Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yazenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
Lieutenant Nilov gave a respectful double knock on General Modin’s inner office door, waited until he heard the muffled command to enter, then opened it.
‘Yes, Vadim? What is it?’ General Modin asked, looking up from his desk.
Nilov walked briskly across the office and stopped in front of the general. ‘I have just been informed by the foyer guards that Minister Trushenko has arrived, General.’
Modin leaned back in his chair, an expression of faint surprise on his face. ‘The Minister? He’s come here?’ he said. ‘I wonder…’ His voice trailed away, and he looked up at his subordinate. ‘He has, I suppose, come to see me?’
‘Yes, General. He’s on his way up now,’ Nilov replied.
Modin stood up, pulled his uniform jacket straight and began fastening the buttons. ‘Well, we must make the Minister welcome, Vadim,’ Modin said. ‘Coffee and biscuits, please, and show him straight in.’
Six minutes later Nilov knocked again on Modin’s door and swept it open without waiting for a response. ‘Minister Trushenko, General,’ he intoned, and bowed slightly as the politician walked past him and into the office. General Modin stood up respectfully as Trushenko entered. He strode forward and shook the Minister’s hand, then gestured to the easy chairs either side of the low table upon which Nilov had already placed refreshments.
‘Welcome, Minister,’ Modin said, as Trushenko sat down and placed his briefcase on the floor beside him. ‘You have not, I think, been to Yazenevo before?’
Trushenko stretched out his long legs before replying. ‘No, General, I have not. In truth, I always preferred Dzerzhinsky Square. It was much more convenient there than being out here in the wilds.’
‘Yazenevo is hardly Siberia, Minister,’ Modin said, smiling. ‘We are only a few minutes’ drive from the Kremlin.’
‘I know, but to me Yazenevo just feels remote.’ He nodded as Modin gestured to the coffee pot, and leaned back in the chair. Modin passed the coffee cup over, pushed the plate of biscuits across the table, and waited. He knew Trushenko well, and knew that the Minister would not have arrived – still less arrived unannounced – unless he had a pressing reason for doing so. In all his previous dealings with him, Modin had always been summoned by Trushenko, and they had always met in Moscow, either at the Kremlin or in Trushenko’s own spacious office suite in the Ministry.
Trushenko took a sip of coffee, then replaced the cup and saucer on the table and looked across at the SVR officer. ‘We have a problem, General,’ Trushenko began. ‘There has been, I am now quite certain, some kind of a leak. You will recall that we discussed this possibility at our previous meeting, before the Englishman was questioned.’ Modin made a gesture of distaste, which Trushenko noticed. ‘The English,’ Trushenko said, ‘have an expression –“you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.” We are not making an omelette, but the same principle applies. The death of the Englishman was inevitable, once he had been taken for questioning. We could hardly send him back to his masters at SIS with knowledge of the questions we had asked.’
Modin put down his coffee cup. ‘I do not dispute that, Minister,’ he said. ‘What I do dispute is the method that was employed to question him. Surely the interrogator could have been instructed to use drugs, rather than the medieval methods that he so obviously enjoyed?’
‘No,’ Trushenko replied. ‘The interrogator was acting under my direct orders, and I allowed him to use whatever methods he felt were the most suitable. He felt that, because time was critical, torture was likely to be the fastest and most efficient technique.’
Modin shook his head. ‘I cannot agree, Minister. I don’t know what went on in—’
‘I do know,’ Trushenko interrupted. ‘I had the interrogation video-taped.’
‘You taped the interrogation?’ Modin demanded, staring in disbelief.
‘Of course. I like to know what goes on in my name. I have a collection of tapes recorded at several terminal interrogations. I wouldn’t recommend them for bedtime viewing, but they are interesting, nevertheless.’ Trushenko picked up a biscuit and nibbled it delicately. ‘The Englishman was a disappointment,’ he continued. ‘He offered almost no resistance and obviously had a very low pain threshold. A wimp,’ he added, dismissively.
