As she was speculating about a couple of young American women at another table, the door opened and Mischa walked in. He went straight across to the counter and gave his order to the waitress. Liz watched how his eyes took in the room as he saw her and came and sat down at her table.
‘All clear?’ he asked tersely. With his cord trousers and blue wool jersey, shirt collar visible at the neck below a two-day stubble, Mischa could have passed for a university lecturer. Though there was nothing reflective or thoughtful in his dark, restless eyes.
‘Seems to be,’ Liz replied, keeping her voice down.
‘There was a car by the entrance when I came in – with a woman, a blonde, and a man. They were kissing, which seemed remarkable so early in the day.’ He shrugged. ‘But who knows? And they didn’t follow me into the gardens; I made sure of that.’
That better not be Sally, thought Liz. ‘So how are you?’ she asked quickly, steering him away from the idea of surveillance.
‘I am glad you could make it here. I leave in another couple of days. I needed to see you again.’ Liz nodded and waited for him to go on. ‘I am going back to Moscow. Meeting there would be very difficult.’
Yes, thought Liz. I certainly wouldn’t want to be doing this in Moscow.
The café was filling up now, with elderly couples, young women with pushchairs and babies in prams. ‘OK,’ she said slowly, ‘here I am. So, why did you want to see me – how I can help?’
‘First of all, you should know the consequences of what happened in Britain.’
‘You mean the Russian Illegals we exposed there?’
Mischa nodded. ‘Yes. You sent them back to Russia, which was a big mistake.’
Liz happened to share his view, but she was certainly not going to criticise her own government to this Russian. The Foreign Office had been immovable in their opposition to putting the two Russians on trial, fearful of the damage to relations with Russia and the possibility that two British citizens would be put on trial in Moscow as a tit for tat. ‘There were reasons for that,’ she said.
Mischa shook his head in disgust. ‘Not good ones.’ He brought out a cigarette lighter from a pocket in his trousers and fingered it absentmindedly. ‘You see, the couple you sent back were questioned thoroughly by their superiors in the FSB. What is that phrase – no stone was left untouched?’
‘Something like that,’ said Liz equably, not wanting to provoke him. He sounded on edge, and she remembered him from their previous meeting as nervy and irascible. As she was waiting for him to go on, the door of the café opened with unusual force and two uniformed police officers marched in.
Liz felt an icy wave wash up from her stomach to her head. She stiffened, clutching her bag. Thoughts flashed through her head: was this the disruption Sally had talked about? No one had bleeped her phone to warn her. Should she get out fast and leave the country?
The policemen had walked up to the counter, spoken a few words to the waitress and now turned to face the room. She looked at Mischa. He was rigid; sitting very straight in his chair, motionless, the fingers clutching his lighter white and bloodless.
The room had gone silent. One of the policemen spoke, but Liz’s German wasn’t good enough for her to understand what he was saying. She watched Mischa and saw him relax his hold on the lighter. His face returned to normal and he looked at her with a small smile. The policeman stopped speaking and a babble of sound broke out in the café as the two men walked back to the door and left.
‘What was that about?’
‘It’s OK. One of the children from a school group is missing, probably wandered off. They’re asking everyone to look out for her.’
Liz let out the breath she seemed to have been holding for hours and said, ‘I’d like another cup of coffee.’ As she turned to wave at the waitress she noticed that the little group of students was no longer there. She felt increasingly uneasy but resisted the impulse to leave – at least until she had heard what Mischa had to say.
She turned back to him. ‘You were saying that it was a mistake for us to send those two Illegals back.’
‘Yes. The FSB think someone tipped you off. They think you have a source.’
Liz was tempted to point out that once the Illegals started meddling with members of British intelligence, as they had done, there was a fair chance they were going to get found out. Even without the information Mischa had given her. But she said nothing.
The waitress put their coffee on the table. Mischa blew on his and took a sip. Putting down his cup he said, ‘Because of this suspicion, a full-scale inquiry has been launched.’
