The Moscow Sleepers

by Stella Rimington

  Aziz shrugged.

  Liz said sharply, ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’

  Aziz stared at her; he looked confused. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘They brought you over here from Vermont. Surely you’ve been working closely with them.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Aziz, sounding stung. For all his seeming mildness, he spoke more sharply now. ‘I came because the Americans wouldn’t renew my visa. Things have changed over there. They no longer let people like me stay.’

  ‘And you just happened to end up here at Bartholomew Manor?’

  ‘No. Mr Sarnat called me. He said they knew from Mr Petersen that I had done good work in Burlington and I could help teach their students. He said the students were from the school I went to in Germany, so I would fit in. That I could be very useful, working on counter-cyber strategies. To help companies protect themselves. The university in Vermont helped me get permission to come here.’ His voice faltered slightly.

  ‘But that wasn’t really what they wanted you to do, was it?’

  He was looking increasingly vulnerable. Liz went on, ‘You were brought here under false pretences, weren’t you? Just as you were in Vermont. These people don’t want you to help anybody; they want your expertise to make trouble, to subvert, to destroy.’

  There was a long silence. Aziz looked close to tears. Finally, he said quietly, ‘I know. But I promise to God, I did not know that until I came here. I thought it was … legitimate. What could I do?’ he asked Liz, and his voice was imploring. ‘The Americans didn’t want me; I couldn’t go back to Germany. My home’ – and Liz realised he meant Syria – ‘is not a home any more. So I believed Mr Sarnat, and I came over. But soon I realised what was going on. At least I think I did.’

  ‘I think you were right,’ said Liz gently. ‘It does sound as though none of this is your fault. But did you know the others were going to leave?’

  ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘But I knew something was up. They had a bonfire in the grounds at the back; they were burning papers, I think. I thought that was strange, so I went downstairs. That’s when I heard them talking and realised something was going on.’

  ‘Did you hear where they were going?’

  ‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘But it couldn’t have been far from here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I heard Mr Sarnat say they would take Cicero’s car. Cicero said it only had a quarter of a tank of petrol in it, but Mr Sarnat said that would be more than enough. He even laughed.’

  Liz looked at Pearson. ‘It can’t be Stansted then. Or Norwich airport. And if they were staying in the UK, they wouldn’t stay close by. Which must mean the coast. They’re going out by sea.’

  ‘Singh, we need to alert Border Force. Better get on to the Coastguard too,’ Pearson said. ‘This young man can give you their description. Though even with just a quarter of a tank of petrol, there’s still a hell of a lot of coastline to cover and they’ve been gone several hours already.’ As he stopped speaking, his mobile phone began to ring.

  45

  Geoff Gumm was used to waking early, usually when the seagulls started screaming as the first hints of light filtered through the darkness in the east. This morning, though, he woke even earlier than usual and it was still pitch dark. He lay in bed for a while, then, realising he would never get back to sleep, he rolled over, swung his legs out from under the blankets and stood up. He went downstairs in his pyjamas and put the kettle on. Then, shivering in the cold, he went back upstairs and dressed in thick trousers and a warm fisherman’s sweater. Downstairs again he brewed coffee in a jug. Out of the window he could see the first faint hints of daylight in the eastern sky and that there had been a very early frost. The leaves of a sage bush in the herb bed were etched with white. As he stood warming his hands on his mug and watching the light gradually increase, his sheepdog Judy gave a low bark. He took no notice but a few seconds later she barked again and, thinking she needed to go out, he opened the kitchen door. She rushed out and he followed her and stood just outside the door, taking deep breaths of the ice-cold sea air.

  It was the hazy time between night and sunrise. He watched Judy rush down to the track and into the tall, gently waving grass. It was then he saw the car parked on the verge of the track a hundred yards away. That it was there didn’t surprise him; early bird fishermen keen on surf casting for bass often left their cars on the lane near his cottage. There were three men in the car, as far as he could make out, and he wondered why they weren’t up and out by now, putting up their rods and lines, ready for the early morning advent of the bass. And how on earth did they get all their fishing gear into a Mini?

