by Matthew Dunn
Natalia embraced her uncle and aunt and sat at the table. While her aunt spoke to her, Natalia’s uncle disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged with a smile on his face. In both hands he was cradling a bottle of wine. Natalia had bought it for them last Christmas. It had remained unopened ever since. The uncle said that tonight was as good a time as any to partake of a good drop. He uncorked the wine and sat with the women. As they ate and drank, they spoke about a range of matters – how Natalia was finding London, Russian politics, the nearby dog that kept barking at night, Natalia’s love life, British and American politics, and whether Natalia couldn’t be persuaded to stay for dinner. Natalia steadfastly refused to capitulate on the latter demand. She had to see Osip. Plus, she knew there’d be no dinner. Or, if there was it would be made from food that would have been allocated for her aunt and uncle’s meal tomorrow. She couldn’t deprive them of that. She told them that she’d be returning to Moscow fulltime in six months and that she’d visit them regularly. She forced herself to smile as she added that maybe she’d meet a wealthy husband who’d buy them a nice house near the hospital.
After she left she paused on the ground floor of the building and wiped away tears. She walked outside and continued onwards to the nearest underground train station.
Archer met the chief of MI6 in the tea room of Claridge’s., in Mayfair. She was exhausted, having barely slept in the night due to her worry about Natalia, and because she’d had to spend all day firefighting a crisis in the Russia Department after one of its assets had been caught by the FSB and allegedly committed suicide in his cell. She sat opposite her boss.
“I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering,” he said. “A pot of earl grey tea, raison scones, and a frangipane tarte.”
Archer yawned. “Sounds lovely.”
The chief smiled. “You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. That’s why I invited you here. And afterwards I insist that you go home and put your feet up. Don’t cook. Order yourself a takeaway pizza. Watch some nonsense on TV. Get an early night.”
The food and drink were delivered to the table. When the waiter was gone, Archer said, “It’s hard to relax at the moment.”
“I know.” The chief had to choose his words carefully because their table was too close to other tables and they could easily be overheard by guests. “She will be alright. Trust her. She’ll come back safely.”
“You can’t guarantee that and nor can I.” Archer took a bite from one of the scones. She had to force herself to swallow the mouthful, given food was the last thing on her mind these days.
The chief poured tea. “You know the rule. We must accept that we are like parents dropping our children off for their first day at university. We have to let them fly, even though it galls us to do so.”
“And at the same time we expect them to get a first class degree.”
“Yes. We’re fearful for them, and yet we demand significant achievements from them. There is a contradiction within that duality.”
“Always the bloody contradictions.” Archer blew over film of her tea. “This is make or break for her. Is it make or break for me as well?”
The chief didn’t answer her question. “After this posting you should become one of the five directors. You’ll be the first woman to achieve that seniority. After that you should consider applying for my job. I’ll be long gone by then and there’ll be at least one person succeeding me before you reach that point in your career, but it’s worth aiming for.”
Archer huffed. “That’s if I’m good enough, or the right political animal.”
“Why shouldn’t a woman take my job?”
Archer felt herself getting angry. She wasn’t normally like that and she knew it was just down to fatigue. “Come on. It’s nothing to do with being a woman. And there’s no such thing as the old boys’ club. It’s down to the logics of the job. A woman can be a minister or prime minister. But those jobs are vastly different to ours. Fifty percent of new entrants to our organisation are women. It’s fine for a while. But, some of us gals want to get married and have kids. That’s not great if you’re constantly being posted overseas. So a few years after joining, we lose a swathe of women. At the mid and senior level it’s only spinsters like me who hang on in there. That’s okay. We made life choices. But then one has to apply logic. Just because I’m a woman and have stuck the course doesn’t make me as good as the ten plus male candidates I’ll be up against for a director post and subsequently for the top job. The men have to compete against each other. The best rise to the top. I compete against them as well. But I’m also singled out as the most senior women in the service. That means shit. I become a token. We’ve always applied the principal that the best person should get the job, regardless of gender, race, creed, or any other bollocks.” She rubbed her face. “I’m babbling and that’s because I am tired.”
He stirred his tea while keeping his eyes on her. “In my experience results are all that matters in our company. One can be the most brilliant political animal, super smart, diplomatic as fuck, backstabbing, and sociopathic in ambition, but that means jack. To get to the top one must have at least one major achievement under one’s belt. In my case it was that incident with the bomb in Nicosia.”
Archer smiled. “We still can’t believe what you did when you discovered it adjacent to the embassy – walking down the street with it, depositing on a mountainside, walking back to your station in the British embassy, like it was business as usual. People wanted you dead. You did your stiff upper lip thing. You didn’t stop work when you heard the bomb explode. It was as if nothing had happened. The explosion was massive and would have killed hundreds, at least, including you. And there are so many other stories about you.”
The chief didn’t move. “What did you and your colleagues think when you all heard I was taking the top job?”
Archer didn’t have to consider the question. “We thought we had a general who’d proven he can lead from the front.”
