated the diverse nationalities of tourists to be found in St. Petersburg.
A woman in an expensive fur coat and silver fox fur hat lingered near the entrance. She beamed with delight when she spotted him.
“Darling, how are you?”
He rose, kissed her on both cheeks, and beckoned to a hovering waitress. She ordered an espresso while Conrad helped her take off her coat.
She was married to William Davidson, a wealthy American industrialist, whose great-grandparents left Russia in the late 1800s and settled in New York. On a business trip to Paris he met and fell in love with Ekaterina Merezhkov: a journalism graduate from St. Petersburg studying modern languages at the Sorbonne. Under the pseudonym Veronique Thierry she wrote scathing political articles about the disappearance of journalists in Russia.
Just days after they married in the American Embassy, William whisked her off to America where she lived a life of luxury as Kate Davidson. With a dual passport she travelled to St. Petersburg several times a year. She visited relatives, toured the art galleries and shopped on Nevsky Prospekt. What her husband didn’t know was that she was a conduit for a Russian dissident group with cells in all the major cities.
“What do you know about a man called Pavel Alexei Plushenko?” Conrad asked.
“Didn’t he die in a boating accident in East Berlin in the late eighties?”
“That’s what the Russians think – they set it up to look like an accident. We believe he’s still alive. It’s likely he’s back in Russia using false papers.”
“That’s madness. The FSB would pick him up straight away.”
“Not if they were certain they had knocked him off. He won’t use any of the false identities he’s already used, otherwise he would have been nabbed by us already.”
“But why St. Petersburg?”
“It’s his birthplace. Before he went into the KGB he lived here with his parents. They’re long dead – he has no family left. Besides, if he went to Moscow, even heavily disguised, he could be spotted by one of his old cronies. A lot of them would be dead or retired by now, but one or two could still be around.”
“You think he’ll take on Russian identity?”
“Unlikely, probably French or German. He’s fluent in those languages as well as Russian. His English is perfect. He’s tall, slim, has startling, icy-blue eyes and is totally unscrupulous. He also has a white scar over his left eyebrow. He’s a handsome devil and a womaniser. He’s in his fifties, but looks younger. It’s possible he may have arrived here during the past week. He’s adopted various disguises so I can’t tell you anything about hair colour.”
“Sounds interesting,” Kate replied, raising her eyebrows.
“Don’t be fooled, Kate, he’s a vicious killer.”
Russia hadn’t yet been badly affected by Plushenko’s cyber attacks. It wouldn’t serve his purpose to create chaos in the country where he was hiding out. His plans were breathtaking and frightening in their complexity. There was no doubt he could gain total control of major global economies, defence systems and military personnel, if only for a period of time. Enough time to throw the world into confusion. Set country against country; initiate a war in cyberspace – a war that could spark World War Three.
“Don’t worry,” Kate said, noting Conrad’s grim expression. “I’ll get my people on it. If he’s here we’ll find him.”
She finished her coffee, kissed Conrad on the cheek, and walked towards the exit. At the door she turned and smiled back at him. He sighed, If only she wasn’t happily married to Davidson.
*
An imposing dark-haired man, sporting a neat beard, smiled at the young waitress in Teplo Restaurant just off Bolshaya Morskaya Street. He appeared to be just another tourist crowding the cosy rooms. Natalya, the head waitress, watched him covertly as the girl moved between tables delivering meals. There was something about him that gave her the creeps. He was staring at the waitress with a half smile on his face; a look that suggested something more than another coffee. When Sonya brought the bottle of Malbec he had ordered, he smiled and whispered in her ear. There was no mistaking his intent. He wanted to spend the evening with her.
A plain girl, Sonia had never been very successful with men. Her heart fluttered unbearably when he suggested dinner that night in a very expensive restaurant. He took her hand gently in his and looked deep into her eyes. Sonya was vulnerable, lonely and completely mesmerised by his attentions.
They arranged to meet in the lobby bar of the Grand Hotel Europe at seven thirty. He had finished his potato and salmon pancakes with caviar, followed by a generous helping of beef stroganoff. Swallowing the last mouthful of Malbec, he paid his bill and headed for the Hermitage Museum.
Under the name Helmut Schroeder he had booked into the Renaissance St. Petersburg Baltic Hotel, which gave access to the Hermitage via the room key. It meant he could avoid the enormous queues that trailed down the pavement. After showing his passport he joined a guided tour visiting displays in five interconnected buildings. He was in no hurry; he had a whole week to kill, so why not enjoy it? After two hours he had had enough and walked back to the hotel.
