Moscow Honey: A dark suspenseful spy thriller (Clarke and Fairchild Book 2)

by T. M. Parris

  She perched on the sofa. This was classic FSB, showing its muscle. She’d been warned about what they called ‘home incursions’ before she’d arrived. Many of the Embassy staff had experienced them, and other expats as well. One person reported that all the toilet paper in the flat had been removed; later it had been found, stuffed behind the fridge. Another staff member realised that one of their kitchen knives had gone missing. Much discussion was had about whether what they did carried any particular meaning. It was all designed to intimidate, that was for sure. Russian nationals employed at the Embassy had it the worst. If it came to it, Rose could simply up and leave, although it would take a lot for that to happen, particularly if that was what the FSB was encouraging.

  It did not, Peter was at pains to point out, mean that they knew of Rose’s role. They might suspect her of being a spy, but then they suspected most of them of being spies, along with practically all British journos, academics and businesspeople. She had a legitimate job as part of the mission, as they all did. What this meant was that she, like all of them in their close-knit Moscow Station team, had to work that much harder to keep the clandestine elements of their work well and truly hidden. Tricky, as the places MI6 wanted them to go were exactly those places the FSB didn’t want anyone to be. Even more tricky now, as she had to assume that her place was bugged, and possibly on film as well. This was the game of mirrors they all played: we spy and eavesdrop on you, you do the same back to us. We corrupt and cajole and bribe your people to spill your secrets, you do exactly the same to ours, or else you trip us up with traps and twists and double-agents. Whoever said the Cold War was over?

  Nothing else seemed out of place in the lounge. She checked the bathroom, trying to remember if all the bottles were in exactly the same place as she had left them. It was impossible to be sure. In the kitchen, she opened each cupboard in turn. In the bedroom, she felt inside every drawer, explored the pockets of all of her suits. Back in the lounge, she sat on the sofa again. The room was pretty bare. It was a long way from feeling like home and her personal items didn’t fill the room. Her eye kept going back to a small stack of books on a shelf. What was different? She picked them up and went through them. At the bottom was a thin volume she’d never seen before. It was a guidebook in Russian, used and worn: A Tour of the State Hermitage Museum.

  She’d only just arrived back from St Petersburg. This book contained a very clear message. We know where you’ve been, the FSB was saying. We’re watching you.

  She turned the pages of the book without reading it. Her hands were shaking. From the cold? She could tell herself that. She could double, triple check all the doors and windows tonight and sleep with a pepper spray under her pillow. She could be breezy when she told Peter about this, laugh it off. She could make sure she was out of the flat for important phone calls, live a model life while she was here. She could do all that. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? What she’d risked so much to get back? This flat wasn’t a home, never had been and never would be now. It was no different from being outside. What she had to do now was put on an act, lie to Peter, lie to whoever was listening, watching, following, convince everyone that she was okay with this, that it wasn’t getting to her, that she didn’t feel scared and alone.

  And that was exactly what she was going to do.

  7

  Piotr was waiting at the top of ul Lenina. Roman got out of the car and they shook hands, no words needed. They were boys together, their mothers were friends. They drove down to the Central Market.

  “Let’s take a walk,” said Roman.

  Vadim pulled in. Roman got out but Piotr hesitated.

  “You’re afraid of the streets now, Piotr?” asked Roman. “Been in Moscow too long. Come. It’s okay. I need to show my face here, show that this is my town. You’re afraid, you lose everything.”

  They wove through the mass of people waiting for buses, tired women carrying their shopping. They went into the market.

  “Besides,” said Roman as they walked, “I have no enemies here. The enemies are all in Moscow, falling over each other for a taste of Moscow honey. Here is just distant Siberia. This is my retirement, Piotr.”

  He said it with a smile. Piotr was quiet, on edge. In the narrow aisle shoppers squeezed past his huge form. It smelled like it always did in there, of plastic wrapping, magazines, something sweet.

  Oleg was at his stall. He and Roman shook hands. Oleg’s fingers were cold outside his worn fingerless gloves. He was here all day, every day, selling candies piled up in colourful heaps. A few roubles a scoop.

  “See, those trucks you looked after, Piotr, through the border, this could have been in them.” Roman wanted Piotr to understand. When he went south to befriend the border guards and the customs officers, gain their loyalty, it wasn’t for nothing. “You think Oleg could make money like this if he bought Russian goods? Sky-high prices because every official takes a cut at every level? He buys them cheap from me, imported, he can make an honest living and I protect him as well. You think the police will care if he’s robbed or ripped off? I do.”

  Oleg energetically insisted they fill their pockets with toffees and fruity chews.

  “Small things,” Roman said as they walked on. “Small things, but a person’s livelihood, a family looked after. That’s no small thing, is it?”

  Piotr nodded vaguely, his eyes wandering.

  Others greeted the Bear as they walked through. It was busy here, always busy. People always needed shopping bags and plastic shoes, DVDs, toys for the children. Lydmilla came out and kissed him. Her jewellery sparkled and pleased the girls and the women. Roman picked up a necklace, a bracelet, and showed them to Piotr.

