The Moscow Sleepers

by Stella Rimington

  It was with this in mind that he ordered the refreshments – this would be a drinks party and then some, he told himself. For the drinkers he would serve pink champagne from France and ice-cold Russian vodka; for the faint of heart (he didn’t expect many), there would be elderflower cordial.

  He had booked a caterer who was half French and understood that for an international mix of guests, it made no sense to serve only local food. Instead of caviar, which his well-heeled guests would be accustomed to, he opted for smoked salmon flown in from Scotland, served on squares of black rye bread, and trays of devils on horseback.

  Two girls had arrived to help set up and tour the room as it filled up, making sure glasses were kept full and canapes circulated regularly. This was not going to be a cheap party, Bruno realised, but his cover as international investment banker required only the best.

  Since the party was ostensibly being held to allow Michelle to introduce her friends to Bruno, the guest list was largely left to her. Bruno added a few acquaintances of his own, partly to repay the hospitality they’d shown him, and partly to provide cover for the one invitation he absolutely needed to have accepted. When he had shown Michelle his own much smaller list, she had barely scanned it, and didn’t seem to notice that Mr and Mrs Boris Bebchuk were on it.

  Now Bruno stood impatiently while the two waitresses finished their preparations. Where was Michelle? The party was due to begin at any minute. As if in answer, the front door buzzed, and when he opened it Michelle bustled by him, carrying two large bouquets of flowers, one in each hand. ‘Men,’ she said with mock-annoyance, looking around. ‘They never appreciate the decorative in life. Your flat is très gentil, Alan, but it needs a bit of colour. You there,’ she said sharply to one of the waitresses, with an imperiousness she must have learned from her Russian husband, ‘can you find a vase?’

  ‘Let me look,’ said Bruno, and by the time he found a couple of jugs that would do, several of Michelle’s friends had arrived and were happily drinking the pink champagne and munching the smoked salmon. The ice was already broken, thought Bruno, and soon the room was filling up as more people arrived.

  He made a point of circulating, meeting as many of his guests as possible. The women were all friends of Michelle and most of them had brought a husband or partner. Bruno knew none of them. He introduced himself to two of the men, who were standing by the window. One was Jens, a Norwegian, involved in selling oil-refining equipment to Gazprom, if Bruno understood correctly. The other was a Scot called Henderson who worked for whisky distillers selling Scotch to the Russians – they were less voracious buyers than the Chinese but equally keen on the more expensive products.

  ‘That’s a wonderful view,’ said Jens, and they spent a few minutes admiring the outlook from Bruno’s apartment before moving on to the standard topics of Moscow expats – the daily encounters with Russian bureaucracy; the best getaway places for the weekend; new restaurants, new coffee houses, and so on. Throughout Bruno was keeping an eye on the door, more hopeful than expectant. He was about to give up his wait and make a host’s tour of the room when the buzzer went.

  He decided to wait and let Michelle greet the new arrivals. A woman came into the room, and he recognised Bebchuk’s wife from the photographs supplied by the Americans. Michelle greeted her warmly, and Bruno saw with disappointment that she seemed to be on her own, when suddenly a man came in behind her.

  Bingo! It was Bebchuk, dressed smarter than at the school gates, in a grey suit and brown shoes, and looking slightly grumpy – he must be wondering what his wife had got him into, thought Bruno, dragging him to some foreigner’s drinks party. Bebchuk shook hands politely with Michelle, but was clearly ill at ease.

  Bruno excused himself and ambled towards his new guests, playing the part of a casual but attentive host. He approached them with his hand out, saying, ‘So pleased you could come. I’m Alan.’

  ‘I am Boris,’ said the Russian as they shook hands.

  Mrs Bebchuk said, ‘And I am Bella.’

  A waitress came towards them with a tray of drinks and the Russian couple each took a glass of champagne.

  ‘Your hair looks wonderful,’ Michelle said to Bella.

  Bruno seized his opportunity. ‘Come and meet some people,’ he said to Boris, ‘while the girls talk about hairdos.’ Boris smiled and followed Bruno to the window, where Jens and Henderson were still standing, now talking about salmon fishing on the Kola Peninsula.