At six-thirty, he made his way to the Grand Hotel Europe where he had booked a room for one night. When Sonya walked shyly into the lobby he took her hand, led her to a quiet corner and ordered champagne. Overwhelmed by the opulence of their surroundings, she
quickly succumbed to his advances. When he suggested they should take the remainder of the champagne to his room, she didn’t object.
As soon as he closed the door, he pushed her onto the bed and started ripping off her clothing. Befuddled by the alcohol, she lay back without attempting to push him off. This was not what he liked. He wanted the bitch to fight, to claw at him, plead with him, but Sonya was too tired. She closed her eyes and started to drift into sleep.
Suddenly, a violent slap brought her back to full consciousness. Through the alcoholic haze she saw his fist coming at her. The blow broke her nose. Terrified, she tried to push him away, but he rained punches at her, slamming her back onto the pillow. Blood trickled from her nose and seeped down the back of her throat. Bruises bloomed on her cheeks and under her eyes. Now she was ready for him. Now he could take her.
She was barely alive when he had finished with her: his face would be the last one she would see before she died. When his hands gripped her neck, a kind of peace settled over her. She slipped into death with the same acceptance she had lived her life. This was all there was for Sonya.
He stuffed his soiled clothes into a bin bag and tucked Sonya up as though she were sleeping. Grabbing the bag, he carried it to the fire exit and raced down the stairs. He threw it into a large waste container before hurrying back to his room in the Renaissance Hotel. After washing the colour out of his hair, he shaved off the beard and took a hot shower to eliminate any signs of blood. He put on the fresh suit he had left there earlier that day and slipped out of the hotel, luxuriating in the knowledge that he had dispensed with another whore. She hadn’t even asked his name. They were all the same except his beautiful mother.
*
From the sixth-floor restaurant of the Renaissance Helmut watched fat flakes of snow falling past St. Isaac’s Cathedral, so close he could almost touch it. In winter, snow covered the faded grandeur and shabbiness of the buildings, turning the city into a fairy tale of glistening white reminiscent of its pre-Bolshevik past. Since Gorbachov’s Glasnost and Perestroika the decadent West had found its way into the very heart of St. Petersburg. He shuddered at the image of McDonald’s on Nevsky Prospekt.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of an elegantly dressed woman accompanied by an elderly man. They sat down at the adjoining table. His eyes roamed discreetly over her body. She was a stunner; just his type. His scrutiny of the woman hadn’t passed unnoticed. Giving her full attention to her companion, she controlled the sudden thrill of anticipation.
Just as their drinks arrived the old man’s mobile rang. Apologising profusely for the interruption, he went outside to take the call. The woman looked over the top of her glass and smiled provocatively. Helmut stood, bowed slightly, and clicked his heels.
“Allow me to introduce myself – Helmut Schroeder from Leipzig,” he said in Russian.
“Ekaterina Merezhkov,” she replied, using her Russian name. “You are German? I must compliment you. Your Russian is perfect.”
“I am something of a linguist.” He smiled modestly. “I am on vacation in your beautiful city.”
“Uncle Piotr, is something wrong?” she asked, as her companion approached the table.
“I’m so sorry, my dear. I know how much you were looking forward to this evening. Those clowns in the warehouse have messed up an urgent shipment. I’ll have to go and sort it out immediately. Perhaps we can rearrange for tomorrow evening.”
He kissed her on both cheeks and hurried out towards the lift.
“I am staying here at the hotel. Perhaps you would care to join me for dinner,” Helmut suggested.
“Thank you, but you are a total stranger. I think I’ll have an early night instead.”
“Please, we may as well enjoy dinner together and a glass of champagne,” Helmut pleaded. “By the time the evening is over you will know all about me.”
“I suppose it will be all right,” she said tentatively. “We’re both staying here at the hotel. It would be nice to have company, but I have to go to reception first to check on my tickets for the ballet.”
*
Conrad walked into the hotel foyer wrapped in a fur coat and Cossack hat, his collar pulled up over his face so that only his eyes could be seen. He stood behind Helmut at reception while Kate enquired about her tickets for the Kirov. When they turned to leave Conrad took a good look at the man who took her arm. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his nose, and inclined his head slightly towards a couple sitting in reception. They followed Helmut and his companion into the Canvas dining room.
Kate smiled over the top of her glass straight into Plushenko’s ice-blue eyes. He didn’t look anything like the description she had been given, but she knew it was him, even though he had tried to disguise the scar over his left eyebrow with make-up. Women noticed that kind of thing.
