Bebchuk smiled but he was watching Bruno closely. ‘Did you also have a brother who is a soldier?’
‘No brothers; just sisters – three, in fact. I was the only son.’
‘These sisters of yours, they spoiled you?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Bruno. Most of what he was saying was true, which was always best for a cover story.
‘Is this what they mean when they speak of a lady’s man?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, though it gives one a head start, I suppose. With three sisters I had a pretty good idea of what girls look for in a chap.’
The pelmeni arrived: two large bowls full of sombrero-shaped dumplings, with little side dishes of sour cream. The filling was a spicy mix of beef and pork, and utterly delicious.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Bebchuk.
The Russian speared a dumpling and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Excellent. Not as good as my mother’s, but a close second. But speaking of the ladies, how long have you known Michelle?’
‘Oh, not long,’ said Bruno. ‘But I like her very much.’
‘She must like you too. She was most insistent that her friends come to meet you the other night.’
‘That was kind. I don’t know many people here yet.’
‘You like Moscow then?’
‘Yes. There’s so much energy here. Exciting times.’
‘Where else have you lived?’
Bruno had used cover stories for most of his professional life. He was quite capable of discussing the relative merits of life in Pakistan, North America, most of Western Europe and even, if pressed, the Outer Hebrides. Now he put into service his most recently concocted CV, much of it based on his own considerable travels. He told the mandatory story of having his pocket picked in Rio de Janeiro, related an amusing account of trying and failing to bribe a Customs inspector in what had then been Yugoslavia. But that was all when he was younger, he added. In his present job as an investment banker he had to be a model citizen; trust and probity, he said, were his USP.
‘USP?’ asked Bebchuk, frowning.
‘Unique selling point,’ explained Bruno. ‘In my business we distinguish ourselves from the competition by our reputation and our performance.’
‘So I understand that you are exploring opportunities for business here. Do you intend to stay here some time?’
‘Could be,’ said Bruno amiably.
‘Michelle told my wife you were planning to apply for permanent resident status.’
Experienced in concealing surprise, Bruno merely opened his eyes a little wider. ‘I don’t know if permanent is quite right. But I have no plans to leave unless something wonderful comes along that takes me back home.’ Seeing an opening, Bruno went on, ‘Would you ever want to live abroad?’
Bebchuk took his time replying. ‘Possibly,’ he said cautiously at last. ‘If the conditions were right.’ He was still staring at Bruno.
Bruno looked down at his bowl and scraped absentmindedly at it with his fork. ‘You know, as a state official, you have great value to people trying to do business in Russia.’ He lifted his eyes but let them rove idly around the room. ‘Russia remains a mystery to us in the West. People who understand the inner workings of this place are rare as gold.’
‘As gold? You exaggerate, my friend.’
‘Not at all.’ Bruno allowed himself at last to meet Boris’s gaze. ‘Though obviously it depends on how much the person knows about the inner workings of things.’
‘Obviously,’ said Bebchuk. It was hard to tell if he were amused, interested or simply bored.
Bruno sipped his vodka, trying to stay patient. ‘To some extent it would depend on what this person in the know wanted to get out of it. Financially, I mean,’ he added.
‘There is that,’ Bebchuk acknowledged. ‘There are also other issues, no?’
‘Are there?’
Bebchuk raised his hand at the waitress and signalled for another vodka. She looked at Bruno, and he decided he had better match Bebchuk, so he nodded, though he was going to drink it very slowly. He badly needed to keep his wits about him.
Bebchuk sighed. He said, ‘You know, in Moscow since the time of Yeltsin, many people have made lots of money. So much so that people forget that money does not always make you secure. What is the point of a billion roubles if the government can take it away? Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
‘I suppose the wise ones have their money abroad,’ Bruno commented. ‘Somewhere safe, so that even if they become enemies of the government, they have their money out of harm’s way.’
‘“Harm’s way” – I like that,’ said Bebchuk. Then his voice hardened. ‘But what good is safe money if you are not safe yourself? Without that, there can be no security. Except perhaps for the widow of the man who thought a billion roubles made him safe.’
Bruno was silent for a moment, then, emboldened by the vodka, he said as soberly as he could, ‘I suppose there are always ways to keep people safe, as well as their money. Provided there is trust, that is.’
‘Trust. The magic word, is it not? But many of those who trusted your country are no longer alive.’
Bruno said nothing, and Bebchuk smiled enigmatically. Then he said, ‘I thank you for an excellent lunch. I would stay for coffee, but I need to get back to the department. Perhaps we can have another lunch sometime. I will choose the restaurant perhaps – if you trust me.’
The Russian left and Bruno called for the bill. He was in no doubt that his message had got through to Bebchuk. What he felt less confident about was how it had been received.
28
Matilda Burnside had been surreptitiously observing Dieter Nimitz all morning. The two of them shared a large office on the fifth floor of the Berlaymont building, the headquarters of the European Commission, and from where she sat by the window Matilda could see Dieter clearly without seeming to be looking at him, though this morning she doubted he would have noticed even if she had been staring right at him. He seemed completely withdrawn, wrapped up in himself.
