The Moscow Sleepers

by Stella Rimington

  ‘I know where Blankensee is,’ snapped Lamme. ‘But tell me, who issued this request? Forgive me, but I am assuming it did not initiate only with you.’

  Sally burst into life, like a kettle boiling over. ‘Geoffrey Fane,’ she snapped.

  The other two had almost forgotten she was there, so wrapped up in their own contest, and they turned to look at her. Lamme seemed startled. It was obvious he knew who Fane was.

  ‘And if I say no? What then? Perhaps you should telephone Mr Fane and let me explain the reasons.’

  ‘He’s on holiday—’

  ‘Ah, I see, Mr Fane is unavailable. How convenient.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Sally. ‘I have his mobile number and instructions to ring him if there is in any problem. I think he’ll be surprised to hear from you, since he seemed confident our request would be granted with no difficulty. But be my guest.’ And she took out a notebook, apparently ready to read out a telephone number.

  Before she could do so, Lamme put up a hand. ‘Hold on,’ he said, and he seemed to be thinking hard. ‘If we were to agree to help, for how long would you expect the surveillance to continue? Our resources are very stretched.’

  Peggy said, ‘Today is Friday. Dieter should be coming home tonight, and usually leaves on the very early flight on Monday morning. So it would be from then until his return next Friday – in the first instance, that is. Then, depending on what happens, we could review it. We are looking to find out who it is who visits Irma Nimitz.’

  ‘A working week? That is quite a long time.’

  Peggy said nothing and was glad that Sally stayed quiet as well. The silence seemed to make Lamme uneasy. He shifted a bit in his chair, then seemed about to stand up, sat still instead, and finally slapped one knee with his hand.

  ‘Very well, a week it will be,’ he declared, as though the time frame was his own devising. ‘Though I trust that, if we ask some day in the future, your Mr Fane will return the favour.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Peggy, before Sally Mortimer could reply. They both knew full well that Geoffrey Fane had no direct control over surveillance in the UK, which was in MI5’s bailiwick, but Peggy was happy to let Lamme think he’d achieved a draw if that meant the Nimitz house would be under surveillance. Mission accomplished.

  25

  After the two women had left, Abel Lamme went back to his desk and sat down heavily. He was angry, and worse than that he felt stupid. He had been outmanoeuvred by a couple of over-excited English girls and he didn’t like it. What’s more, he thought their case was ridiculous. He didn’t believe for a moment that there was some sinister Russian connection to a schoolteacher in Hamburg and the immigrant children she taught. The story of children being taught computer skills for evil ends sounded ludicrous to him. His colleagues would think he’d gone soft in the head if he made such a case for diverting scarce surveillance resources from counter-terrorist operations.

  But he had to do something, having said he would. What was the minimum he could do to satisfy those girls and get them out of his hair? He sat drawing angry patterns on a piece of paper on his desk, reviewing the options. CCTV, he thought. That’s what we’ll do. If this Irma Nimitz woman does get a male visitor during the week, we’ll photograph him and his car. Then we can identify him and if he turns out to be her bit on the side, he need never know. If by any remote chance he’s a Russian, as the girls seem to think, we’ll recognise him and his car if he’s stationed here in Germany. In any case, if there is a regular visitor, we can set up some mobile surveillance next time he calls and find out where he comes from and what he’s up to. That will have to do, he thought grumpily, though I’ll bet even that is a complete waste of time.

  So on the following Sunday the residents of the Nimitzes’ street would have noticed men from the telephone company up various phone poles along the street. If anyone had asked, which they didn’t, they would have been told that a fault had been reported and the lines were being checked. On Sunday evening Lamme was phoned and told that the system was in place and test pictures were being simultaneously received in the BfV operations room in Hamburg and at Headquarters in Berlin. They showed a wide-angle view of the street outside the Nimitzes’ house, and close-ups of the garden at the back and the entrance to the house. The cameras were programmed to trigger if a car stopped in the street outside or if the front door opened or anyone walked through the garden.

