The Moscow Sleepers

by Stella Rimington

  But on a strictly human level, I would appeal to you. If indeed the young man has chosen to seek his fortune in America, would it not be possible to supply the Gravensteins with at least a postal address, so that they could perhaps write to him? Then of course he could make his own decision about whether he wished to reply and continue to have contact with the family. Perhaps you would agree with me that it is not in the best interests of our child refugee programme that those who have generously offered and given their help should feel rejected and ignored.

  I hope you will forgive this personal appeal, but truly, the pain this has caused the Gravensteins is quite affecting.

  Yours as ever,

  Marthe Ritzenbach

  Director

  Something niggled at Dieter as he finished reading. The letter was oddly phrased, more a personal appeal than a professional inquiry. Marthe Ritzenbach must be a very humane woman, he thought, to be so troubled by the family’s disquiet about this young man they had housed. But why had Irma not been more forthcoming? Surely there would be no harm in letting the Gravensteins know more about the young man.

  He remembered now that a group of immigrant students from Freitang had gone to America the summer before. Had one of them stayed on for some reason? Why? And why had it been allowed? It seemed very odd, and when he heard the door opening downstairs and realised Irma had come home, he thought he would ask her about the letter. But he immediately thought better of it, envisaging her outrage that he had been ‘snooping’, and quickly put the letter back where he had found it, caught between the desk and the filing cabinet. When Irma came upstairs he was back in their bedroom, changing his clothes before they went downstairs to make supper.

  12

  The Delphine was a small hotel on a quiet side street off Wilhelmstrasse in the arty Kreuzberg part of town. It boasted three stars, which indicated that its rooms were clean if slightly threadbare, and each had its own ‘en suite’ bathroom – though in this case the term meant a tiny space just large enough to accommodate a shower, a wash basin and a lavatory on which it was impossible for anyone of average height to sit without banging their knees on the shower. Other than two small towels, some neatly wrapped little bars of soap and a small plastic kettle with tea bags, UHT milk and sugar in paper tubes, the room lacked any amenities.

  The place seemed just about right for Liz Ryder, the cover Liz Carlyle was using for her visit to Berlin to meet Mischa, just as she had done on the trip to Tallinn. Her mother had recently died, so Liz Ryder was now free to spend some time travelling, seeing parts of Europe that she had not visited. She was the sort of woman who went on cultural tours and city breaks, and who would not have considered splashing out on luxury hotels. The Delphine would therefore do nicely, thought her alter ego Liz Carlyle.

  At least the bed was comfortable; Liz kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bedspread. Should she be out getting to know Berlin, she wondered sleepily. I’m sure that’s what Liz Ryder would be doing. ‘A city renowned these days for its vibrant artistic life and trendsetting culture,’ she murmured to herself, quoting the guidebook, but she was tired after the journey and the flight (which had been delayed) and soon fell asleep.

  She was woken by her phone ringing. ‘Hello,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Is that Liz Ryder?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘It’s Sally – Sally Mortimer. Mr Arbuthnot told me you were visiting. Would you like to meet for a coffee or a drink?’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ said Liz, recognising the name of her contact from the MI6 Station at the Embassy.

  ‘Great,’ said Sally. ‘There’s a little wine bar just round the corner from your hotel, on the Stresemannstrasse. It’s called Oskar’s. Shall we meet there in an hour?’

  ‘Perfect. See you there,’ said Liz, smiling to herself at the name of Arbuthnot. No plain Mr Smith or Brown for Geoffrey Fane.

  Liz took a shower in her tiny bathroom, reflecting on how invigorating it was to be out in the field again after so much time spent recently behind her desk. She still had moments of sadness and loneliness when she thought about Martin Seurat, her much-loved partner who had been tragically killed in Paris nearly two years ago, but for the most part she was quite happy being on her own. She wasn’t sure how long she would feel that way though, and for the first time since Martin’s death she had considered agreeing to what she supposed was a ‘date’ with a most unpolicemanlike Chief Constable. She’d met him in Manchester when they had worked together on a counter-terrorist operation where, she reflected, he had probably saved her life. Recently he had moved to Suffolk, and had left a message on her answer phone suggesting they meet up sometime. She realised guiltily that had been over a month ago and she hadn’t called him back.