“Precisely. None of you respected me for how I conducted myself in service boardrooms, Whitehall, Washington, or Paris. That meant nothing to you. What mattered is my track record in the field. There are many that rise to senior management who don’t have such a track record. But that’s where their career stops.” He drank his tea without taking his eyes off Archer. “What you’re doing with Natalia is ground breaking. I don’t need to tell you how significant her work is and how it will influence geopolitics. Get this one right and you will have walked your bomb onto the mountainside.”
“And thus I no longer become the token woman.”
“Precisely. It’s always results that matter, not what’s between your legs.”
Archer relaxed and laughed. “Bless you. That’s the first time I’ve laughed in a while.” She sliced the frangipane. “I think tonight I will get a pizza, have a nice bath, and watch a movie. Any recommendations on the latter?”
The chief didn’t blink. “Genre?”
Archer served him the tarte. “Because I’m not a stereotype, it’s not going to be some godawful rom com. I’m thinking war movie. Something where I can see good prevail over evil.”
“In which case you could watch a superhero movie.”
Archer shook her head. “Too far-fetched. War movie.”
“I see. A Bridge Too Far?”
“Seen it.”
“We Were Soldiers?”
“Seen it.”
“Platoon, Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, or any other Vietnam War movie?”
“I think I’ve seen them all.”
“In that case you must watch The Siege of Jadotville. It’s based on a true story. You will like it.” The chief’s eyes twinkled. “And for good measure the leading man may well be to your tastes.” He touched her hand. “My wife sends her best wishes to you and has asked me to give you an open invitation for a Sunday roast, at your convenience and when work calms down. Have a think about it.” He asked a waiter for the bill. “I have to dash.
Wretched meeting with an Egyptian billionaire who thinks he can oust the American president.”
Natalia arrived at Osip’s house. It was a modest bungalow in northeast Moscow, detached, and had a small garden at the rear that had been transformed by Osip, after his wife died, into an allotment that grew root vegetables. Osip guided her in to his home. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of beef bourguignon. The home was lovely. Natalia suspected little had changed inside since Osip’s wife had passed away. This was not just a man’s house. The woman’s touch was everywhere – framed photos of Osip’s family, artificial flowers, a painting of a female opera singer receiving a bouquet at Carnegie Hall, beautiful drapes, a wooden bowl of fruit on a table, doily clothes on the arm rests of the sofa, scented air humidifiers plugged in to sockets, delicate blue lights strung alongside one wall, and everything was in its place. Osip, Natalia decided, had kept the home as a mausoleum in honour of his dearly departed. The only indication of a man’s presence were a baked bean can that was stuffed with fag ends and empty vodka bottles on the floor, awaiting bin recycling day next Tuesday.
Osip poured her a drink. Clearly he’d had a few before she’d arrived. “The beef’s in the slow cooker. We can eat whenever we’re hungry.” He sat in an armchair and lit a cigarette.
Natalia sat in the other armchair. “Thanks for inviting me. I saw my aunt and uncle before coming here. It was tough. They’re not well and have no money.”
Osip chinked her glass. “We drink to better times.”
“We do.” She sipped her drink.
By comparison, Osip downed his vodka and poured himself another. “How is London treating you?”
Natalia had to move fast. Osip was already drunk and she doubted he’d be capable of serving up dinner or remembering it was cooking. “London is fine. It’s odd being back. I suppose I’ve grown acclimatised to Britain.”
Osip chuckled. “Don’t get too comfortable.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “When you’re back here you’ll settle in to the way of things. Once a Russian, always a Russian.”
“How are you coping, since Maria died?”
“Routine, booze, cigarettes, routine.” Osip smiled, showing off his crooked yellow teeth. “It’s all I have left.”
Natalia nodded. “I know about loss. My brother killed himself in front of me.”
Osip looked serious. “Ah, my precious flower. You should never have seen that.” He wiped his mouth. “I was by Maria’s side when she passed away from cancer. Her eyes were screwed up due to the pain. All I could think about was how she looked when I first saw her in a ballroom in Vladivostok, forty years ago. She glanced at me but she was keeping options open and checking out other men. It was the most courageous thing I’ve ever done – going up to her and asking for a dance. We got married a year later. She, or me, couldn’t have kids; we never bothered to find out why, because it didn’t matter. I wonder if it was my smoking that killed her, or the pollution in Moscow, or the long hours she worked. Who knows? All I know is for some weird reason I’m still here, a cigarette in one hand and a glass in the other. God is cruel.”
“Amen to that.” Natalia pretended to drink. “You’ve been doing your current job for a long time.”
Osip poured himself another drink. “Over a decade. I’m just filling in the hours, waiting for my pension.”
“You must know a lot of secrets.”
“I told you – I’m not permitted to read the files in the archives.”
“For sure, but you pick up gossip here and there from people who come to your room.”
Osip laughed. “Of course. Nothing goes unnoticed.”
#“And I bet you swap notes with your counterpart in the FSB.”
“Yeah. He’s like me. Killing time in the archive. Just waiting for the day he can spend all day watching football on the TV.”
“You should go out for a beer with him.”
Osip shook his head. “We meet up at least once a week. We go to a lovely bar in eastern Moscow. He’s like me – widower who drinks too much.”