Modin still stared at him. He had been acquainted with the man for nearly four years, and had never suspected this streak of ghoulish, sadistic voyeurism.
‘To business,’ Trushenko said. ‘The Englishman—’ he rolled the word on his tongue, as if the mere act of speaking it gave him pleasure ‘—confirmed what I had suspected. He knew nothing of Podstava, which at least means that we will not be forced to implement the plan immediately. Obviously the Americans suspect something – or, to be more accurate, they have been told something – which is why they flew their spy-plane, but they have not shared their knowledge with the British.’
General Modin stopped thinking about the death of the Englishman and concentrated on what the Minister was saying. ‘You are certain that they were not simply investigating the weapon test in the tundra?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Trushenko said, shaking his head decisively. ‘In the present political climate they would not have dared over-fly our landmass just to photograph a weapon test site. To risk the possible political implications, they must have had some overwhelming reason. However, the Americans cannot have detailed information about Podstava, otherwise they would not have had to risk the flight at all.’
Modin nodded again. What the Minister was saying exactly matched his own opinion. ‘I have already taken steps to try to identify the traitor, assuming that there is one.’
‘Oh, there is a traitor, General, of that I am sure. What have you done?’
‘I have instructed General Grigori Sokolov to review the files of everyone with a working knowledge of Podstava,’ Modin replied. ‘He has authorized mail intercepts and telephone taps, as well as physical surveillance.’
‘Do you expect that to yield anything?’ Trushenko asked quizzically.
‘Frankly, Minister, no,’ Modin said. ‘But it will effectively prevent the traitor from sending any further communications to the Americans. That is the best we can hope for.’
‘Agreed. Now, if the British had known about Podstava, we would have had to begin the immediate implementation of the plan. The leak to the Americans is less critical, as that component has already been completed. Nevertheless, I cannot risk letting Podstava run to the original timetable, in case the Americans do decide to confide in their European allies.’
‘You are advancing the schedule?’ Modin asked.
‘Yes,’ Trushenko replied. ‘Complete implementation of Operation Podstava will now take place on the eleventh of next month.’
‘That’s only twelve days from now,’ Modin said, glancing across at his desk calendar. ‘It leaves very little margin for error or delays.’
‘Actually, it leaves no margin at all for error or delays, General. As you know, I was tasked by the Politburo with the planning and execution of Operation Podstava, and until now I have been content to simply oversee the various phases. Now, because it is clear that some details of the operation have been leaked to the Americans, and because time is so short, I have decided to take over personal control of all aspects of Podstava, including supervision of the assembly of the final weapon and, of course, the actual implementation. Additional security measures will be imposed. No communications of any sort concerning Podstava are to be made to any person who has not already been fully indoctrinated. This includes your superiors and subordinates in the SVR, and even Politburo members.’
‘Your previous orders forbade any contact with all non-authorized personnel,’ Modin pointed out. ‘From the beginning of the project you instructed that all communications with the Politburo were to be channelled through you.’
‘Correct,’ the Minister replied.
‘The difference now is that with Podstava about to be implemented, any disclosure, of any sort, to anyone, will be regarded as treason. There will be no trial, and the penalty will be death.’ Trushenko paused, and smiled bleakly. ‘Death may not be immediate. I may take the opportunity to add to my video collection.’ Despite the warmth of the office, Modin felt a chill creep over him. ‘Finally, General,’ Trushenko said, ‘I want you to accompany the last weapon to London and oversee its placement.’
‘May I ask why?’ Modin asked, surprise evident in his voice.
‘Yes. You are the most senior SVR officer involved in Podstava, and you have my complete trust. The London weapon is in many ways the lynchpin of the European phase of the operation, and I want there to be no mistakes in its delivery or positioning. You have the rank and the ability to ensure that nothing goes wrong.’