  As she dried herself on the inadequate towels she remembered that she had neglected to tell her very-much-alive mother that she was going away. Still, if all went to plan, Liz would be back in her Pimlico flat the following evening. She would ring her mother then.

  Forty-five minutes later, Liz left the hotel with the stirrings of the excitement she always felt when she was working undercover on an operation. She knew it would only take her a few minutes to get to Oskar’s so she walked slowly. It was early evening but some of the shops were still open, with a few late customers around. Liz window-shopped apparently aimlessly, though a close observer would have noted how she lingered at the fronts with large curved windows, and a professional observer might have concluded that she was using the windows to keep an eye on what was going on behind her. She seemed to conclude that nothing was amiss, for she turned with no hesitation into Stresemannstrasse. There she walked past Oskar’s without so much as a glance, but when she reached the corner she crossed the road and doubled back and went straight into the wine bar.

  Oskar’s wasn’t crowded, as by now it was getting late for after-work drinks yet early for dinner. Liz recognised Sally Mortimer right away from the photo she’d seen. She walked over to the corner where the young woman was sitting, reading a newspaper with a glass of white wine on the small round table in front of her.

  ‘Welcome to Berlin,’ said Sally warmly, as Liz sat down.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Liz. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ A young waiter wearing a bright red bow tie came up, an apron round his waist. Liz ordered a glass of the house white, then looked at Sally, whom she had actually never met before. She was several years younger than Liz – roughly Peggy’s age, Liz guessed. She had straight blonde hair that just reached her shoulders. In her smart black leather jacket, blouse and black trousers, she could have been any of the young women who worked in the offices and banks around the area. She was attractive but undramatically so, with blue eyes and a small nose that turned slightly upwards at its tip. No doubt she spoke fluent German or she wouldn’t be one of the MI6 Station in Berlin.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Liz, speaking freely now no one was within earshot.

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Where were you before this?’

  ‘Oh, just London,’ said Sally.

  The waiter came with Liz’s wine, and she took a sip while they both waited for him to retreat again. Sally said, ‘This is my first foreign posting. I’ve only been in the Service three years. I joined straight from university.’

  Liz nodded. Modest, she thought, and honest. She remembered the young Bruno Mackay whom she’d first met when they had both been in their different Services for only a few years. In those days he had dressed to look like James Bond at the Ambassador’s cocktail party, and he would have had you believe that he knew everything there was to know.

  The conversation drifted on for a while and Liz learned that Sally had grown up near Guildford, played serious netball and had read Economics at Durham. She was bilingual in German and English because her mother was German and they had spent most holidays in Germany. ‘That was why the Service accepted me, I’m sure. I am also fluent in Polish because my grandparents came from
there,’ explained Sally.

  Goodness, thought Liz. MI6 must have thought she was a real catch. ‘Is Berlin a good posting?’ she asked.

  Sally nodded. ‘There’s always something going on here. I mean, the Cold War may be over but this place is a real hub for spies – a bit like Vienna must have been after the War.’

  ‘I know. There’s a lot of it about,’ said Liz wryly. She took another sip of her wine and hitched herself up in her seat; it seemed time to get down to business. ‘About tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes. As I understand it, your meet is in the Botanic Gardens. In the little café there.’

  Liz nodded. ‘Yes, but I don’t want anyone else around. No minders. I don’t want the target scared off. He may be nervous already.’

  Sally said nothing for a moment, looking down at the table. Then she lifted her head, looked straight at Liz and said, ‘There are some worries about security.’