  Bruno introduced Boris, and for a little while the other two made more general conversation to include him. They explained what they did for a living and why they were in Moscow, and Boris remarked that he was a civil servant who worked on regional transport policy. Then they discussed the view from Bruno’s window again, until Henderson said something to Jens about the size of a fish he caught on the Spey the summer before, and Bruno turned quickly to Bebchuk. ‘Do you fish?’ he asked quietly, as he heard Jens say something to Henderson.

  Bebchuk looked puzzled, and Bruno imitated the casting motion of a fly rod with one hand. Bebchuk laughed. ‘No, I do not fish.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Bruno, shaking his head and smiling. ‘So what do you do in your free time?’

  ‘I like football,’ said the Russian. ‘And movies.’

  ‘What kind of movies?’

  ‘All movies,’ said Bebchuk easily; he’d drunk most of his glass of champagne and was relaxing a little. ‘But especially French films.’

  ‘What’s your favourite?’

  Bebchuk hesitated. ‘Belle de Jour,’ he said, naming the Buñuel film starring Catherine Deneuve as a bored housewife who finds work in a brothel. ‘But don’t tell my wife. I don’t want her getting any ideas.’

  Bruno laughed. ‘You can count on me,’ he said, taking another glass of champagne from a passing waitress and handing it to Boris Bebchuk.

  Boris said, ‘I didn’t quite hear you when we were talking with the other gentlemen. What is it that you do here?’ His expression was friendly, but his eyes steady and probing.

  ‘Well, when I want to impress people I say that I’m in capital investment. But that’s just a fancy term for taking rich people’s money and buying things that will make them even richer. I suppose that makes me a kind of trader.’

  ‘Traitor?’ said Bebchuk, his eyes widening.

  ‘No, no,’ said Bruno hastily. ‘Trader – a buyer and seller.’

  ‘Ah. That I understand. What do you like to do in your spare time?’

  ‘Nothing so intellectual as watch Buñuel. To be honest, I love to eat – especially lunch. I play a game with myself: I try to eat in a better restaurant each time I go out than the last one I went to. It doesn’t have to be expensive; it just has to be good.’

  ‘And there are enough of these places in Moscow?’ Bebchuk sounded sceptical, which amused Bruno. Usually the Russians would bristle at any suggestion that the Moscow version of something – from art to light bulbs – was inferior to its Western counterpart.

  ‘There seem to be – I’ve been on a pretty good run lately. And I’ve lined up another place this week.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Near the Kremlin, believe it or not. It’s not much more than a hole in the wall but I’m told the dumplings, the pelmeni, are truly special.’

  ‘You like pelmeni?’

  ‘I do,’ said Bruno firmly. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I love them,’ said Boris emphatically. ‘But I would think for a foreigner they were not to your taste. When are you going to go to your hole in the wall?’

  Bruno paused as if to consider his coming diary of appointments. ‘I thought of going on Thursday.’ His face suddenly lit up. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to join me? I enjoy this little game of mine, but it’s always nice to have company when I go to a new place.’

  Bebchuk was watching Bruno carefully. Eventually he said, ‘Thursday. It could be possible. Give me your card and I will telephone you to confirm this lunch. I am sur
e I would enjoy it,’ he said, though the expression on his face was unreadable.

  24

  Peggy arrived at the British Embassy in Berlin promptly at nine o’clock. She had flown in the evening before and, anxious to do well on her first mission abroad, she had resisted the temptation to explore Berlin, eaten a modest supper in her room at the hotel and been in bed by ten o’clock.

  The Embassy, at the north end of Wilhelmstrasse not far from the Brandenburg Gate, was within walking distance of her hotel. She had never visited Berlin before but she had seen pictures of the city during the Cold War, and it gave her a thrill to know that she was walking in what had once been Communist East Berlin. She had no difficulty in recognising the Embassy building – it was huge, forbidding and, to her eye, rather prison-like with its rows of recessed windows. It was blocked off at the street entrance by concrete bollards. In the reception area a policeman stood guard, armed with a Heckler & Koch automatic.