  Lamme’s instruction to the operations room was that on Monday he wanted to see still photographs of the two occupants of the house, Dieter and Irma Nimitz. He then wanted to see a daily log of movements at the house, again with still photographs. If there was a male caller at the house who was clearly not a tradesman or the postman, he wanted to be told right away. What he didn’t tell the Ops Room is that he didn’t expect this to happen.

  On the Monday morning Lamme was sitting at his desk looking at a set of photographs. In one, a rather plump woman in her early fifties was coming out of the front door carrying some shopping bags. Another, timed one and a half hours later, showed her unloading full bags from the boot of a car. There were also several pictures of a tall, thin, grey-haired man, presumably Dieter Nimitz, coming and going – the last one, timed at six that morning, showed him leaving the house carrying a small overnight bag and a briefcase.

  Lamme rang Sally Mortimer at the British Embassy.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Mortimer,’ he said, his voice without warmth. ‘I have the first pictures from our little operation. They show the two main characters. Do you wish to have copies?’

  ‘Yes, please. I would like to see all the product.’ She paused and then added, ‘I am very grateful to you for your help in this.’ What no one saw was that after she had said it she stuck her tongue out at the telephone.

  As the week wore on, the surveillance operation proceeded as Lamme had predicted. Each morning there was a packet of photographs on his desk showing all the usual comings and goings at any normal suburban house. Irma left every morning at about eight; the cleaning lady arrived at nine and left at one; the postman came every morning; once there was a delivery of what looked like a parcel from Amazon. Each day, Irma returned at about four thirty, once nearer five with shopping. In the evening all was quiet and no one came or went.

  But on Thursday the pace suddenly changed. At two o’clock, the phone on Lamme’s desk rang. The Ops Room officer said, ‘Just heard from Hamburg. Your lady’s come home early. They’re wondering if she’s expecting a visitor.’

  ‘OK. I’m coming up to watch.’ He was curious despite his scepticism.

  In the Ops Room one of the large monitors on the wall was blank. Nothing was moving at the Nimitz house so the cameras were inactive. One of the Ops officers brought up on another screen the feed from fifteen minutes previously; Lamme watched the figure he recognised as Irma hurrying up the path and opening the door with a key.

  Nothing more happened for a time, and Lamme grew restless, and started pacing round the Ops Room. He had been sure the English girls had been imagining things. Was he going to be proved wrong? He waited, glancing from time to time at the blank screen, his jaw clenched.

  The screen flickered into life, showing a black Mercedes saloon pulling up outside the Nimitz house. The digital clock in the corner of the screen read 14.45. The car door opened and a heavyset, dark-haired man in a leather jacket got out. He collected a briefcase from the passenger seat, slammed and locked the doors and marched up the path to the front door of the house. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and Irma Nimitz welcomed him inside.

  ‘Oh no,’ muttered Lamme under his breath. He knew who the man was. Igor Leonov, identified FSB officer, undercover as a cultural attaché at the Russian Consulate in Hamburg and the target of many an unsuccessful surveillance operation.

  Whatever was going on at this house in Blankensee was bad news. And even worse, from Lamme’s point of view, was that he was going to have to admit to the English girls that they had been right
all along.

  26

  ‘Has anyone seen Peggy?’ Liz was standing at the door of the open-plan office. Heads turned from screens but no one nodded.

  ‘I don’t think she’s in yet,’ said a voice. ‘Her coat’s not here.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ replied Liz. ‘I was expecting her for a meeting ten minutes ago. She must have forgotten. Will you ask her to look in when she gets here?’

  Really odd, thought Liz, as she walked back to her office. Peggy never forgets. She had reached her door when the phone started ringing. Suddenly concerned, she hurried to pick it up.

  ‘Hello, Liz,’ said a familiar voice; there was a lot of noise in the background.