  ‘Really? What worries?’ asked Liz.

  ‘About your security.’ Liz was about to respond but before she could say anything Sally went on, ‘As I said, this place is a hotbed. The Russians have a huge presence here, including a large security team. They keep a sharp eye on each other. I’ve read the background to your operation and, as I understand it, it’s not unlikely that your contact may be under investigation. The Russians are sure to be trying to find out how you got on to their Illegals operation in London and we don’t know how far they’ve got with that.

  ‘Your man may be under surveillance while he’s here; we just don’t know. So our instructions are to make sure that you are not walking into a set-up. After all, we haven’t told the Germans you are here – or why. We can’t rely on their help if things go wrong.’ Sally paused, looking slightly uncomfortable.

  Liz was taken aback. This modest-seeming young woman had turned out to be rather more formidable than she looked. ‘Whose instructions are these?’

  Sally looked at her as if this should have been obvious. ‘Mr Arbuthnot, of course. He discussed it with my Head of Station.’

  Fane – bloody Geoffrey Fane, thought Liz. He can’t keep his fingers out of anything. But as she thought about it, she had to admit that there was a lot of sense in what Sally had been saying. It was true that Mischa might be under suspicion. He might even be under control and have been ordered to call this meeting so that his masters could create an embarrassing situation or, even worse, do Liz harm. The more she thought about it, the more she saw the sense in having some backup.

  She looked at Sally who had been watching her closely, waiting to see how she would react. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I can see that. It makes sense.’

  Sally let out a long breath, then smiled broadly. ‘Oh good. They told me not to tell you about, and just do it. But I said I couldn’t possibly. I thought it was dishonest and I wouldn’t like it to be done to me. They said it would be my fault if you hit the roof. I’m so glad they were wrong.’

  Well, well, thought Liz. Good for Sally. She said with a smile, ‘If you ever want a job on my side of the river, just let me know. Now, what are you proposing?’

  ‘We’ll put a team out to look for any sign of surveillance on him when he arrives. We’ll alert you by phone if that happens and you should abort and go straight back to the hotel and wait for me. If, on the other hand, all’s clear and the meet goes ahead, then we’ll be close by in case they intend to disrupt your rendezvous once it’s begun. If there’s any sign of that, we will intervene to let you get away – grab a taxi and go straight to the airport and catch the next plane to London. Is that OK?’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all necessary? If he sees you, he’ll be the one to abort, and then we’ve lost the only source we’ve got on these FSB Illegals operations.’

  ‘He won’t see us,’ said Sally confidently. ‘We’re very good. We have to be,’ she added. ‘It’s tough working here.’

  Liz looked sceptical, and Sally said, ‘All we have to do is make sure you’re safe. The hard part is up to you. Mr Arbuthnot said he didn’t care if anything happened to your Mystery Man; he didn’t care if he was arrested by the German BPOL or hauled in by the BND or assassinated by the FSB.’ She laughed at the torrent of acronyms, but then her expression sobered. ‘But he did say that if as much as one hair on your head was ruffled, my next posting wouldn’t be London, but Outer Mongolia.’

  Sally drained her glass of wine and Liz laughed. She liked this girl; she reminded her of Peggy. ‘It’s a deal,’ she said, ‘and I’ll hold you to it. But there’s one condition.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Sally nervously.

  ‘You can’t tell “Mr Arbuthnot” that I caved in so quickly.’ As she saw a look of relief spread across Sally’s face, she raised a hand and motioned to the waiter. ‘Let’s have another glass of wine,’ Liz said, uncertain whether she was more irritated or flattered that her personal safety seemed to be so important to Geoffrey Fane.

  13

  Liz woke early. After her conversation with Sally the previous evening she was now feeling more nervous about the meeting with Mischa than she had before. She’d thought of Germany as a very safe place – comfortably Western European and friendly; a place where Mischa was the only one with anything to worry about. But after hearing Sally comparing Berlin to post-war Vienna and talking about abort plans, Liz knew she had better take the preparations for her meeting a lot more seriously.