‘Into how we got on to the Illegals?’
‘Exactly. The FSB has decided someone inside its organisation – or with access to its information – told you about the operation in the UK.’
‘Do they suspect anyone in particular?’
‘Ha.’ Mischa’s laugh was bitter. ‘You must not know the FSB. They suspect everyone. This means my brother and all his colleagues. And it means me, because of my position in the military and the fact that I travel abroad.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘If I sold automobiles for a living, they would leave me alone – though they’d still wonder about my brother.’
‘I can see that’s very worrying,’ Liz said. ‘But there’s no reason to think they’ll get any proof of anything. We’ve both been very careful.’ She wondered if this was all Mischa wanted to tell her. She hoped not; she’d wasted her time if all he wanted to say was that he was scared of the FSB.
He looked at her angrily. ‘It is much more than worrying. There will be no mercy if they discover my involvement. And none for my brother – even though he doesn’t know I’ve been talking to you and the Americans. They would never believe him. Mother Russia is quite happy to execute those sons she believes have betrayed her.’
Liz nodded sympathetically. Mischa looked at her and continued, ‘There have been some developments.’
At last, thought Liz. ‘Oh?’ she asked mildly.
‘Yes, but first I need to know how you can help me.’ Liz was thinking how best to reply when he held up his hand. ‘I am not talking simply about money. I need to know that if they decide it is my brother who has been talking – or me – you will rescue us.’
Liz had heard this sort of appeal before from agents who were beginning to realise the increasing danger of their position. She had no ready-made escape plan up her sleeve for extracting from Moscow one or possibly two people under suspicion. It would be a very difficult, if not impossible operation. In any case, she wanted to keep Mischa in place so he could continue to provide information.
She also needed to weigh up how much interest there would be in Mischa as a defector. What would the Americans pay towards the costs; how much interest would there be from British defence intelligence? Not to mention the added complication that Bruno Mackay was off to Moscow with the intention of trying to recruit Mischa’s brother; going, in his own words, straight to the horse’s mouth.
Given all that, it was vital that Mischa remained well disposed to the British. His brother would almost certainly tell Mischa about any approach Bruno made, so it was important that Mischa confirm that the British were reliable.
She said carefully, ‘I don’t believe they would have allowed you to come here if you were seriously under suspicion. But we need a way of keeping in touch. For the moment you should continue to communicate with me via the address you have, as you did this time. But you need to let me know if there’s a way I can safely get a message to you. I will consult colleagues about some faster means of communicating securely. If the inquiry starts closing in on you or your brother, then you must tell us. Meanwhile, keep your head down. We will work on a plan for if the worst comes to the worst.’ She hoped this was sufficiently reassuring, though she had committed to very little.
It seemed to work. ‘You’re good at getting people out,’ said Mischa with a small smile. ‘I’ve heard about Gordievsky.’
Go
rdievsky had been the KGB Head of Station designate in London in the 1980s – and a British agent. When he fell under suspicion he was successfully exfiltrated from Russia by MI6 in the boot of a car.
Mischa said, ‘His escape is still talked about.’ He smiled again, adding, ‘Though not by senior officials.’
‘I bet,’ said Liz. ‘So, you know then that we look after our sources. But these things are not easy and need a lot of planning.’
‘We would also need to know that we would be looked after once we arrived in your country.’
‘That’s a two-way process,’ said Liz carefully, beginning to feel that too much was being asked and nothing given.
Mischa leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. When he brought his eyes down to the room, he kept them averted from Liz, as if slightly embarrassed by what he was about to say. ‘I am sorry but that is not quite enough. I would like to feel you will be as generous as the Americans have been.’
‘If you are talking about payment now, then I can confirm that while you remain in Moscow you will continue to get the same retainer, whether it comes from us or the Americans.’ She was growing angry now at his avarice, and was keen to put an end to the bargaining. ‘Provided,’ she continued, ‘that you are still useful to us.’