Natalia smiled. “Maybe he’d let us read the Susan Archer file in his archive.”
“Now hold on…”
“It won’t be a crime. I have clearance. The only problem is it would require an official request from the SVR to the FSB. I don’t have time for that. So, shall we have fun and cut some corners?”
“Cut corners?”
Natalia leaned forward. “You and your FSB buddy are in dead end jobs. I’m chained to my desk in London. No one cares about us. But, the three of us might be able to break a big case. I’m not exaggerating when I say that unravelling the mystery of what happened to Sergey Peskov could prevent the West going to war with us. I don’t know who Susan Archer is but she’s a lead in the Peskov case. Come on – this will be cool and exciting.”
Osip thought about what she said. “Technically I wouldn’t be breaking rules. I’m permitted to visit the Lubyanka archive to swap notes on their techniques of storage and my techniques. And you have clearance to pursue to Peskov case, wherever it leads. I don’t see why not.”
“I bet you’ve got his mobile number. Call him now. He’ll be at home.”
Osip placed his glass down. “Are you sure this isn’t illegal?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do anything illegal. And who knows? If we break the case the three of us might get a nice end of year bonus.”
Osip walked to a sideboard, picked up his phone, and staggered back to his chair. He looked at Natalia, nodded, and scrolled through his phone’s contacts list. He made the call. Two minutes later he pressed the end button. “He’ll let you in to his archive the day after tomorrow. You are not permitted to read anything other than the Susan Archer file. He doesn’t want your bosses or his bosses notified about your visit. To do otherwise would bog us down in bureaucracy. I must accompany you. He is satisfied that he’s helping mother Russia.” He poured himself another drink. “Ten AM on Thursday. Meet me outside the FSB headquarters.” He downed his vodka. “I feel tired.” He fell asleep.
Natalia placed a blanket over him, turned off the slow cooker, left, and called Sign.
CHAPTER 8
At four PM the following day, Sign walked along the lake adjacent to Gregor’s house. He felt restless and hoped that fresh air and exercise would settle his mind. But, he couldn’t help thinking about Archer, her sister, and Natalia. He had a theory about all three, and yet it was unfounded and absurd. But, the theory kept bouncing back into the front of his mind. If his theory was correct he would be placed in a dreadful situation. He forced himself to think about other matters. The sun was shining, trout were skimming the lake’s surface to feed on flies, in the distance a woodpecker was drilling a hole into a tree, and Knutsen and Lenin were visible in the paddock adjacent to the house. Knutsen’s swearing was loud and carried over the water, every time the wolf knocked him over during their training exercises. Sign walked for another three miles, then turned back. He wanted to be in the house before darkness consumed the surroundings, and to help Gregor and Yuri prepare the fifteen pound zander he’d caught in the lake the night before. He smiled as he walked towards the house and the golden glow of its exterior torches and interior lights. The location was idyllic. Gregor deserved nothing less after everything he’d done to help make the world a safer place. Sign was glad his Russian friend was of no use to him now beyond offering a safe refuge. Gregor was always the type of man who would die with his boots on, but he’d do so here, not on a mountainside facing down encroaching hostiles. As he neared the house he could hear music. Gregor was on the lake-facing balcony, strumming his balalaika and singing a song, a glass of vodka by his side. Yuri was carrying logs into the house. Knutsen was on his back in the paddock shouting, “That’s the last fucking time, Lenin. Training’s over for the day. I thought wolves had good eyesight. Or maybe you’re deliberately trying to piss me off.” For Sign, everything was perfect in this place this evening – Gregor having a sing son
g to himself and the lake, the ever energetic Yuri helping his Dad out by doing chores, and Knutsen going twelve rounds with a huge wolf. It was an odd set-up. Sign loved that it was so.
He entered the house. The fire was lit. Yuri was peeling carrots and spuds. A white wine-based sauce, infused with dill, was gently simmering on the stove. Sign asked him, “Do you want me to take over catering duties? You could go outside and have a drink with your father?”
Yuri beamed. “No need. My father and I spend enough time together. Anyway, he likes your company. He doesn’t know when he’s going to see you again.” He lifted the zander by its gills. “I intend to bake this in brown paper, with a few dabs of butter and some cracked pepper. What do you think?”
“Perfect, though a squeeze of lemon wouldn’t go amiss. Do you want me to get you a drink?”
Yuri pointed at a glass of wine. “I cook while I drink and I drink while I cook.”
Sign smiled and went onto the large balcony. He sat next to Gregor. While Gregor played his balalaika, they sang an old Cossack song together. When finished, Gregor put the instrument down and poured his friend a drink. “War is boredom punctuated by moments of terror. I sense you are in the lull before battle.”
Sign took the drink. “You and I rarely had time to be bored. In any case, being here has given me time to think and soak up the free air. It is anything but boring.”
Gregor chinked his glass. “To all travellers and adventurers. When we return home we refuel. Then we go out again because we cannot resist doing so. It’s in our genetic makeup.”
“One hundred percent.” The sun was going down. Sign watched swallows dart over the lake. They were grabbing their dinner before the bats came out. “What’s retirement like?”