  He whistled for Judy, who did a long tour of the front garden then came into the kitchen again, where he fed her, finished his coffee and got ready to go down to his workshop. He was looking forward to getting a good morning’s work done with such an early start. As he came out Judy rushed ahead, but she didn’t bark, and he could see that the men were no longer in the car.

  He left his garden and made his way through the feathered grass and the powdery sand along the path between the dunes until he saw the sea spreading out in front of him like a blanket under a low layer of cloudy sea fret. He was about to turn towards his workshop when something caught his eye in the other direction. Turning, he saw three figures huddled together at the base of a dune. There was no sign of any fishing equipment. Gumm stared at them, but from that distance, and with fret, he couldn’t make much out. Part of him wanted to go closer, but he sensed that could be dangerous, though he didn’t quite know why.

  He went on to his workshop, unlocking the door he padlocked every evening – otherwise he’d find a tramp there in the morning, keeping warm. As he started to close the door behind him he heard a mild hum, out to sea, and made out a fishing boat about a quarter of a mile out, illuminated by the first ray from the rising sun. The boat was motionless and must be anchored there; the noise was coming from a large inflatable dinghy with an onboard motor, moving swiftly towards the beach.

  Gumm watched as the dinghy grew close, its motor cutting out only as it reached the shallows. The figures hunched on the beach had stood up and now they ran across the strip of shore. When the dinghy hit the pebbles with a thud, the men were already up to their knees in the water. He watched the three of them clamber into the dinghy, the last one pushing the little boat off and turning it to face the sea. It took off at high speed, heading directly back towards the fishing boat.

  Geoff Gumm wondered what was going on. Why the hurry? These couldn’t be illegal immigrants – they were leaving, not arriving. But there was something odd happening. He remembered the last time Inspector Singh had come down to see him, when he’d brought his boss, the Chief Constable. They’d said to contact them if he saw anything strange. Well, this was strange. He had Singh’s number pinned on his noticeboard, so he picked up his phone, walked over to it and dialled the number. Engaged. He tried again a few minutes later. Still engaged. Geoff was getting worried now. He could see through the window of his workshop that the dinghy had reached the fishing boat and was being hauled on board. He remembered the Chief Constable had talked about possibly wanting to buy a boat and he’d left his card. It must be somewhere on the table. Throwing a Chinese takeaway menu and a Norfolk Today magazine on to the floor and pushing some bills and invoices out of the way, he uncovered it: Chief Constable Richard Pearson. He hesitated for a moment, then reached for his phone. wondering if it was too early to disturb such a high-powered person, but then he remembered what they had said: If you see anything unusual again, ring any time. Day or night.

  46

  ‘We should be hearing from them soon.’ Pearson drummed two fingers on the tabletop and frowned. ‘I’m surprised it’s taking that long. There’s not a lot of traffic off this part of the coast. I know they’re short of boats and crew but I would have expected a quicker response than this. We flagged it up as urgent.’

  He and Liz
were in a spare office back at the Southwold station. Liz had a view of the street. The window was covered with burglar-proof mesh that made a tractor, crawling along the road, oscillate surreally as Liz gazed out.

  They had left two armed officers at Bartholomew Manor on the off chance that Sarnat, Cicero or Gottingen might return, though Liz thought that given what they’d heard from Geoff Gumm it was unlikely. While Pearson spoke to his HQ and ordered them to contact Border Force, Liz had accompanied Aziz to the farm annexe. She announced to the students that he was in charge and they were all to remain where they were for the day. Their initial puzzlement had turned to glee at the prospect of a lesson-free day. Leaving two policemen on guard she was driven over to join the Chief Constable in Southwold.