Natalya from the Teplo was a member of Kate’s dissident group. She had contacted Piotr who put a man on his tail. After trailing Plushenko through the Hermitage and back to the Renaissance Hotel, he waited in the lobby. Plushenko knew he was being followed. It was the same man who had followed him around the Hermitage. Giving him the slip before he went to meet Sonya in the Grand Hotel Europe would be child’s play.
His meeting with Kate Davidson was no accident. It was set up knowing his weakness for beautiful women. The perfect honey trap, but would Plushenko fall for it? Kate glanced briefly at the couple a few tables away seemingly engrossed in conversation. They would be watching out for her throughout the meal. Piotr’s people were discreetly placed in the foyer and near the lifts.
Plushenko was charming throughout the meal, but she knew he had other things on his mind. He plied her with wine, topping up her glass after a few sips. She reached out for a chocolate and deliberately knocked over her glass. The wine spilled in a crimson pool over the pristine white tablecloth and dripped down onto her skirt.
“Oh, how clumsy of me! This will stain!” she cried, dabbing frantically at her skirt. “I’ll never get it out. I’ll have to go up to my room and sponge it.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“No!” Kate replied hastily. “I’ll meet you down here for a nightcap in twenty minutes.”
Plushenko picked up his laptop and went up to fetch his coat and hat. Time for a short walk to clear his head, then that tantalising bitch will get what she deserves.
The cold air hit him in the face when he stepped out of the hotel and walked the short distance to St. Isaac’s Cathedral on Isaakievskaya Sobor. It was snowing heavily. A freezing wind swept across the square. Snow swirled all round him, blurring his vision. Behind him Conrad was keeping a safe distance. He didn’t want Plushenko doing one of his disappearing acts.
The magnificent golden dome of the cathedral, over a hundred metres high, loomed over them. What the hell? Plushenko walked swiftly across the snow-covered grass, leapt over the railings and ran up the steps. By the time Conrad reached the entrance he had disappeared between the columns. His stomach lurched. Had Plushenko sussed that he was being tailed?
Trying to keep in the shadows, he circumvented the enormous Byzantine-style building watching Plushenko dodge between the pillars. He peered into the semi-darkness of the portico, straining his eyes for the slightest movement. Where the hell was he? The façade was illuminated. He would spot him if he tried to run for it. Pressing himself against a pillar, he listened for any sign of movement.
Suddenly, Plushenko sprang from behind a column and ran down the massive granite steps. Conrad lunged at him, bringing him to the ground. The laptop fell into the snow. He grabbed at it, but Plushenko aimed a sickening kick to his diaphragm. Winded, he sank to his knees gasping for air. Plushenko was on his feet running down the steps in the light illuminating the cathedral.
Suddenly, a figure ran from behind one of the pillars, his shadow falling on the snow.
“Nobeca!” he shouted. The man moved into the light. “You will not escape this time.”
“Morozov!” Pl
ushenko froze long enough for Conrad to stand up. “You’ll never capture me, Morozov! I fooled you once and I’ll do it again!” he screamed.
Before Conrad realised what was happening Morozov lunged at Plushenko. Still clutching his laptop, he pushed him off and ran towards the corner of Admiraltyeskiy Prospect. Conrad chased after them along Ulitsa Yakubochiva.
Dodging traffic, he followed them onto Blagoveshchensky Bridge. About twenty metres ahead, Morozov caught up with Plushenko and pushed him to the ground. Something gleamed in his hand. Conrad went for Morozov’s legs. Lashing out with a vicious kick to his knee Morozov ran towards a waiting car. Seconds later, it had disappeared from sight.
Sirens wailing in the distance, Conrad stumbled to Plushenko’s prostrate figure. His dead eyes were wide open, his mouth distorted with shock. The laptop was still strapped firmly to his shoulder. A hypodermic needle jutted out of his neck.
Swiftly, he searched Plushenko’s pockets and retrieved two memory sticks. He wrenched off the laptop and smashed it violently against the balustrade until the outer casing fell apart. Now, he had to destroy the hard drive. He finished it off with the butt of his Glock and threw it over the side with the laptop.
He had to work fast before the FSB agents caught up with him. Struggling to maintain his balance on the icy ground, he hauled Plushenko’s body up over the parapet and pushed it into the night. A sharp crack came out of the darkness as the body hit thin ice and disappeared into the freezing waters of the River Neva. Nobeca had come home.
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