  ‘Peggy? Where are you? I was expecting you ten minutes ago.’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing. I’m on a train – I’ve been trying to get through but we keep going into tunnels and the WiFi’s not working. My mother had a fall in the night; she’s been taken to hospital. I caught the first train north as soon as I heard this morning. I’m sorry about our meeting.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the meeting; it can wait. But I’m so sorry. How is your mother; is she all right?’

  ‘I think so. Apparently they took some X-rays and nothing’s broken. But she’s got some cuts and bruises and is quite shaken up, so it’s just as well I’m going to see her.’

  ‘Absolutely. You met let me know how she is.’

  ‘I will. How was Suffolk?’

  ‘Very interesting. I’ll tell you all about it when you’re back.’ She knew Peggy wouldn’t expect her to go into details over the phone, though she would probably welcome the distraction from worrying about her ageing mother, who was becoming increasingly fragile. She knew Peggy was worried that her mother might not be able to look after herself for much longer. Liz’s own mother remained hale and hearty.

  Peggy went on, ‘I had an interesting time in Germany, though our German counterpart was a true dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist – thought Sally Mortimer and I were a couple of English airheads. But Sally sorted him out – she threatened him with Fane. You should have seen him wilt! Anyway, he’s going to do what we asked. So you may get something from Six if anything happens.’

  Liz was laughing. ‘Well done. I can just imagine the two of you tackling a chauvinist.’

  ‘It was Sally really. She’d dealt with him before so she knew how to pull his strings. She’s a good egg. Even if her choice in men is a little suspect.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Peggy tried but failed to suppress a giggle. ‘She’s been having a fling with our favourite member of Vauxhall Cross.’

  ‘Not Geoffrey Fane? I can’t believe it! She must be nearly thirty years younger than him.’

  ‘No, not Fane. Bruno Mackay.’

  ‘Oh God. Poor girl. She’s doomed to heartbreak. In any case he’s disappeared off the map under deep cover.’

  ‘I know. She’s not happy about it. Well, I’d better go. We’re nearly at my station. I hope to be back tomorrow but I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘OK. Good luck and best regards to your mother.’

  Liz put the phone down. She hoped Peggy’s mother would be all right. She lived in Doncaster. It would be difficult for Peggy to look after her adequately while working in London.

  The following afternoon Peggy was back, much reassured by her mother’s recovery, to find a message from Sally Mortimer via Vauxhall Cross. There had been a Russian visitor to the Hamburg house. He was a known FSB officer.

  Hearing this, Liz said slowly, ‘It makes sense, I suppose. Especially as it seems to have been the Russians behind this boy at Vermont University.’

  ‘But…?’ When Liz looked at her, Peggy said, ‘I sense you have your doubts. About the Russians, I mean.’

  ‘Well, we need better evidence than a single visit to a German headmistress. But that’s not the only reason I’m sceptical. Let me tell you about my visit to Bartholomew Manor.’

  She told Peggy about her trip to Suffolk and the strangeness of the school – Miss Girling, the bizarrely named Cicero, then the enigmatic figure of the Head himself, Mr Sarnat. She described Sarnat’s study and the books she’d seen, as well as the trap she’d fallen into, being caught by a hidden camera. She didn’t mention her dinner with the Chief Constable, but told Peggy how she thought she’d detected Cicero in his Mini behind her on her way home. At this, Peggy’s eyes widened and she said, ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’

  Liz shrugged. ‘It could have been a coincidence. Or I could have been mistaken and it wasn’t Cicero’s car. Anyway, the point is, there was a very odd atmosphere about that place – what my mother’s friend Edward would call “distinctly rum”. The books in particular struck me – why this odd Confucian stuff, and why Taiwan?’

  ‘Did you find out who the owners are?’

  ‘No; just that the owners have changed.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘Let me do some digging then.’

  She was back to Liz by the next morning, sooner than expected. From the contented look on her face, Liz knew she had discovered something. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘let’s have it.’

  ‘I’ve had a team working on this as it’s pretty complicated. The school, which like most schools used to be a non-profit charitable trust, is now a private company. It changed status three years ago. Now it belongs to something called Elkhorn plc.’