  Gumm had been extremely precise in his description of the boat that had picked up the escaping trio and clear about the direction it had taken as it left the coast. At first it seemed simple enough, and at nine thirty Border Force had contacted Suffolk Police HQ to report that their own craft had set off an hour before from Great Yarmouth. On its way south, it communicated with a large tanker, which reported seeing a fishing boat matching the description Gumm had given – and also supplied its name. Fortunes High had been spotted about five miles offshore, moving north towards Lowestoft. The tanker estimated it was travelling at no more than 10 knots.

  ‘That’s slow, isn’t it?’ asked Liz when Pearson told her this.

  ‘Yes, that’s very slow, especially for a getaway. You’d expect something a lot faster. Unless something’s wrong with the boat, or they are trying to rendezvous with another vessel.’

  By eleven o’clock he was looking both worried and frustrated. They both knew there was nothing they could do but wait. Liz had contacted Peggy in Thames House to set in hand enquiries about the ownership, nationality, etc. of the Fortunes High. She had also received some information in answer to enquiries she had made previously about the ownership of Bartholomew Manor. ‘It’s not clear who actually owns the place. There’s a shell company, then another, then another. For a while I thought it might be the Chinese behind it. But it’s pretty obvious now, given everything that’s happened in Germany and what we’ve learned from Moscow, that it’s been the Russians all along – though I don’t suppose they’ll be coming forward to claim it. The whole thing will keep the lawyers busy for months to come.’

  Pearson smiled and said, ‘The property issues can wait. What I don’t know is what will happen to the students there.’

  ‘Who knows? I don’t think there’s much chance that the Freitang will want them back. If it still even exists, given that the Head is dead and turned out to be a Russian agent. The whole thing is a huge scandal in Germany and we’re left with all these kids. I don’t suppose they’ll get much choice in the matter, poor things. It’s tragic when you think what they’ve already been through to get to Europe in the first place and now they’re stuck in limbo. It all depends what status they had in Germany, I suppose.’

  ‘What about Thomma? Can you put in a word for him? He seems a nice boy.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. As for Aziz, he must have had a work permit to come to the school. He said the university in Vermont helped him. He flew from Boston to London last month and he has an EU passport. Hopefully he can transfer to a proper kind of job over here. IT skills get looked on favourably by Immigration.’

  Time passed slowly, as it always did during the waiting phase of an operation. At one o’clock Liz was about to suggest they go out and grab a sandwich, when Pearson’s mobile rang. It was the Ops Room at Police HQ. Liz watched as he listened, struggling to keep his voice from rising. Gradually his features settled, his expression hardened, and she saw it was not good news.

  ‘They did what?’ he said, sounding incredulous. He looked at Liz and shook his head, half in sorrow, half in disbelief. He said more calmly now, ‘I hope you expressed our disappointment.’ The voice at the other end said something and Pearson smiled grimly. ‘Good. That sounds like suitably undiplomatic language. Tell them we want a full report on how they failed to apprehend three important international criminals.’ And he ended the call. He turned to look at Liz. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

  ‘I can tell it’s not great.’

  ‘The Coastguard has been keeping an eye out for our escapees – Border Force have only one vessel on this stretch of coast. They spotted our friends anchored as if they were waiting to meet another ship, off a stretch known as Braddle Beach. They alerted Border Force in Ipswich and they relayed the message to their patrol boat. Then they got confused somehow – or else the boat didn’t hear the message very clearly. They headed straight for a point called Battle Beach – it’s named for the pillboxes they built along its bluff during the war. The problem is that Battle Beach is ten miles south of Great Yarmouth and Braddle Beach is twenty miles north. By the time they discovered their mistake and retraced their steps, Fortunes High was nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘They could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Pearson grimly. ‘So far they haven’t done anything one would expect – slow boat, hanging around: you’d almost think they wanted to be caught. But there’s no sign of them now, and they could have easily made it to Holland or Belgium. Our chaps are getting in touch with the Dutch and the Belgians. If they’ve stayed along our coast, we’ll get them, but I can’t believe they’d be that stupid. They’re probably drinking champagne aboard a Russian cruise ship by now.’ He sighed. ‘What a cock-up.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I can’t help but feel responsible. It happened on my turf.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not your screw-up.’

