The Russian Doll (Ben Sign Book 3)

by Matthew Dunn

  “isn’t the FSB suspicious that he may be working for MI6?”

  Sign shook his head. “That was the beauty of my demand. The Russian navy was severely embarrassed. In a private ceremony, Gregor was awarded Russia’s highest medal. And quite rightly so, even though Gregor knew it was given to him to shut him up. What it did do, however, was grant him freedom and infinite respect. No one watches Gregor and no one in this country dares touch him. He’s invincible. And he works for me on odd occasions. We’ve done a lot of jobs in various parts of the world. He’s useful to me because he’s very precise.”

  “Precise?”

  Sign didn’t elaborate.

  Gregor walked on to the balcony, with a huge grin on his face. “Dinner’s nearly ready. Are you two swapping war stories? What is it you Brits say? Something like pull up a sandbag and swing the lantern?” He rubbed his hands together and sat next to them. “Time for one more drink before we eat. Now, tell me Mr. Tank Engine – how did you kill your girlfriend’s murderer?”

  Natalia was sitting on her room’s bed, within a cheap hotel in central Moscow. She’d checked in to the hotel two hours ago, had called Sign to say she’d arrived safely in Russia, and had done little else since aside from purchasing a burger from a nearby street vendor. The room was clean, small, and functional. She’d tried watching TV, but couldn’t concentrate. The journey had been tiring and she felt uneasy being in her country’s capital. Her stomach was cramping and her mind was giddy. She knew that had to stop. The temptation to get under her bed’s duvet was almost overwhelming, but she told herself that to do so would be submitting to fear. She had to spend the next hour or two in a state of calm meditation. After that, she’d sleep. And tomorrow, she hoped, she’d be relaxed and confident. So, she sat on her bed, her hands placed together in front of her face, as if in prayer, her eyes closed, her breathing deliberately deep and slow. She silently repeated the line that Sign had said to her when he asked her to briefly visit Moscow.

  It is not a dangerous enquiry.

  Her cover for staying in the hotel was sound. Though she was ostensibly in Moscow to see her aunt and uncle, they lived in a one bedroom high rise apartment. They didn’t have room to accommodate her. Also, they lived in the outskirts of Moscow. Natalia wanted to be near to the SVR headquarters in case she needed to work. Tomorrow evening she’d visit her family. Sign’s suggestion that the purpose of her trip was due to a medical emergency was apt. Her uncle had been a chain smoker all his life. He now had emphysema. Her aunt needed MRI and CT scans after suffering from blackouts during the last few months. Natalia had previously spoken to them on the phone from London, suggesting that they move to the house that her brother had bought near St. Petersburg. But they’d rightly refused the kind offer, given it was too far away from medical facilities and they didn’t drive. Natalia had a bit of savings, not much, but she hoped she could help them with their health care costs. It deeply saddened her. If they died she’d have no one left aside from the woman who called herself Katy. Ben and Tom wouldn’t feature for much longer in her life. They were hired help, she could tell. Soon they’d move on to another project. And even Katy might vanish from her life if Natalia couldn’t get her act together and prove her value to MI6.

  She stopped meditating and walked to the only window in the room. She was four stories up from the road below Cars were bumper-to-bumper in the evening traffic, producing a river of neon headlights. Either side of the vehicles were low-rise shops and office buildings. In the distance were taller buildings. The city was buzzing and aglow with a multitude of illuminations. Tourists would have thought it looked cool. But Natalia didn’t think of it that way. She knew that underneath the veneer of the cosmopolitan, post-Soviet, hip metropolis was the same old dogma of corruption, cruelty, and disregard for life. Russians understood that; most tourists didn’t. Everyone who lived here were acutely aware that they were ants that could be squashed without a second thought by the government. They were disposable. To the governments and previous tsars, that mind set made sense. Who wants to run the biggest country in the world if it’s getting overpopulated? And how can one stop the country fragmenting into smaller countries without holding the motherland together with the use of a rod of iron and brutal punishments on its populous? It’s why Natalia and so many other Russians hated their homeland – they knew there was no feasible alternative to how rulers governed such a vast chunk of the world. It left Russians with two choices: leave or accept how matters have always been conducted for centuries. Natalia had chosen to leave, but she’d done so as a Russian spy. Her career choice now seemed utterly ridiculous..

