By this time she had let her guard drop to the point that when he suggested they go to the bar to try one of the Estonian liqueurs, she agreed. This turned out to be a mistake: by the second glass of something fiery with an unpronounceable name, Professor Curtis was showing unmistakably amorous intentions. ‘It is so good to have someone young here for a change,’ he said dreamily, moving closer to her on the sofa.
‘It’s lovely to be here,’ said Liz, with a mournful smile. ‘But I feel sad about my poor mother. She suffered a lot, you know. It was cancer of the pancreas. Very nasty and painful and nothing could be done for her. They say it’s the silent killer; you can have it and not know until it’s too late.’
When Professor Curtis recoiled slightly, Liz stood up and said tearfully, ‘I think I had better go to bed now. Thank you for such an interesting day.’ And with that she walked mournfully out of the bar, leaving Curtis to finish his drink alone.
32
The following day had a full programme of visits to the sights of Tallinn, led by Professor Curtis. Liz went with the party, not wanting to appear anything other than a normal, interested tourist, and spent the day keeping in the centre of the group, trying not to be left alone with Curtis. He had suggested the previous evening that on the third day, which was a free day for tour members to do what they liked, he might give her a private tour of the city. As that was the day fixed for her rendezvous with Mischa, the last thing she wanted was Curtis hanging around. She needed to prevent him from getting any opportunity to renew his offer.
She was also trying to spot any surveillance, though it was impossible to know where it might be coming from. Both Andy Bokus’s covert Station in Tallinn and MI6’s in Riga knew that she was here, and they also knew her alias and the programme of her tour party. She had agreed this was a sensible precaution in case she got into any difficulties, and she had also been given a method of contacting them. But Liz had insisted that they keep well out of the way, since she didn’t want either Mischa or any of his colleagues who might be watching him to become aware of interest from the other side.
As her party went from church to church, she saw nothing to concern her. The churches were full of tourists grouped round their respective leaders, each no doubt explaining in their own language, as Professor Curtis was in his, how much the styles of architecture here varied, ranging from the elaborate onion domes of the Russian Orthodox churches to the stark simplicity of the Scandinavian Lutheran buildings, with their needle spires pointing to the sky. It was a reminder, said Curtis somewhat portentously, of how occupying regimes may come and go, but religious faith endures. Liz wondered how much of this would survive if Tallinn became the front line of a trial of strength between NATO and a newly aggressive Russia.
In the afternoon the focus changed from religion to politics with a visit to the Hotel Viru, the Cold War tourist hotel, where the rooms were bugged by the KGB. On the twenty-second floor there was a control room for the wiretapping operations, and the party marvelled at the antiquated technology – the enormous tape recorders and the little room at the back with the notice on the door saying Zdes Nichevo Nyet, where listeners had sat with headphones on, eavesdropping on the tourists in their bedrooms.
‘What does that mean?’ asked one of the Finlaison sisters, pointing to the Russian sign.
‘It means “There is nothing here”,’ replied the curator to general laughter.
Liz wondered how much of the same thing was still going on, conducted nowadays from an FSB listening station or from the CIA’s covert surveillance, rather than the top floor of a hotel. What was certain was that the technology would be a lot less noticeable than these old monsters, and today’s targets were likely to be politicians and visiting NATO or EC delegations, not tourists.
The following morning Liz had breakfast in her room. She wanted to avoid getting swept up with any of the group and then having to lose them in time for her meeting with Mischa. So she was annoyed to hear a cheerful cry behind her just as she was leaving the hotel.
‘Liz! Good morning, my dear. How are you today?’ It was the Finlaison sisters. Liz stood still, holding the door open for them. She didn’t want to arouse their interest by being rude. One of the sisters said, ‘We’re going along to the market square. They tell us there’s an ethnic market and folk singing there today. We thought we might get some souvenirs and a present for our niece. It’s her birthday next week. Would you like to walk along with us – unless you’ve got other plans?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Liz. ‘I was just going to wander around but I’d like to see the market.’
It was a bright, windless but cool morning with a clear, pale blue sky overhead. ‘We are so enjoying this trip,’ said the younger Miss Finlaison, enthusiastically. ‘Tallinn is such a beautiful city. I do hope it’s doing you good, my dear,’ she added, taking Liz’s arm.
‘Thank you,’ Liz replied, feeling a terrible fraud for playing on their sympathy. ‘It is a lovely place and I’m feeling a lot better.’
In the cobbled square in the heart of the old town, stalls with striped awnings were trading briskly. Most of the selling was being done by women in embroidered skirts and blouses, and head dresses decorated with lace and strings of tiny silver coins which rested on their foreheads. They were selling handicrafts and all kinds of food and drink – from bread and cakes to honey and strange-shaped bottles of brownish liqueurs that looked, thought Liz, likely to blow your head off.
The square was crowded, and after five minutes she had successfully lost the Finlaisons and drifted off discreetly, pretty confident that the two women would still be inspecting the native wares of Estonia when she returned from her meeting.