She had noticed when he arrived for work that he looked more than usually haggard. His face was always thin and rather grey but this Monday morning his cheeks seemed to have fallen in and his eyes were glazed. He hadn’t been looking well for weeks but now he looked positively haunted. She was uncertain whether to try to get him to talk or whether to wait and hope that he would say something of his own accord.
Her husband Peter had asked her to tell him if Dieter said anything more about his wife, but not to raise the subject herself, ask questions or seem to be prying. On the other hand, simple human kindness seemed to demand that she tried to help her colleague and friend. She sat quietly, getting on with her work but conscious of the cloud hanging over the other desk.
Finally, as the clock moved towards midday, Dieter cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since he had said a gruff ‘Bonjour’ on arrival that morning. ‘Matilda, will you come and have some lunch with me? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you but I’d rather not talk in the restaurant here.’
‘Love to,’ said Matilda. ‘Let’s go now before it gets too crowded.’
Soon they were installed at a quiet table in the little local bistro, each with a glass of wine in front of them and their lunch orders given. Dieter looked straight at Matilda and said, ‘I want to tell you a story – my story. I am putting myself into your hands. I think you will know what to do.’
She looked at him, her eyes full of sympathy, but said nothing.
‘I was born in the GDR,’ he began. ‘Not in a village between Munich and Salzburg as I have always claimed. My name then was Dieter Schmidt. My father worked for the Stasi. When I was seventeen I was visited by two men, one a Russian. They asked me a lot of questions and later I was told that I had been selected for undercover work. East Germany was in the Eastern bloc, of course, so I felt greatly honoured.
‘After my school exams were over I was sent to Moscow and
given a new identity, Dieter Nimitz, and trained in all the details of my new background until I wore them like a skin.
‘That was in 1974. After six months’ intensive training, I was sent back to say goodbye to my family; then I went to West Germany with a student group on an exchange visit. I was the one member of the group who stayed behind.
‘I don’t know how it was arranged but no questions were asked and overnight I became Dieter Nimitz, freshly graduated from a Gymnasium in Bavaria. I was given a place at Hamburg University to study languages. Everything had been arranged for me, including my accommodation, and no one asked any questions or doubted my authenticity. I had learned my lessons well.
‘After I graduated I was instructed to accept a job offer I received from a small import–export firm in Hamburg. I worked there for seven years, hearing nothing at all from my controllers. I was convinced they had forgotten all about me when suddenly I received an instruction to apply for a post here at the Commission. I started here in 1987.’
He stopped and reached for the water jug to refill his glass but his hand was shaking so much that he couldn’t grasp it. Matilda reached out and gently took the jug from him and refilled both their glasses. She had a thousand questions to ask, but she knew he had more of his story to tell, so she just smiled at him encouragingly and waited. The waiter came with their food, but Dieter only poked with his fork at the plate in front of him.
‘I’ve worked here for almost thirty years,’ he went on eventually. ‘And I have heard nothing from the Russians except when they told me to apply for this job. I had no idea what their plan for me was or even if they had one. When the wall came down and the regime in Russia changed, I assumed that as everything was in turmoil I had been forgotten. Maybe priorities had changed. But recently I have wondered. Wondered whether the plan was something very different from anything I imagined and whether I have been playing a part in it all these years without even knowing.’
This was even more intriguing than the first part of his story. Matilda, who had been eating while he had been talking, mainly to cover her surprise at his story, now put her fork down and leaned forward, her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. She spoke for the first time but just to say, ‘Go on.’
‘I met and married my wife Irma while I was working in Hamburg. Friends of the owner of the company introduced us. I hadn’t had much to do with women and when she made it very clear that she wanted to get married, I agreed right away. We were married less than a year after we met. We had a small ceremony. I said I was an orphan. It didn’t seem strange at the time as there had been so much upheaval in Germany.
‘I never told Irma about my real origins and she never asked about my past life. Frankly, I never asked much about hers. It sounds strange to say that now, but it didn’t seem so at the time. She’s always been the dominant one in our marriage.’
He gave a long sigh. ‘But recently I have begun to wonder about my marriage, and about Irma, and I have now become convinced that it was all arranged – that Irma was under instructions to marry me.’
‘Instructions from whom?’
‘From the same people who had turned me into Dieter Nimitz,’ said Dieter, as if it were completely obvious. ‘I think perhaps they decided that I don’t have the right temperament for secret undercover work, so they used me as a convenient and respectable cover for whatever they have had Irma doing instead.
‘I am now sure, from everything I have noticed recently, that she is involved in some sort of plot involving the immigrant children at the school. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but from what I have discovered now it seems to involve your country as well.’
He stopped talking and took another long gulp of water. For the first time that day he looked straight at Matilda. His face had relaxed and his eyes looked brighter. He said, ‘So, now you know my story. I have never told anyone before but it was time and I feel relieved. You must do whatever you think right with the information but please do something. I don’t want whatever Irma is doing to succeed. I am sure it is wrong and damaging and I don’t want the children to be harmed.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ said Matilda simply. ‘I do know who to talk to and I can guarantee that we will do everything we can to find out what’s going on – and to prevent any harm coming to these children.’
