The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  Milton said that he was tired and how much he was looking forward to his bed. The porter shone a bright smile at him as she held a keycard to his door, said that she hoped that he would find the bed comfortable, and, after taking his tip, she left him alone in his room.

  Milton checked his suite. There was a large marble bathroom and a similarly generous bedroom. He had no doubt at all that the room was bugged, but he made no effort to find the devices. That would be the behaviour of a spy, and John Smith was an economist. Milton didn’t mind that he was observed. He undressed and got straight into bed. It was just after five. The briefing was at seven. He had an hour; not nearly enough, but it would have to do. He closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.

  47

  Milton woke at six. He felt rough, with not nearly enough sleep in the bank, and had to stand under a cold shower for five minutes to wake himself up. He stood before the mirror and stared at his reflection. He looked tired. He needed a cigarette, but that would have to wait.

  He dressed in the business suit that he had brought with him, pairing his white shirt with a blue tie. He polished his shoes with the kit he found in the cupboard and put his credentials, wallet and phone in his pockets. He looked down at the opened suitcase on the bed; he would leave it there. He knew that they would go through his things, but they would find nothing that contradicted his legend. He was an economist, posted to the embassy. He would leave his laptop, too. They would be able to crack the rudimentary password with ease, but all they would find would be a collection of spreadsheets and documents that related to the deal that he was here to work on. Milton did not anticipate needing the computer, but if he did, the encryption key that he carried in his wallet would enable him to use it without fear of his communications being eavesdropped upon.

  He went down to the lobby, used his card to buy some roubles from the receptionist, and stepped outside. He purchased a packet of cigarettes from a vending machine he found on the street, tore off the cellophane wrapper, tapped out a cigarette and lit it. The embassy was to the west. He followed Novinskiy Boulevard, its eight lanes already thick with traffic, and then turned into the quieter Protochnyy Pereulok. It was obvious that he was being followed. He saw a man and a woman who appeared behind him as he made his way off from the hotel, and noticed a car with tinted windows that was parked near the junction of the main road. Milton made no effort to shake the surveillance. He made his way along the pavement, passing apartment blocks and cheaper hotels until he reached the broad highway that overlooked the river. There was suddenly a sense of open space; the water was wide here, with long bridges that crossed to the other side and the impressive buildings that made up the political district.

  He arrived at the embassy and showed his pass at the front door. The guard looked down at it, checked that the photograph was correct, and asked him to confirm his name. Milton did. The guard wished him good morning and stepped aside. Milton removed his coat, watch, belt and shoes and passed through the scanner, collected his personal belongings and waited in the lobby for someone to meet him.

  A middle-aged woman joined him after five minutes. “Mr. Smith,” she said, maintaining his legend in the event that the intelligence services were listening in this unsecured part of the building. “My name is Susannah Jones. How are you?”

  “Very well,” Milton said. “Tired. I got in early this morning.”

  “We have some very strong coffee brewing. Come this way, please.”

  Jones led the way through an exterior courtyard and then up a set of marble steps to the attic. This was where the embassy held briefings when classified intelligence might be discussed. The stairs ended in a large metal door of the sort one might expect to find securing a bank vault. The door was open and, beyond it, there was the day door with the cipher lock, and then a wire gate that was opened by the entry of a code on the electric keypad that was fitted to the wall next to it.

  Jones led Milton through all the layers of security until he was inside the briefing room. Pope was already there.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Won’t be a moment,” Jones said. “Help yourself to coffee.”

  She turned and made her way back outside. There was a tray on the table with a vacuum flask of coffee and half a dozen china mugs. Pope filled two of the mugs, gave one to Milton and then sat down next to him.

  “How’s your hotel?” Milton asked.

  “Almost certainly bugged. Yours?”

  “Same. And I was followed here this morning.”

  “Me too,” Pope said. “We’re going to have to be thorough when we’re ready to move.”