  She was relieved to find Sally Mortimer already waiting in the foyer. Her warm welcome immediately dispersed the chilly feeling of the place. ‘I thought I’d drive us to the BfV,’ she said amiably. ‘My car’s garaged just down the road. It will take a while to get there but that gives us plenty of time to discuss tactics in the car.’

  Peggy was soon admiring the deftness with which Sally manoeuvred her car through the crowded streets of Berlin. As they threaded their way confidently through the morning traffic, Sally said, ‘I’d better tell you about this man we’re going to see. His name is Lamme, Abel Lamme, and he’s pretty senior in the Service. I’ve had dealings with him before and he’s what my mother would call an S-H-I-T.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Peggy, her thoughts of a pleasant morning disappearing. ‘What’s his problem?’

  ‘We are, I’m afraid. He’s supposed to be very clever and good at his job but he can’t deal with women at work – all his colleagues say so. He actually refers to his secretary as “the girl”, even though she’s about sixty. I wonder she doesn’t slap his face, but she’s too polite and well brought up.’ Sally shifted gear smoothly as she glided around a taxi dropping off a fare. She went on, ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. Maybe we can pull his leg a bit. Don’t worry,’ she said as Peggy started to demur, ‘I know we want to persuade him to do something for us; he’s simply far too pleased with himself to notice we’re winding him up.’

  ‘Are all the men in the BfV like that?’ Peggy asked, curious. ‘Are they all sexist?’

  ‘No. Not really. On the whole it’s not too bad,’ Sally replied. ‘No worse than the average. And don’t get me wrong, I like it here – the city’s wonderful, and the work is fascinating. No complaints there.’

  She paused, and Peggy waited. Finally Sally asked, ‘Are you married?’

  Peggy shook her head.

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  Peggy said, ‘No.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I had a long-term partner, but he did something stupid and embarrassed me. We were living together, but he moved out about four months ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Though if he let you down then perhaps it’s for the best.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Peggy. ‘How about you?’

  Sally gave a small groan. ‘That’s the bad side of this posting. There simply aren’t any available men. The ones at the Embassy are either married or, to be frank, only interested in getting me into bed. The German men are friendly enough but hard to meet, and they’re all so formal.’ She said in a thick German accent, ‘Vould Fräulein Mortimer care to accompany Herr Stuger to the opera this Saturday?’

  Peggy laughed. ‘Perhaps they think that’s the right way to treat a foreign diplomat.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sally, ‘but sometimes it’s positively painful.’

  ‘How about back home?’ asked Peggy. ‘Is there anyone there?’

  ‘Not really. I was very keen on someone in the Service. We went out a bit. He’s older than me and he has a bit of a reputation. He’s never married; been on a lot of postings at the sharp end and I think he finds it difficult to commit to anyone. On the surface he’s the kind of man everyone warns you off. But he’s actually very kind and completely charming. He could make me laugh more in five minutes than anyone else could in a month.’

  ‘So what’s happened to him?’

  ‘Well, just when things were getting quite serious, I got posted here. He came out for a couple of weekends – then the silly bugger went and got himself sent on some secret undercover job. Now I don’t know where he is.’

  A lorry pulled out and Sally braked hard. ‘Idiot,’ she said sharply, her eyes on the road. A good thing too, thought Peggy, since otherwise Sally might have seen the surprised expression on her face; she had just realised that the man Sally was talking about could only be Bruno Mackay.

  From Sally’s account, Peggy had pictured Abel Lamme as an old-fashioned caricature of a male chauvinist – middle-aged, a bit overweight, moustache perhaps, tweed suit, possibly a cardigan. So she was surprised to find him not much more than forty, and smartly dressed in a faux-Armani suit with an open-necked shirt. He was tall, over six feet, with dark brown hair and a handsome face. He might have been an articulate footballer or a TV presenter, thought Peggy. He stood up to greet them, shaking hands and half bowing with elaborate courtesy.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said in only slightly accented English. ‘What an honour it is to have two such beautiful young persons call on me. Please sit down and tell me how I can be of service.’