  She changed into her bedtime attire, drank some water, and got into bed. She thought she’d fall straight to sleep. She didn’t. She thought about Petrov and how, at the end, he looked so utterly alone in the world; her parents and how exhausted they were with life, and her own lonely and unusual life. Sign had been right in his comment to her when they’d dined. She was young. Ordinarily she shouldn’t be ready in life to resignedly accept her plight and the realities of her day-to-day existence. Most women her age were dating, going out in the evening with friends, communicating with pals on social media, going on holidays, dreaming about the future and joyous events, sometimes laughing, other times sad. She had none of those things, not even sadness. Her life was all about survival.

  She turned off the bedside light. Her eyes remained open. After thirty minutes, she closed them. Before sleeping she decided she had two choices: die you as an emotional and physical wreck; or get a new life in Britain. But to get the latter she’d have to complete her work for Katy. And before that she’d have to do her best to find answers to Susan Archer’s disappearance.

  CHAPTER 7

  Early the following morning Knutsen was woken by the sound of squealing. Bleary eyed, he put his clothes and boots on and went downstairs. He couldn’t see anyone in the house, though lights were on and the kettle was boiling. But the squealing was louder and he could hear men shouting from outside. He opened the front door and walked outside. Gregor and Sign were chasing a mid-sized pig that was bolting along the lake’s shoreline. Yuri was standing nearby, holding Lenin on a leash.

  Gregor was apoplectic, shouting in Russian, “Stop, you little fucker!”

  Sign ran ahead of the pig, stopped, turned to face the swine, and held out his arms. The action confused the pig. It slowed sufficient for Gregor to catch up with it and attach a lasso to its neck. He dragged the beast back towards the house and placed it in a nearby pen. As he walked past Yuri he muttered, “I told you to bolt the door! The others in there might be docile but this one’s a lively bastard. If you hadn’t grabbed Lenin he’d have ripped the pig apart.” He smiled as he walked to Knutsen. In English he said, “Good morning Thomas. Unless absolutely necessary I would advise you never to keep animals and wayward sons. I’m going to make a pot of coffee for us all, but take your time. It will stay warm on the stove.” He went into his house.

  Knutsen wandered over to Sign. For the first time, he could properly take in the surroundings of the house. Aside from the small wooden barn containing the pigs, there was a chicken coop, small outhouse for smoking and drying fish, pond that was fed by a tributary from the lake and contained a fish trap at its entrance, two horses and one pony in a paddock with a large shelter, garages, large gas unit that supplied the house, tractor, and an assortment of other farm equipment – some of it in good condition, others rusting and cannibalised for spare parts. The land was also farmed for crops, though most of the plots were bare at this time of year. It was hard to tell how much land Gregor owned. Aside from the two hundred yard fence that stretched from the house and followed the lake’s shore, there were no discernible man-made boundaries. The only natural boundaries were the lake and a forest that was either side of the track into the property and four hundred yards away. On the vast lake, a rowing boat was tethered to a post, fitted into the slim beach. On the far side of the lake was another forest that str
etched for as far as the eye could see. Knutsen estimated it would take at least three hours to row to the other side. And goodness knows how long the lake was. It was impossible to see where it began and ended; at the very least it was a mile long, probably considerably longer. One thing was clear – there were no visible dwellings near Gregor’s farmstead.

  Sign was checking the rowing boat.

  Knutsen asked him, “Sleep okay?”

  “Like a hibernating bear.” Sign walked towards the house. “Let’s get a brew down our necks. Then you and I need to fetch some breakfast.”

  Knutsen followed him. “Breakfast? How far is the nearest shop?”

  “Too far.” Sign entered the house.

  The fire was lit. Lenin was curled up in front of it, having become fatigued after his five mile walk with Yuri this morning. In the kitchen, Yuri was pouring freshly brewed coffee. Gregor was sitting in the lounge, smoking his pipe and reading a week-old newspaper.

  Gregor flicked the paper, and tossed it onto the fire. “The world has gone mad.” He gestured to the spare armchairs. “Sit and have a drink. Then you must work for your supper.”