Mischa had picked up on her irritation and seemed to realise that he had got all he was going to get for the moment. Just then the door of the café swung open and a couple came in. Mischa looked at them, then looked away. ‘The couple from the car,’ he said through clenched teeth. When Liz glanced their way, she was relieved to see that the woman was definitely not Sally. The couple stood for a minute, talking to each other in German and looking at a menu the waitress brought to them before seeming to change their minds and leaving.
Mischa was looking nervous now. He spoke quickly, keeping his voice low. ‘Very well. I will trust you and your colleagues, and yes, I have some further information. You will remember that I told you that the FSB were infiltrating Illegals with the aim of destabilising countries they regard as threats.’
‘I do,’ said Liz, hoping he would calm down. His agitation now was obvious.
‘The American operation is over.’
‘Over? Was it successful?’
‘That I don’t know. But you remember I told you the operation was on hold because the Illegal was ill. Now that’s over.’
‘Has the Illegal been replaced?’
‘That’s all I know,’ he said.
Liz’s disappointment must have shown in her face because he went on, ‘There is more. You uncovered those two in the UK, as we know. But I think you did not discover all that they had been doing.’
‘Really?’ Liz was trying not to show her surprise. ‘We investigated their activities thoroughly before we sent them packing.’
‘There was something else,’ said Mischa emphatically. His eyes were roving around the room now, full of fear and distrust. ‘I don’t know exactly; my brother hasn’t told me. But I know the FSB is crowing because part of their operation is still in play – just without a local controller.’
‘Please try and find out more. If you do, I think I can guarantee a bonus,’ said Liz.
‘I will try,’ said Mischa. His anxiety was escalating.
‘Anything else?’ she asked.
‘There is one more thing. When I told my brother I was coming to Berlin for three weeks, he was very amused. “Why Germany?” he asked.’
Why indeed? thought Liz. Mischa said, ‘I explained I was here for three weeks’ attachment to the Embassy. My real task is to form an assessment of NATO preparations if we Russians are ever to … come west.’
‘You have some sources here?’ Liz asked, suddenly alert.
‘Possibly,’ said Mischa. ‘But that is not what I have to tell you now. My brother said, “We have something going on in Germany too.”’
‘Did he say what or where?’
‘No,’ said Mischa. Liz saw his hands were starting to tremble and she decided not to press him. She sensed he was very near the edge.
But Mischa seemed to get hold of himself and re-engage with her. ‘I think the German operation is connected to the one in the United States.’
‘The one that is now defunct?’ When Mischa looked at her, puzzled, she said, ‘Kaput.’
‘Yes.’ He was staring at Liz, then stood up abruptly. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’ He crossed the room and disappeared through a door marked WC. When he comes back, thought Liz, we’ll go outside and sit on a bench in a quiet part of the garden where he can see that no one is following him.
But ten minutes later she was still sitting alone at the table, facing the fact that Mischa was not coming back.
14
The following weekend Irma was at home when Dieter Nimitz arrived from Brussels, and to his relief she seemed to be in a good mood. He went upstairs and showered and changed; when he came down, he found her in the kitchen preparing supper. She had never liked cooking and saw food as fuel rather than a source of pleasure. But though he was quite a good cook and ate well during the week in his Brussels flat, Irma didn’t welcome him in the kitchen except for Saturday night, and so yet again they sat down to a bland supper of sausage, sautéed potatoes and green beans.
‘How was your week?’ he asked dutifully.
‘Good enough,’ she said, which as always discouraged further questions. He had learned not to press her – not if he didn’t want to have his head bitten off. But all week he had been wondering about the letter he’d seen from the orphanage, asking about the young man who had gone on a Freitang school trip abroad and not returned. He couldn’t have said exactly why he was so interested in the matter. Perhaps it was the rarity of learning anything about her work, since Irma was uncommunicative, and scrupulous about storing all her documents in a locked filing cabinet.