  There was no point in them hanging on any longer in the little Southwold police station. There was nothing more they could do. Assorted social workers and local departmental officials had been dispatched to the farm to look after the welfare of the students and to try to determine their status. It was going to be a difficult task as only Aziz had any documents.

  ‘What are your plans now?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to be in the office tomorrow fairly early. I’ll need to sort things out at our end and talk to Six and find out what’s going on in Germany. Could one of your drivers take me down to Ipswich and I’ll catch a train?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But do you have to get back tonight?’ She looked at him inquiringly. He went on, ‘I have to be in London myself first thing tomorrow – a meeting at the Met. I’m being driven down and could easily take you too. Why don’t you stay here and we could have dinner somewhere and drink to our disappointment that those bastards escaped? I could put you up in my spare room and we’ll drop you off at your flat in the morning.’

  Liz hesitated before saying, ‘Thanks. That sounds like an excellent idea. Much better than going back to an empty, foodless flat.’

  It seemed to take Pearson a moment to realise she was saying yes, then he beamed. Liz found herself drawn to his mix of professionalism and straightforward charm. He was unlike any man she’d known well before. And certainly not remotely like Martin Seurat.

  But there was nothing wrong with that. She would always have her own memories; she didn’t need someone to remind her of them.

  They stopped at the police station at Bury St Edmunds so Pearson could catch up with the details of what was going on and Liz could brief Peggy and ask her to arrange a meeting with Geoffrey Fane the following morning.

  ‘It might be a good idea to invite Miles Brookhaven too,’ Liz added.

  They drove to the Crown, an old inn in the village about five miles west of Bury St Edmunds where Pearson lived. They’d agreed on an early supper as neither of them had eaten anything except sandwiches and pizzas for more than twenty-four hours and they were starving. The Chief Constable was clearly a well-known and well-liked customer and the welcome was as warm as the low-beamed room with its log fire burning in the big fireplace. They ate tender slices of pink lamb while talking companio
nably; it was all so peaceful and relaxing after the frenzied last couple of days that Liz almost fell asleep. Finally Pearson said, ‘Come on. I think we need to get some rest,’ and after friendly goodbyes all round they drove the short distance to Pearson’s house, which Liz was surprised to see was a thatched cottage.

  ‘Your room’s along here,’ and he led Liz down the cottage’s one corridor and opened a door. ‘Oh no,’ he said, almost reeling back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Liz was peering over his shoulder as he flicked on the light.

  ‘I asked the cleaner to clean out this room. And it’s not been done.’

  Liz saw why he was dismayed. Half the world’s fishing gear seemed to be contained in the little room.

  Pearson said, ‘I’m so sorry. Why don’t you relax in the sitting room and I’ll sort it out?’

  Liz looked dubiously at the enormous amount of gear – poles and nets and boxes of lures – that lay on the bed, on the floor and perched precariously against the wall. ‘It will take you for ever,’ she said. ‘And where are you going to put it all?’

  ‘Well…’ Pearson looked embarrassed. ‘You can have my bed, and I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

  Liz gave him a long, contemplative look. There was something touching about a chief constable acting so awkwardly.

  ‘You could,’ she said slowly. ‘You certainly could.’

  47

  Six o’clock the following morning saw them up and drinking coffee while they waited for the Chief Constable’s car to arrive. The Today programme was burbling away in the background but neither of them was really listening. When they caught each other’s eye, they smiled.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Liz, ‘I’ve never been to bed with a chief constable before.’

  ‘And I hope there’s only one chief constable you’ll go to bed with again.’

  The traffic was heavy but the driver was efficient at weaving his way through. Pearson was reading The Times while Liz sat comfortably beside him, trying to keep awake.