  ‘No, no,’ replied Sally, with equally exaggerated courtesy. ‘The honour is all ours. We must apologise for disturbing you but as my colleague from London, Fräulein Peggy Kinsolving, will explain, it is a matter of some importance to both our countries.’

  She turned to Peggy who was having difficulty not laughing during this exchange. She took control of herself and set about describing the complicated situation they had uncovered in Hamburg.

  ‘Dieter Nimitz is an official with the European Commission in Brussels, where he works on immigration issues. His wife, Irma, is the Head of a school in Hamburg that specialises in educating immigrants. The fact that they both work with immigrants may be pure coincidence, of course.’

  Peggy paused. Lamme was leaning forward in his chair, listening with his hands pressed together in a steeple against his dimpled chin. He said in a neutral voice, ‘Go on.’

  Peggy continued: ‘Recently Dieter confided in a colleague at the Commission that he was concerned about his wife. He said she had been in contact with educational institutions in the US and UK about sending some of her students to study there.’

  She paused, but Lamme was now looking up at the ceiling. She went on, ‘We have reason to believe, through information from a third country, that she may be placing particularly talented immigrant children in these institutions for training in advanced cyber espionage.’

  ‘And who is Frau Nimitz doing this for?’

  ‘Our best information at this stage is that it may have a Russian connection. That’s why we are here – we’d like your help finding out.’

  Lamme lowered his head and stared at Peggy. ‘Let me see if I understand this correctly. A German citizen, a Herr Nimitz, with a home in Hamburg, works on immigration policy at the European Commission. Poor fellow, I’d say – his job can’t be much fun these days. His wife is a schoolteacher who teaches immigrant children in Germany, some of whom may go abroad to take courses in computer science at other institutions. Herr Nimitz, for whatever reason, is unhappy about this, and has complained to a colleague. As a result, the British intelligence service sends two officers – highly experienced, no doubt, and both extremely attractive,’ – and he bowed his head as if in obeisance to their beauty – ‘to ask for help from the BfV in … what exactly? Stopping Irma Nimitz from sending students to study abroad?’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘I don’t think it’s the BfV that’s required in this case; I’d say it was a marriage counsellor.’

  ‘T
hat’s not all Nimitz told us.’ Peggy was growing angry now. ‘Apparently, when he was back at home for the weekend, he was meant to go into the city. But instead he returned home unexpectedly early, only to discover that a man had been visiting his wife. He said this was unprecedented.’

  Lamme shrugged, with a condescending smile. ‘So perhaps his wife has a “special” man friend, one so captivated by her charms that he was not willing to wait for her husband to return to Brussels before visiting her. Indiscreet? Of course. “Unprecedented” – I doubt it. This just confirms my view that a marriage counsellor would be more useful in this situation than the BfV. My dear Fräulein Kinsolving, my colleagues in counter-terrorism have many urgent investigations on hand. They would laugh at me if I asked for resources to investigate such a matter.’

  ‘If I may finish,’ went on Peggy coldly, ‘there is one more piece of information that you might find carries some weight. A third country with whom we are working on this case has good reason to believe that the Russians are involved.’

  ‘Hmm,’ snorted Lamme. ‘If your third country is the USA, as I suspect it is, you will soon learn what everyone knows, that they see Russians under every bed.’

  Peggy could see from the corner of her eye that Sally Mortimer was getting red in the face and looked about to explode. Peggy, on the other hand, was feeling an icy anger. She didn’t mind disagreement, or even open opposition, but she could not stand being sneered at, especially by an arrogant man not much older than she was herself.

  She said firmly, ‘What we’re asking from you is very specific and very limited.’

  Lamme widened his eyes as if to say, ‘Is that so?’ He looked amused.

  ‘We cannot of course conduct any surveillance of our own here,’ continued Peggy.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Lamme sharply, the smirk leaving his face.

  ‘But you can, and we’d like you to. We would like the Nimitz house watched while the husband is in Brussels during the week. Their house is in Blankensee, by the Elbe just outside the city—’