She said, ‘Did you see the Commissioner this week?’ She often asked this, as if his future depended on the Commissioner’s favour, whereas it was Van der Vaart who would determine Dieter’s future, and Van der Vaart who had made it crystal clear that Dieter’s career was staying right where it was.
‘No. He was visiting Austria – the refugee camp.’
‘Any news from there?’
He shook his head. In fact, he and his colleague Matilda had been copied in on the Commissioner’s email from Carinthia, reporting on what he had found. The situation was even grimmer than previously thought. The Austrian authorities seemed to be expending most of their energy on preventing more refugees from entering the country, rather than on looking after those who had already arrived.
But he didn’t want to discuss this with Irma; she would have endless questions, and he was tired. What he most wanted at home was a complete break from the depressing rigours of his job, so he said nothing now about the Commissioner’s report.
They had planned to go into Hamburg the next day to see a sculpture exhibit, but in the morning Irma cried off, saying she had some unexpected work from school to deal with. She insisted that he go on his own, however, and he left the house at about eleven o’clock. He walked to the train, stopping only to buy a newspaper, but at the station he found a group of people gathered outside. Two policemen stood blocking the entrance to the ticket hall.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked a woman.
‘There’s been an incident,’ she said. ‘Someone jumped in front of a train. They’ve closed the station while they remove the body.’ She looked at him, hesitating for a moment, then seemed to decide it was safe to add, ‘It was a foreigner.’
He stood wondering what to do; it seemed unsympathetic to ask the policeman how long it would take to bring out the corpse. He supposed he could take a taxi into town instead, but it would be very expensive and Irma would complain. In any case, no cabs were waiting on the rank. He could take a bus, but that involved a bit of a walk, and he would have to change at least once on his way into Hamburg.
What a nuisance, he thought, then felt slig
htly guilty, remembering the poor soul who had caused this disruption to his plans. There was nothing for it, he supposed, but to go back home, where Irma would be working in her study, and he could make lunch for them both. The prospect was unenticing; no doubt she would want to ask more questions about how he’d spent his week, and when he was likely next to see the Commissioner.
He decided to have lunch out instead, and he found a café across the road, where he ate a bowl of pork and bean Eintopf and drank a small beer. Then he walked slowly home, wondering if Irma would allow him a brief nap that afternoon. As he turned on to his road he saw a car approach from the far end, near his house. It was a silver Mercedes saloon, travelling rather too fast for this quiet suburban street. As the car passed, Dieter stared at the man behind the wheel. He wore a jacket over a shirt and striped tie, and had a square, rugged-looking face, with an old-fashioned moustache that followed the curving contours of his upper lip. Intent on driving, he didn’t even glance at Dieter.
At home as he opened the front door, Irma emerged from the back of the house. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, as she came towards him.
He was taken aback by her tone. ‘There was an accident. On the track. They cancelled the trains.’
‘You might have told me,’ she said, her voice rising.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said mildly. ‘I didn’t think it would make any difference. Is something wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m busy in the kitchen,’ she said, and retreated down the corridor.
He went upstairs, but decided not to take a nap. He looked for the book he was reading, a novel by Günter Grass, but it wasn’t by the bed and he couldn’t find it in his little study. He went downstairs and called out to Irma in the kitchen. ‘Have you seen my book? You know, the one by Günter Grass?’
‘No. Isn’t it upstairs?’
‘I can’t find it. Never mind, I’ll look in the drawing room,’ he said, and opened the door.
‘No,’ she cried out from the kitchen, but he was already in the room. It was rarely used except when they had visitors and was formally furnished, with Dresden china on a side table, two heavy armchairs with chintz covers and a deep sofa that might have dated from the days of the Kaiser. Irma had traditional taste, and this room was really hers and hers alone.
The Moscow Sleepers Page 6