29
Florence Girling stood in the kitchen of the cottage she had shared with her mother for many years and, since her mother’s death, now lived in alone. For the third time, she was reading the letter that had come in the post earlier that morning. It had been lying on the mat inside the front door when she came downstairs, along with the usual assortment of fliers for cheap pizza in Southwold, double glazing, bargain spectacles and a plastic bag to fill with old clothes for a charity. She noticed the letter at once. It was marked SUFFOLK POLICE.
She found this rather alarming as she had never had any dealings with the police. When she opened it her alarm was joined by confusion.
Dear Madam,
Records show that you are the registered holder of a Driving Licence Driver Number GIRLI 588214F99SV, valid from 19 10 1985 to 22 08 2028, in the name of Florence Girling.
A document with these details was discovered at the scene of an incident in Oswestry which is being investigated by the Shropshire Police. We note that you have not reported your licence as missing and we need to establish how it came to be in Oswestry in the above circumstances.
Accordingly, we would be grateful if you would present yourself with this letter at the Southwold Police Station on the Saturday following the date of this letter at 10:30 a.m. The address is Mights Rd, Southwold IP18 6BB. Please ask at Reception for Ms Diane Kingly.
Should you be unable to attend this appointment please telephone the number at the head of this letter.
Yours sincerely
R. T. Vollman
Although thoroughly upright – there had never been the faintest whiff of scandal in her life, not to mention any trouble with the law – Miss Girling was not unflappable. And now she found herself in what her mother had always called an absolute tizz. Standing in the kitchen with the letter in her hand, she wished her mother were still alive: the elderly Mrs Girling had been a rock in times of crisis. What would she have done now, Miss Girling wondered plaintively, then instinctively switched on the kettle.
As she sipped a cup of tea, Florence felt reason return. First things first, she decided, and found her purse. There she was relieved to see her licence, which had sat in more or less the same position, untouched, unused, for over thirty years. She pulled it out, put on her glasses and peered closely at it, carefully reading the line of tiny letters and figures. Yes. It was the same as in the letter. How had it been found in Oswestry when it was here in her hand?
Florence had passed her driving test years before, in a fleeting show of independence from her mother, but had never owned a car. When she had discovered the cost of buying and running a vehicle, she had thought better of it, and in any case she didn’t need one. A bus took her each morning from the stop at the end of the road right to the top of the lane that led to Bartholomew Manor, and a bus brought her home each evening. There was a small general store and post office in the village which answered most of her needs. She wasn’t much of a traveller. Once a year she went to London to have lunch with an old friend from schooldays, and for this she splurged on a taxi to Darsham station where she caught the train to Liverpool Street. A car would be a nuisance rather than a help, and an expensive one at that.
As good sense overcame her initial fears, Miss Girling found herself increasingly puzzled. Someone, somehow, must have found out the details of her unused driving licence and had been driving around pretending to be her.
She had read about identity theft in the paper and had heard them talking about it on Radio 4 but she had no idea how it was done. She thought it had something to do with internet banking but she didn’t do that; she used the branch of Barclays
in Southwold. In fact, she didn’t use the internet at all. She used the telephone if she wanted to get in touch with anyone. So how could someone have stolen her identity? A mistake must have been made by someone – perhaps because she hadn’t used her licence, they’d issued her number twice? It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least. It was bound to be due to computers in some way or another, even if it wasn’t the internet.
She held a profound mistrust of computers. She knew that people younger than her, which meant virtually everyone at Bartholomew Manor, would dismiss her views, call her a dinosaur and point to the benefits computers were bringing to mankind. Name one, Florence Girling thought sourly. There was nothing they could supply that she wasn’t happy to do without. For her, the benefits of technology had ended with the invention of the wireless and the telephone.
It was not a view she thought it wise to share at work. Not since everything had changed at Bartholomew Manor. Once she had left home each morning full of enthusiasm for the day ahead. She had spent twenty entirely enjoyable years in what had been the most traditional private secondary school in this part of the country, helping to educate what she was certain would be the cream of the young men and women of their generation.
But over the last few months her job at Bartholomew Manor had become a nightmare. Once she had taught Geography and helped with the administration. Now she didn’t teach at all; indeed, there weren’t any pupils left to teach. Local families had all taken their children away.
Her job now was a sort of dogsbody role, and consisted mainly of showing prospective parents around. She was ashamed of the dilapidated state of the main school. The classrooms needed a thorough overhaul – painting, new furniture and general updating. Even she could see that. The only area where money had been spent was on the technology suite the new owners were so proud of. She had so far managed to mask her alarm at the computer-focused curriculum the school now offered, and tried to show to the prospective parents a pride she didn’t feel in the gleaming equipment. Not that there were many of them and none of them seemed to want to send their children there. She didn’t blame them. As far as she could understand it, the school seemed now to be relying on an intake of new students shortly to come from abroad.
The Moscow Sleepers Page 13