  “Of course it’s fake,” he said. “Look at these prices! You think people who come here can afford real gold? In Moscow they scoff at such things. They drip with gold, the women there. Our nation is led by snobs, Piotr. Don’t you think?”

  They came out of the market and stood on the pavement. Roman offered Piotr a cigarette and they stood smoking, watching people and cars crossing the wide junction. A giant advertising hoarding displayed a well-groomed man and an eagle: some brand or other. No one looked at it. Roman felt the sun’s winter warmth on his face. His heart filled. This was his home. He made this place; this was what he was.

  “So, my friend,” he said softly.

  Piotr turned to him, his eyes sad. “The world is changing, Roman. This, what you set up here,” – he waved towards the market – “it’s – small. Modest. In Moscow, you know this, the money, Roman, the money those people have!”

  “And Alexei? Morozov is a solid business, Piotr, but he’s no oligarch. He thinks he can break into that world simply by spending like them? He will bleed the business dry.”

  Piotr sucked his cigarette. “He is easily charmed. You were hard on him, Roman.”

  “I wanted my son to be a man. I raised him as my father raised me.”

  “It doesn’t always work like that.”

  Roman sighed. “Maybe you’re right. If his mother were alive…” Piotr nodded in agreement. “But this woman he has. People are saying she’s Chechen. He’d never marry a Muslim dog!”

  “She converted to Christianity.”

  “And they’re married?”

  “Yes. They’re married.”

  He shook his head. “What is he doing, Piotr? With a woman like that?”

  “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  “Fah! Moscow is stuffed with beautiful girls. Girls who will do anything for a few roubles and a night out. I heard that this girl was one of them. Why would he marry her when he can pay so little to have her whenever he likes? What does she want, Piotr? Is she a terrorist? Going to blow you all up?”

  “He seems to like her, Roman.”

  “Well. Maybe he does. Is he faithful?”

  Piotr squirmed. “He likes the Moscow life. It’s new to him.”

  “I am a fool. I thought this would change him. The business was too small f
or both of us. So I gave it all to him and came home. Now the empire is his. But I never thought – I never thought …”

  “Roman.” Piotr’s eyes were fearful now.

  “Tell me.”

  “The lines to the south. The Black Sea lines.” He hesitated.

  Roman exhaled, felt cold deep inside. “Alexei is pulling out from the south?”

  “No, no! He’s had approaches. From government men. Making him big offers. They’re looking after him, Roman, the men from the Kremlin.”

  The cold took root, spread. “They want the lines? What for?”

  “You know what others would use them for, Roman. What they offered you time after time.”

  Roman straightened. “I’m not a drug dealer, Piotr. I will not smuggle heroin. I want to make this country great, not get rich destroying it.”

  “But the money, Roman! So much money! When he’s with these businessmen, Alexei has this look in his eye. The government people, they’re offering him a way to join all those millionaires, live that life. A way to belong. They know what he wants, Roman.”

  Roman sighed and looked up at the clouds. “You’re sure? You’re sure that’s what he’s doing?”

  Piotr shook his head. “No, not sure. I hear things, see the men who visit. One in particular, a solid man, a strong man. Alexei looks up to him.”

  The image made something inside Roman twist. Piotr, seeing his face, put his hand on the Bear’s shoulder.

  “You’ll find out?” asked Roman. “You’ll let me know, what these people want from Morozov?”

  Piotr’s face was pale. “These men, Roman, they’re dangerous.”

  “We know danger, Piotr. We survived. How many times did our rivals try to get us, during those years, take the business from us? But we fought them off and we won. We got revenge. Remember that.”

  “The government men are not bandits. They’re not robbers with a code, like us. They know everything, see everything. This man, all of them, they’re – sure of themselves.”

  “Well, so are we,” Roman said, patting his arm. “Piotr, so are we.”

  In the car driving home, Vadim caught Roman’s eye in the rear view mirror.

  “So, it’s true?” he asked.

  “Yes, Vadim. It’s true, all true.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Roman watched the countryside go by, wide and vast. The low sun dazzled on the brow of the hill, casting long shadows through the birch trees. Thin white branches reached up and formed lacy patterns against the blue sky. The snow glittered.

  “We go to Moscow,” he said.

  8

  Large, grey and functional, Moscow’s British Embassy sat securely behind a cage of steel fencing and a twenty-four hour armed guard. Upstairs, deep inside, it held a long, comfortably equipped conference room with padded walls, suspended in mid-air, so new recruits were told, the only room in the building guaranteed not to be bugged. In this room, in round-backed armchairs that could have been lifted from a hotel, sat Rose and Peter, a laptop open between them on a low table. On it sat the enhanced and edited result of their filthy St Petersburg op: Kamila Morozova displayed to the world over a foggy canal. Rose asked Peter if he wanted to view it. To her relief, he shook his head.

  “You know who needs to see it. And we’re not looking for a one-off. We need to keep her in place, feeding us what we need. We should have a powerful enough sway over her. If Alexei found out, I don’t think we’d be talking about an amicable separation.”

  “Even though it’s okay for him to spend a night with two paid escorts.”

  “Unfair, isn’t it? Still, I’m sure you can make use of it. Female bonding and all that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I will.”