  ‘Should I have heard of them?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Very mysterious this Elkhorn. A Jersey company that turns out to be a shell – for another company in the Virgin Islands called Daubisson Assets.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘A holding company – this time for a Swiss company, registered in Geneva. With a board composed – as far as we could tell – of unremarkable local businessmen.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd. Why would a bunch of Swiss burghers want to buy an obscure school in a remote part of Suffolk?’

  ‘I’m not sure they do. It smacks of token directors – not the power behind the throne.’

  ‘Who is the power then?’

  Peggy looked down at her notes. ‘My candidate is one Simon Lee, an owner of half a dozen language schools in the Far East. British passport holder, Hong Kong born but now a resident of Taiwan. Interestingly, we noticed that in some document he claims a degree from a university in Leipzig. That was at a date before the Wall came down – when Leipzig was in East Germany.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. You’re saying the real owner is a Taiwanese businessman?’

  ‘Well, he’s not Taiwanese. He seems to be British but he lives in Taiwan now. He’s the only candidate we’ve got and he seems to have a very unusual background.’ She looked again at her notes. ‘Jacques Millier, François Didier, Henri Palotin – none of these gentlemen seem to have either the assets or international experience to drive the acquisition of the school. It just doesn’t make sense. Simon Lee, on the other hand…’

  Liz sat and thought for a moment. Peggy said, ‘Shall I pursue our Mr Lee some more? He seems the one lead we have.’

  Liz shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I agree. By all means look him up; see if Six have anything on him; do a police check. But I think we should be concentrating on the school itself and what exactly is going on there.’

  ‘How do we do that? Won’t they find it peculiar if you ask for another visit? And you said yourself, I can’t really pass as a prospective parent.’

  ‘No, you can’t. But there may be other ways we can learn about the place.’ She smiled at Peggy. ‘I have an idea.’

  27

  Bruno thought that if he arrived at the restaurant about ten minutes late it would convey the right air of nonchalance. So he deliberately dawdled through Red Square, pausing to admire a bride being photographed in her wedding finery, and took his time ambling down the side street leading to the restaurant he had suggested for their lunch.

  Nikita’s was not quite the hole in the wall that Bruno had described to Bebchuk, but it was very small,
with no more than a dozen rough pine tables. It had the air of what in London or San Francisco would have been a pop-up restaurant, though Bruno knew from a previous conversation with the owner that it had been open more than a year.

  Bruno found Bebchuk at the back at a table for two, stabbing at his phone and looking irritated. He stood to shake hands and Bruno said extravagantly, ‘A million apologies. My choice of restaurant but I’m the one who got lost.’

  ‘I was about to give up and order some food,’ said Bebchuk with a forced smile. The tone of his voice suggested he wasn’t given to listening to excuses.

  They both sat down and Bruno added, ‘Actually, I would have been on time but I came via Red Square. Just my luck – there was about a battalion of soldiers trooping through and the police wouldn’t let us cross the square until they’d passed.’

  ‘In Russia, the military gets priority,’ said Bebchuk, smiling thinly.

  ‘Were you a military man?’

  Bebchuk shook his head. ‘My father was an officer in the Red Army.’ His English was accented but very good.

  ‘Didn’t he want you to follow in his footsteps?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bebchuk simply, ‘but it was OK – I persuaded my little brother to enlist instead.’ He gave a wolfish grin and Bruno laughed.

  A waitress appeared. ‘This is my shout,’ Bruno declared, remembering the speciality of the place. ‘Pelmeni, don’t you think?’ he asked Bebchuk, and the Russian nodded. Bruno looked at Bebchuk’s glass and said, ‘Water for me too.’

  Bebchuk said, ‘This is not water. And I’ll have another one.’

  ‘Make that two,’ said Bruno.

  As the waitress departed, Bebchuk said, ‘And were you a soldier? One of the Queen’s Guardsmen perhaps.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Bruno gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m a lousy shot and can’t read a map. I would have been continually lost on manoeuvres.’