  The comment didn’t seem to faze Sign, who slumped into a chair. By comparison, Knutsen had no idea what was going on.

  Yuri served them mugs of coffee and said, “I need to check the chicken wire. We’ve got a family of foxes nearby.” He left.

  Gregor put his hands around his mug. “Have you heard from your asset?”

  Sign nodded. “Today she’s going into SVR headquarters. It’ll make or break her. All we can do is wait here, unless there’s an emergency.”

  “Da, I know. Do you have a back-up plan if the wheel comes off?”

  “Yes. But, I’m not going to tell you what it is.” Sign winked at Gregor. “Officially you are a Hero of the Russian Federation. You’re the last person I should be speaking to.”

  Gregor chuckled. “Hero of the Russian Federation. What a joke.” His expression turned serious. “My men drowned in a steel coffin.”

  “You tried to save every one of them. Your efforts were nothing short of spectacular.” Sign sipped his coffee. “You have survivor guilt. That’s all. We discussed this a few years ago. And look at what you and I subsequently did to the identify and neutralise the butcher in Myanmar, our heist of dirty bank money in Bahrain, the trick we played on the CIA in Venezuela, that bloody long trek through the jungles of Borneo to catch the man who slit Jacob’s throat, and that incredible two mile shot you took on the side of K2 to knock off the head of the man who wanted to set fire to the world. There are so many other examples.” Sign smiled. “Not bad for a sailor.”

  Gregor waved his hand. “That was then and this is now.” He stood and took two guns off the rack. “Mr. Thomas. I presume you can shoot.” He handed Knutsen one of the guns. “You and I are going hunting in the forest now for this household’s dinner. Meanwhile Ben is going on to the lake to catch our breakfast.”

  Natalia entered the headquarters of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, in the Yasenevo district in southwest Moscow. She approached the security desk, showed her passport, and was told by the guard behind the desk to wait. He made an internal telephone call and told her to wait. Five minutes later a man swiped his SVR on an electronic recognition pad on the inside of the rigid clear plastic barriers in the lobby, came through the gate, and smiled when he saw Natalia.

  He approached and said, “Good to see you.” He nodded at the security guard. “She is who she says she is. Give her a temporary pass.” When Natalia was issued the pass, the man said to her, “Come with me.”

  She followed him through the gates and into the huge building.

  As the man led her along corridors with offices either side, up lifts, and along more corridors, he jabbered. “It’s the busiest here that I’ve known it for years. We’ve got all this terrorist shit to deal with, organising missions in Syria that look like we’re targeting ISIS whereas instead we’re wiping out the rebels who want to oust that psychopath president who our politicians support, cyber attacks against the West – and my goodness, you should see the size of the cyber team now, I bet it’s four times the size since you were last here, bolstering the Crimea, monitoring North Korea and China, alongside the FSB dealing with the usual internal shit within Russia, and having fun and games with Brexit, Europe in general, Britain, and America.” He stopped by an office. “And we’re clearing out the rotten apples. What we did to the Skripals in Salisbury is a drop in the ocean. We’re going after every single defector, no matter where they are, and we’ll send them to Hell.” He knocked on the door and entered.

  A fifty three year old man was sitting behind his desk. He was slim, wore glasses, had silver hair, and was wearing a suit. He stood when he saw Natalia, and walked into the centre of the oak panelled room. “Natalia. Take a seat.” To the man who’d escorted her to the room, he said, “Leave us now.” When they were alone, he sat behind his desk. He was the head of the SVR’s Britain Department and had served in the foreign intelligence service for thirty one years. During his career he’d been posted to Tokyo, Islamabad, Kabul, Kiev, Munich, Washington D.C., and three times in London. Some SVR officers thought he was destined to be the next director of the service; others thought not because he loathed politics and wanted to stick to what he did best. His name was Alexander Surikov.

  Surikov asked, “How was your flight?”

  Natalia replied, “We need a better national airline.”

  Surikov smiled. “Technically, Aeroflot is semi-privatised. Where are you staying?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “I do. Does the hotel serve your needs?”

  “I’ve slept in worse places.”

  Surikov nodded. “We do what we have to do. How are your aunt and uncle?”

  “I’m seeing them this evening. Things are not looking good.”