‘I thank you, Minister, for your confidence.’
‘Just ensure that my confidence is not misplaced, General,’ Trushenko said, and opened his briefcase.
Hammersmith, London
‘Why did we get involved in this?’ Richter asked. ‘Why didn’t SIS get one of their men to investigate it?’
‘Simple. Vauxhall Cross didn’t want a known “face” poking around over there if this turned out to be anything other than a simple road accident, which – thanks to you – we now know that it wasn’t.’ Simpson looked down at the file again, then back at Richter. ‘Why are you so sure he’s dead?’
Richter sighed. Simpson seemed particularly obtuse that morning. That, however, was nothing new. He often appeared slow to grasp what seemed patently obvious to everyone else, but from bitter experience Richter knew that this was just his naturally devious nature manifesting itself. He always wanted to be absolutely certain that an operative making a proposition had considered every aspect of the matter.
‘He’s got to be, hasn’t he?’ Richter said. ‘They’ve presented us with a dead body that almost everyone accepts as being the remains of Graham Newman. If they were going to ignore his diplomatic immunity and put him on show, they certainly wouldn’t have done that. It would have been a mysterious disappearance, followed a few days later by a cautious leak from TASS, then the usual diplomatic charge and denial that we all know and love. That would have been followed by a trial at which Newman would make a “voluntary” confession to whatever the Russians had in mind. And if it had been a defection, they’d be shouting about it in the world’s press, and there wouldn’t be a mangled stiff in a Moscow basement.
‘No, the only possible reason for giving us a body called Newman is that Newman is dead somewhere, and the only reason for giving us a body that looks like Newman but isn’t, is that Graham Newman’s remains are not fit for public consumption.’ Richter stopped and looked over at Simpson. ‘If you want my guess, Newman’s in the Lubyanka, and he won’t be coming out. They’ve snatched him for terminal questioning.’
Simpson nodded in a preoccupied fashion a couple of times, then stood up and walked back to the window and fiddled with the cacti on the sill.
‘And there’s something else,’ Richter said.
‘What?’
‘I picked up tails everywhere I went in Moscow, and I had an exchange of views with one of them at the airport.’
‘Who was he?’
‘I didn’t bother getting his name, but he was carrying an SVR identity card and waving a PSM pistol in my face. The SVR had obviously issued a kill order against me.’
Simpson nodded, returned to his desk, and depressed a button. ‘Coffee,’ he said.
A few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and Richter got up and opened it. Simpson’s secretary was standing outside, a metal tray in her hands. On it were two cups of black coffee, a small jug of milk, a plate with three digestive biscuits, and a bowl of sugar.
‘Thank you, Sheila.’
She put the tray down on Simpson’s desk and left the office. Simpson reached across, added milk to his coffee and watched Richter take two of the three biscuits. ‘It may interest you to know that your appreciation of the situation tallies almost exactly with the Intelligence Director’s assessment, given that the body is not Newman.’
‘That’s why he’s the ID, I suppose,’ Richter said.
‘Don’t be frivolous.’ Simpson put his coffee cup down and reached for the remaining biscuit. Richter remembered the things he had selected from Graham Newman’s possessions in Moscow, opened his briefcase again and piled them up on Simpson’s desk.
‘What’s this rubbish?’
‘This rubbish, as you so charmingly put it, is a small selection of the things Newman held near and dear.’
‘I realize that,’ said Simpson. ‘More to the point, why are they on my desk?’
‘Because I don’t want them,’ Richter replied. ‘I had to think of a reason for having a quick look round Newman’s office and apartment – as instructed by you – and collecting items of sentimental value for his family seemed to be the easiest. I thought you might like to send them off to the SIS or even to Newman’s family, if he had one.’
Simpson looked at him. ‘There is a next of kin address in the file, as I’ve no doubt you noted, but Newman wasn’t married.’
‘I know he wasn’t married,’ Richter said sharply.