It took her twenty minutes to reach St Olaf’s Church. There was no need for a map; its spire was clearly visible from the market square and it was only a short distance away. But she needed to be sure no one was following her, so she proceeded with caution. She wandered, apparently aimlessly, through the small alleys and lanes of the Old Town, doubling back twice as if returning to the square. She remembered that Peggy’s briefing note for this trip had described how the white stone tower of St Olaf’s, the tallest in the city, had an observation platform high up, which had been used for almost fifty years by the Soviets as a radio tower and surveillance point. As she wandered, Liz kept track of her position simply by looking for the stiletto-sharp spire.
When she eventually reached the entrance to the church, exactly five minutes before the scheduled meeting time, she was confident she hadn’t been followed.
There was a tour group of Chinese visitors inside, crowding the centre of the nave, so Liz went down a side aisle and took a seat. She stared upwards at the windows and the ceiling like an interested tourist. At the same time she kept an eye on the door, but no likely-looking person came in. She wondered for a moment about a couple, obviously American from their clothes, but they soon left. Then four women in what looked like locally bought winter coats arrived. They genuflected to the altar before sitting down in one of the back pews.
After a few minutes the Chinese left and Liz made her way towards the Sanctuary, crossing in front of the altar. Though the church was Baptist now, much of the original Catholic finery of its interior had been retained. Slowly she headed through an open doorway to a little hallway, which she knew led to an annexe – a chapel that had been built early in the sixteenth century and had survived the lightning strikes and fires that had several times destroyed the main church. Normally open to the public, the chapel was closed today, signalled by a thick red cord strung between two brass stands barring entry to the double doors at the end of the hall. Looking around, Liz saw no one paying her any attention, so she quickly skirted around the red cord, climbed four steps and opened the door to the chapel.
She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the thin, tawny light thrown out by the only illumination in the room – two tall candles by the small altar. There was just enough light for Liz to make out the little
room’s four rows of pews. As instructed, she went and sat in the third-row pew at its farthest right-hand end, next to the side aisle. She sat quietly, her eyes fixed on the altar with its gold cross ornately studded with gems, a hangover from Catholic times.
She was a little early, but within a few minutes heard the door open and then footsteps that stopped by the last row of pews. She didn’t turn round, but waited for Mischa to say, ‘The altar is very old.’ She would then reply, ‘How old?’ And he would say, ‘Old enough,’ then sit down directly behind her. If they were interrupted, they would look like two people seeking solace or praying quietly, away from the tourists filling the main body of the church.
But instead a familiar voice said, ‘Hello, Liz. How on earth did you find this place? I’d been coming for years before I discovered it.’
Liz’s heart sank. It was Curtis, and he moved around the pews now and stood by the end of hers, smiling. Glancing back, Liz saw the door to the chapel stood wide open – anyone coming past could look inside and see them, especially Mischa.
She had to get rid of Curtis fast, but she mustn’t be rude or seem angry at being disturbed – that might simply make him even more curious about her.
‘I needed a few minutes alone,’ she said, hoping he would take the hint.
He didn’t, and sat down at the end of the pew in front, half turned round so he could talk to her.
‘Yes. It is a lovely quiet place,’ he said. ‘I always come here when I’m in Tallinn, but I never bring the tourists. I don’t want to spoil it. But I’m glad you found it.’
Liz’s heart sank. She could see that he was settling down for a pleasant afternoon with her. She had to get rid of him somehow or this trip would have been a waste of time.
Then all of a sudden the quiet was shattered by a mobile phone ringing. Liz jumped. Surely it wasn’t hers. She’d turned it off.
It was then she saw out of the corner of her eye a figure pass by the open door. She couldn’t make out the face, but it was clearly a man: well-built, and wearing an olive-coloured top. The figure hesitated in the doorway, looked in then quickly moved past.
It must be Mischa. He would be spooked to see two people in the chapel and to hear the phone ringing. He’d be thinking that the meeting had been blown. She must stop him leaving somehow.
Curtis had his phone to his ear. ‘Yes. Why? What’s happened?’ He listened for a moment then said, ‘OK. I’ll come straight away.’ He rang off and looked at Liz regretfully. ‘I’m sorry. It was the hotel. Something’s happened to one of the party but they wouldn’t say what over the phone. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you, but have a good afternoon and I’ll see you later.’ He got up and hurried out, closing the chapel door behind him with a bang.
Liz had to get to Mischa fast.
33
Liz went back to the main church and stood by the rood screen, searching frantically for the man she’d glimpsed. There was no one in the nave’s pews remotely like the figure she’d seen in the doorway. Then in a side aisle she saw a man standing by one of the church’s massive columns, examining a stained-glass window. He wore an olive-coloured military-style sweater and dark canvas trousers.
Without glancing around him, the man lowered his head and started walking slowly towards the church’s entrance. It was as if he were in two minds about leaving. Liz strode rapidly down the centre aisle, fast enough to reach the door first. Then she turned down the side aisle and walked straight towards the man in the olive sweater. Looking straight at him, she caught his eye as she stopped several feet in front of him. ‘The chapel is free now,’ she said, then walked past him and down the far aisle of the nave.