  “And we’ve no idea who the gentleman might be?”

  “We didn’t see his face at all.” Rose had decided not to mention her suspicion just yet. Fairchild was his own man, and this matter didn’t seem to concern him.

  “Well, you know what we want from this. The FSB is courting Alexei. What we need to know is why. Morozov has a hand in all kinds of things, but it’s the smuggling business that’s likely to be of interest to the Kremlin. Morozov trades goods south and west, through Eastern Europe and the Caucasus, down to the Stans as well as east through to China, Korea, Japan. The Kremlin is keen to restore Mother Russia to its rightful place in the world, like the old USSR, challenging the power of the west. We have something of a problem with their proprietorial attitude towards their neighbours, particularly those of the former Soviet Union. And we’ve seen it in action, not just in the Crimea but in supposedly independent enclaves, troop build-ups along borders, other less direct political pressure. Put those two things together…”

  “Does the Russian government really need Alexei? He’s a bit of a loose cannon, to put it mildly.”

  “A liability, but a gift as well. Morozov senior would never have got the firm involved in this way. Bribing minor officials to turn a blind eye is one thing, but acting as a tool of the state something else entirely. That’s why Morozov is one of the few crime syndicates left that genuinely stands apart from the Russian state. Alexei taking over is an opportunity to make a lot of things easier. Like moving troops and weapons around without attracting attention, for example.”

  “Perhaps they just want to muscle in on the revenue. Alexei gets greater status in exchange for a cut.”

  “It could be as simple as that. We need to know more.”

  “And we think Kamila will be able to provide this intelligence? She seemed rather passive at the reception.” Rose pictured her, a slender decorated waif with a vacant gaze.

  “The surveillance spotted her going along to one or two of his business meetings. Surprised?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t say much, but having ears in the room would help us. She could also plant devices, look things up, report on his movements. Got a plan in place for the first approach?”

  Rose filled him in on the detail. He nodded, then sat back.

  “I hear you had a home visit.”

  Rose sighed. “They knew I was in St Petersburg.”

  “They’ll have had a presence at the reception for sure. Files on many of the people there. They have most of us under surveillance. At least they think they do. Get used to having an audience. Don’t do anything different. You know how to slip away when necessary. It’ll take some getting used to. Your flat will be bugged, of course. Goes without saying.”

  “Comes with the job, I suppose. The more hostile they get, the more important it is that we keep doing what we do.”

  “Exactly. They’ve had a particular space in their hearts for the British since we spoke out about the Salisbury poisonings and so many of their diplomats were expelled worldwide. But that’s why we’re here, to equip ourselves with the intelligence we need to defend ourselves. And it doesn’t matter that there are more of them than us. We just have to be better.”

  Rose folded her arms. “Are you getting a sense of déjà vu about all this? Is it taking you back to the old days?”

  Peter smiled. “It’s the same but different. Russia’s always done this. A brief period of release following a dominating autocratic regime, and it really looks like things are going to change for good. Then someone gets cold feet and it snaps back again, with even more control than before. And significant casualties, sometimes. The food is better these days, I’ll say that.”

  “Is it?” Rose was not a great fan of the vinegary mush that passed for Russian cuisine.

  “Oh, yes. Believe me. And the technology of course. The Kremlin’s sponsorship of IT security breaches and social media interference is the world’s worst kept secret. That context is all new. So how do you like the place? Settling in?”

  For a split-second Rose was tempted to give him an honest answer. But how to put it into words? That growing feeling that she was disconnected, constantly wandering, always watching, spending evenings sitting in empty fl
uorescently lit burger cafes in front of undrinkable coffee, browsing store shelves then leaving without buying anything, just to put off having to go home? Her flat a doll’s house and her an actor playing a role in front of an audience – in the living room, in the kitchen – finally going to bed sleepless because she couldn’t stay up all night, then getting out of bed again to pad around checking every door and window, even though she’d already done it three times, and besides, the doors don’t keep them out? But this was what she wanted, this job. She’d fought hard, risked her life, to get back into the Service. She had nothing else outside of this job, didn’t want anything else.

  She nodded slowly. “It’s okay. The locals can be a bit – well, they’re not the most cheery of people, are they? Everyone has a tragic story. ‘Dead, dead, everyone dead!’.” She mimicked a Russian babushka, holding her hand out to passers-by in the street.

  “Well, there is that element to Russian history, as you’ll know from all your background reading. Human life has been valued very cheaply here. Some say it still is.”

  Rose nodded sagely, wondering if anyone actually got through the diplomatic service pre-posting reading list. She’d managed a few and had even made a start on War and Peace. But she was more interested in the present.

  “Why are you still here, Peter? They normally move people on by now. Aren’t they worried you’ll go native?”

  Peter smiled again. “I guess I’ve managed to persuade them that I won’t. I like it here. I like the people, sense of tragedy notwithstanding. So does the family. The difference between summer and winter, the vastness of the place, the churches, the countryside. And it matters. There will never be a time when Russia doesn’t matter. It’s too big. It’s got oil, it’s got gas. It’s got too charged a history. Too many borders, too many neighbours.”