Simpson looked at him quizzically. ‘He was the SIS Head of Station. Nobody was stopping him getting married. It’s different with us – I never employ field operatives saddled with wives. It’s far too hampering.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Richter said.
‘How I employ my operatives is nothing whatever to do with you.’
‘It is as long as I’m one.’
‘You’re more than a field operative. I recruited you into this organization in order to make use of your unique talents. You, Richter, are one of my secret weapons.’ Simpson smiled the way a crocodile does, showing lots of teeth and ill intent. ‘I like to think I can aim you at a problem, light the blue touch paper and stand well clear.’
Richter grunted. Simpson showed more teeth, drained the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘Leave them with me – the bits you brought back from Moscow. I’ll take care of them.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well? Anything else?’ Simpson said and looked rather pointedly at the door.
‘Yes, of course there’s something else,’ said Richter. ‘Having established that the body in Moscow isn’t Newman, the big question is why.’
Simpson sat down again. ‘You mean why did they snatch Newman?’
‘I mean why did they snatch Newman, and why did they snatch anyone?’
Simpson smoothed back his fair hair with a small and scrupulously clean pink hand. ‘I asked the Intelligence Director the same question.’
‘And what, pray, was the Intelligence Director’s assessment of the situation?’
‘He was puzzled,’ Simpson said. ‘There would appear to be no reason why Newman was snatched, rather than any other SIS officer at Moscow Station except, of course, that he was Head of Station. He had had no access to any files of particular interest to the Russians recently, and as far as we are aware he was not involved in any especially sensitive project. Which is to say that he hadn’t been tasked by London with anything of that nature. It’s pretty quiet at the moment in Moscow, apart from the depredations of the Mafia.’
‘Basically, you don’t know?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Simpson snapped. ‘We came to the conclusion that it might simply have been a precautionary check. The KGB did occasionally snatch a foreign service operative and pump them dry just to see if they knew anything of interest – although it wasn’t common – and it was rare for them not to return the operative afterwards, more or less in one piece. Perhaps the SVR has a more aggressive attitude.’
‘So that’s it, is it? “Goodbye, Newman. It’s been nice knowing you.”’
‘There’ll be a funeral, of course.’
‘Delightful. I meant, more specifically, what fol
low-up action will you be taking?’
‘Follow-up action? None. As far as Vauxhall Cross is concerned, officially the body at the Embassy is Newman, and will be buried here as Newman. The Russians couldn’t have got anything of major significance out of him because he didn’t know anything. Therefore, as SIS has not been compromised in any way, we are doing nothing.’
‘That will be a great comfort to Newman’s shade,’ Richter said, and walked out.
Office of the Director of Operations (Clandestine Services), Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
The outer office door was open, and as Richard Muldoon led the way down the long carpeted corridor he could see straight into the room. Jayne Taylor, the Director’s personal assistant – very personal, if some of the rumours circulating in the supergrades’ private dining room were to be believed – was talking softly into a telephone while she flicked briskly through a large leather-bound desk diary.
‘Yes,’ she murmured quietly, as Muldoon paused at the door, ‘it looks as if Friday week is about the earliest the Director can see you. Of course, if you could limit your presentation to fifteen minutes or less we could possibly fit you in before that.’
She looked up as Muldoon knocked, and her eyes widened slightly as she nodded and watched him and the other two men walk in and stand by the window. Muldoon was tall and lanky, and bore an uncanny resemblance to James Jesus Angleton, the agency’s notorious former spy-catcher, but today his normally cheerful face was clouded. Jayne Taylor turned away, and resumed her telephone conversation. ‘Look, Mike, I have some visitors right now. Could you give it some thought and call me back? Thanks, and you.’
She put the telephone handset down and looked appraisingly at Muldoon, the head of the Directorate of Science and Technology – the CIA division responsible for satellite surveillance and technical intelligence analysis.
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