Alone again in the private chapel, she sat down feeling confident that at least Curtis would not reappear – whatever the phone call had been about, it had got rid of him. She was less certain that Mischa would come to the chapel again, and groaned inwardly at the thought that she had come all this way only to miss her meet by sheer bad luck.
She sat alone for what seemed an eternity. She wondered if she should go looking for Mischa, though his failure to show up suggested that even were she to find him, it might merely spook him for good.
Then the door creaked slowly behind her. Someone took a step, then one more, then stood stock still. Liz waited tensely, not daring to look behind her.
‘They say the altar is very old.’ The words came out easily, only slightly accented.
Like a clergyman intoning a response, Liz said, ‘How old?’
There was a long pause. ‘Old enough.’ Then he walked forward and sat down in the pew directly behind her.
‘Hello, Mischa,’ said Liz.
‘Who was that man with you before?’ he demanded.
‘He’s the leader of the tour group I am with.’
‘Why was he here?’
‘It was just bad luck. He was looking round the church. He knows this chapel and recognised me and wanted to chat. He’s got nothing to do with this and he doesn’t know why I’m here.’
‘Who was the phone call from? What was it about?’
Good question, thought Liz. She had been wondering herself whether that phone call had been divine intervention or whether one of her minders was looking after her. But she said, ‘It was the hotel. Something has happened to one of our party and he had to go back to sort it out.’
‘What has happened?’
‘I don’t know but I’m sure it doesn’t affect us. It’s probably a small accident. The other members of my group are fairly old.’
She couldn’t see Mischa’s face as he was sitting behind her but she sensed he was reassured. Then he said, ‘I did not expect to be meeting a woman today.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Of course it’s a problem. Especially when the woman is young and attractive. If a man had been here this tour leader would not have been following him.’
‘I don’t know about that. He might have found him attractive too.’
She heard a small sigh that suggested Mischa was amused.
Liz said, ‘Anyway, here I am, for better or worse. Shall we get down to business? You said you had some urgent information.’
‘I do. And it’s very valuable. What can I expect in return?’
Miles Brookhaven had warned her to expect this. She said firmly, ‘I am not going to pay you now. I’ve come to hear what you have to tell us. Your contract is with the Americans and if I tell them that your information is of value, they will pay you.’
‘You must think it will be of value. You’ve come a long way to hear it.’
‘Of course I am interested to hear anything you have to say about Russian activity in my country. But so far what we’ve learned is too vague to help us. I need something we can act on.’
She could sense that Mischa didn’t like her tone. But she needed to get the whole story, whatever he knew, not just a few snippets at a time, doled out, confident that in return he would receive a nice fat packet of dollars.
He said quietly, ‘You understand where my information comes from?’
Liz nodded.
‘Then you know it is not always consistent. My source,’ and he paused, unwilling still to say it was his brother in the FSB, ‘is not aware of our discussions.’
‘He doesn’t share your view of the regime?’
There was a pause. ‘No,’ said Mischa at last. ‘But then he did not see the bodies from the airliner shot down in Ukraine. I did.’
Liz could hear the emotion in his voice but sensed a conflict between his loathing of a regime that could kill so many harmless people and his unwillingness to criticise his own brother. She said nothing. Mischa went on, ‘My point is that what I learn from him is not always thorough or complete. He is not aware that I tell anyone else what he tells me, and it is not a report he is giving me. I am not in a position to ask him too many questions because that might seem suspicious. And there are no documents – that is simply not possible. You understand?’
&
nbsp; She did. Mischa could raise topics, ask general questions, and at the end of a vodka-fuelled evening try to get his brother to boast and tell him what was really going on, unaware of course that Mischa would promptly take what he told him and sell it to Western intelligence. She said, ‘Yes. I do understand. And just as you must take on faith that you will be rewarded for your help, so we take on faith that what you tell us is exactly what you have learned from your source.’
‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘We have an understanding.’ And he started to talk, quickly but clearly, while Liz listened carefully.
When he returned to Russia from Ukraine, Mischa saw his brother at a family reunion, but there had been little chance to talk to him. It hadn’t seemed to matter, since there would be plenty of time for them to meet now that Mischa was back home. But then out of the blue Mischa was told he was being sent to Estonia. He wanted the chance for a good talk with his brother before he went so suggested they rent a small dacha for a few days and do some fishing.
On the first night they had a drinking session. ‘I did not try to match my brother,’ Mischa said, as if acknowledging a handicap. ‘He drinks more than me on any given day, and I needed to be able to report back with a clear memory of what he said.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Liz mildly, wishing there could be a little less partying and a little more hard information.
Mischa may have sensed her impatience. He explained that before his brother became too incapacitated, he’d asked him how things were going at work. Splendidly, his brother had replied, which could normally be discounted as his standard response (he never admitted to difficulties, either at work or at home), but then he’d added that he had recently scored something of a coup. Oh, said Mischa, what was that? And his brother said, you remember how I told you we had placed someone in the UK – an Illegal? Well, they have targeted someone who is now very important in their intelligence services.
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