  She breakfasted in the hotel’s small dining room, busy even at this early hour with couples and small family groups loudly chatting in various languages and planning their day. Liz had already worked out her route to the gardens, and since Peggy had researched the tram times and the location of taxi ranks, Liz knew exactly how long it would take her, so she took out her guidebook and studied it like the well-organised tourist Liz Ryder would be. After breakfast she paid her bill and left her bag to be collected later. If any of Sally’s worst fears happened and she couldn’t get back to the hotel, there was nothing in the small suitcase that Liz Ryder would not have owned.

  At nine o’clock she left the hotel and walked to the Anhalter Bahnhof, where she caught a tram that took her halfway towards her destination. Getting off at the northern edges of the Friedenau district, she waited at a tram stop in a small queue of smartly dressed young people who looked as if they were going to work, though it seemed quite late for that. She abruptly pulled out her mobile phone, looked at the screen and, as though she had received a message, crossed the street to a taxi rank opposite the tram stop and climbed into the first cab in the line. As it pulled away, she glanced back and was glad to see the next taxi still parked and waiting.

  It was a considerable drive to the south-west fringes of the city and though she tried to follow the route on the map on her phone she found it impossible to keep up with all the twists and turns. Once she spotted a stretch of the wall that had divided the city between the two opposing ideologies of the Cold War, though now it looked more like the graffiti-adorned walls the Eurostar passed outside Brussels than the frightening barrier it had once been. Although there was no wall nowadays, if Sally was right, East and West were still using Berlin as a jousting ground.

  As directed by Peggy, she had asked the driver for an address several streets north of the Botanic Gardens. She got out and made a play of dropping her handbag and picking it up slowly while the driver drove off; then she walked through quiet suburban streets, passed by just a few cars and pedestrians. She was relieved to see no sign of Sally or her colleagues or indeed of anyone at all taking any interest in her. She walked on, circumventing the grounds, until she came to the southern entrance on Unter den Eichen. The gates were just opening to the public, and she joined a small group – a few middle-aged people, what seemed to be a class of young children with a couple of teachers, and a handful of older students with notebooks who got out of a small bus, talking earnestly. Liz wondered about them, but then it was her turn at the cash desk, so she paid her six euros for a day ticket and went in.

  She meandered al
ong a path through the arboretum, past what seemed acres of roses growing underneath tall trees. From time to time she examined the pamphlet about the gardens she’d been given along with her ticket, trying to look like her mother, who ran a nursery garden in Wiltshire and knew all about plants, and not like Liz Carlyle, whose interest in them was non-existent.

  When she reached the glasshouses at the east end of the gardens she headed for the largest, the Grand Pavilion. It was an immense Art Nouveau-style building, an intricate cobweb of thin steel and glass panes. As she went in she was struck by a wall of heat and humidity that had her perspiring in seconds. A man in a green uniform was spraying the plants with a fine mist of water but otherwise there appeared to be no one around.

  She sat down on a wrought-iron bench under an overhanging palm tree at the end of a row of tropical plants. Someone had left on the seat a copy of the same leaflet she had been given at the gate. As she sat down she casually swapped it for her own. She examined the new brochure and saw a circle drawn around the little picture of the café. This was the ‘All clear’ signal from Sally – the only actual intervention she had agreed.

  Five minutes later, Liz was inside the café, sipping a large black coffee at a table just by the door. Several tables were occupied. An elderly couple was chatting to the waitress, whom they clearly knew well. Liz put them down as regular customers and no threat to her or Mischa. She wasn’t quite so sure about the four young people on the other side of the room. They were talking animatedly in German about some papers they had spread out on the table. She thought they all looked remarkably fit for students and hoped that if they were not what they seemed to be, then they were Sally’s colleagues.