  “Your aunt should get her scans as soon as possible. Regrettably your uncle may be beyond repair.”

  Natalia hadn’t told anyone in the service about her relatives’ medical condition. She said, “I just need to check on them and see what I can do to help. But, I can’t stay long. We’re really stretched in the London office.”

  “I’m sure you are. How are you finding it there?”

  Natalia replied with part lies and part truths. “London looks like it’s under martial law. There are cops everywhere, armed with Heckler & Koch submachine guns, and wearing body armour. Every inch of the city is monitored by CCTV. There’s brilliant food to be had, and the cinemas and theatres are great. But I don’t go out much. Actually, I don’t go out at all when I’m not working. It’s a scary place. We work really long hours in the London office. When I get home I just want to sleep. And I don’t feel that I belong in London. It feels so alien to me.”

  “You are young and this is your first posting. You’ll get used to operating in strange places. Are you planning to do any work while you’re here?”

  Natalia replied, “I’d like to decompress as much as possible, alongside my family duties.”

  “Quite right. I was going to suggest the same.”

  She added, “But I would like to do some research. Can I have access to our archives section?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I’d like to look into an old case. It’s to do with the disappearance of Sergey Peskov in nineteen sixty eight.” Peskov was a KGB officer, based in London, who’d gone to meet a British asset in Manchester and had never been seen since. His disappearance was a mystery to the Soviet Union. “I have a contact who has told me that she knew Peskov. My contact thinks he was assassinated by British authorities. I don’t know much about the Peskov case. My understanding is that it was assumed by us that he’d defected and his identity had been changed. If that’s true, he’d be an old man by now, or dead. However, I imagine in the current climate it would be good if we could prove he was killed by the British. They might stop finger pointing at us about the Salisbury thing if we confr
ont them with some home truths.”

  “Good thinking. Who’s your contact?”

  “It’s delicate. She’s not yet fully recruited by me. If I’m successful in getting her on board I’ll happily tell you her name. For now I have to tread carefully.”

  Surikov pondered the statement. “I understand.” He smiled. “You are putting your field training to use. Don’t worry – one day soon I will give you the freedom to get away from your analyst desk job. Enjoy it while it lasts.” He slapped his desk. “When you get to my age you soon find yourself back behind one of these damn things. Yes, you can have access to the archives and investigate the Peskov case. You are right – it would be good to have some dirt on the Brits. The UK, America, NATO, the whole bunch of them, are rattling their sabres at us.” He stood and held out his hand. “Good work Natalia. But, make sure you have some time for yourself as well. You look tired. I don’t want you to burn out.”

  Natalia shook his hand. “Thank you sir.” She left his office.

  While Gregor and Knutsen were stalking through the nearby woods, Sign was in the lake, sitting on Gregor’s rowing boat, casting the line from a fly fishing rod. Due to the depth of the lake he’d opted to use a reel loaded with a sinking line. On the tippet was a gold head nymph and two droppers containing pheasant tail flies. After the line was extended he silently counted to fifteen before beginning the retrieve using a figure of eight hand technique. There were no strikes. He cast the line into a different spot and counted ten before retrieving. Still nothing. This didn’t perturb Sign. He was used to the complexities of fly fishing and the odd temperament of the trout he was targeting. He looked at the lake. Five hundred yards away was a ripple on the surface. This was good. It meant that it was less likely the trout would see him and it gave them extra courage to chase after aquatic life. He rowed there, let his boat gently drift, and cast again. His line pulled tight. He’d had a strike. He raised the rod to twelve o’clock and played the fish, sometimes pulling it in, other times letting in run in case it snapped the tippet line. The process lasted ten minutes before he was able to net the trout and despatch the fish using a wooden priest. The trout was at least three pounds. He placed it in the hull of the boat and cast again. Forty minutes’ later he rowed to shore, tethered the boat, and walked to Gregor’s house, his rod and other kit in one hand, the two trout he’d caught dangling by their gills in the other. As he neared the property, Gregor and Knutsen emerged from the forest. Gregor had two ducks lashed on a piece of rope and slung over his back. Knutsen was carrying a goose that he’d shot while it was flying close to the lake. Both men had smiles on their faces. They’d caught dinner and like all respectful hunters they’d only killed what they needed for the cooking pot.