  Milton nodded his agreement, and then looked around the room. It was bare, with just the table and chairs. There was a laptop on the table, fixed with a lockable seal that helped guard against unauthorised access; the machine would have been preloaded with a secure software suite at GCHQ and then pouched to the embassy to ensure that it was not tampered with. The room was lit by overhead fluorescent tubes that would also have been imported from London to remove the risk that units sourced from the domestic market might have been provided with bugs included. There was a line of small windows on either side that were guarded by bars, then steel shutters, and finally triple-glazed glass. The lack of natural light, combined with the harsh glow of the tubes overhead, made for an unpleasant space. The price of security, Milton thought.

  “Who’s briefing us?” he asked.

  “Station Chief,” Pope said. “Just waiting for a fourth person.”

  “He say who that is?”

  “Station Chief is a she, actually,” Pope said. “And, no, she didn’t.”

  They had been given very little in the way of information, save that they should report to the embassy for an operational briefing. Milton didn’t like to be unprepared, but he knew that the planning and execution of the operation would be left to him and Pope. Control had made it clear that speed was important, but Milton would balance it, so far as was possible, with careful organisation.

  “Gentlemen,” said a voice from the doorway behind them.

  Milton turned around. A middle-aged woman in a black skirt and jacket was standing just inside the wire gate.

  “I’m Elizabeth McCartney,” she said, stepping inside and offering her hand. “I’m the chief here.”

  Milton shook her hand but, before he could respond, he saw a second person ascending the stairs.

  It was a second woman. She paused at the doorway and her mouth fell open.

  “You?” she exclaimed.

  He shook his head in wry amusement.

  Jessie Ross.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Do you two know each other?” McCartney asked.

  “We met on Sunday,” Ross said. “Smith was assigned to the Southwold investigation. Military liaison.”

  “That’s right,” Milton said.

  “What is it today? Still the same?”

  Milton turned to indicate Pope. “We work for a government agency. I can’t tell you what that is, but I can say that we’ve been sent here to find the agents who are responsible for the assassinations in Southwold.”

  “What government agency?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s classified.”

  Milton watched her face as he spoke. She looked from him to Pope and back again. Her eyes sparked with irritation, and there was blood in her cheeks.

  “This is nuts,” she said, throwing up her hands. “‘Find the agents responsible?’ What does that mean? Are you going to give them a good talking to? Tell them not to do it again?”

  “No,” Milton said.

  “So I’m being partnered with a killer, then. A murderer. Yes?” She glanced over at Pope and corrected herself. “Excuse me. Two murderers.”

  “Is this going to be a problem?” McCartney said.

  “I’m sorry,” Ross responded, “but why am I here? I don’t understand. Why do you even need me?”
<
br />   “You agreed to come,” McCartney said evenly. “You volunteered, I believe.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Before I knew…” She threw up her hands. “Before I knew this.”

  “Raj Shah agreed with you because it made sense,” McCartney said. “You’re fairly new to the Russian desk. It’s possible they”—she pointed to the one uncovered window, and the buildings that crowded the far shore of the Moskva—“won’t even know who you are. And if they don’t have anything on you, you’ll find that movement is a little easier. Believe me—that’s a benefit here, and it doesn’t usually last long.”

  “So I’m new and they don’t know who I am. That’s it?”

  “And you’ve been here before,” McCartney added patiently. “You studied here. Your Russian is flawless.”

  The compliments mollified Ross a little. She turned to Milton and Pope. “And them? What do they do?”

  “You’re right,” McCartney said. “We can’t ask the Russians to put the bad guys on the first BA flight back to London. We need to draw a line. They’re going to draw it.”

  48

  Primakov took the executive elevator to the fourth floor. He folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, glancing up at the shield of the SVR, the Star and Globe, that had been fixed to the wall of the car. The doors opened and he emerged into the gloom and silence of the corridor that led down the centre of the floor. The carpet was thick, muffling the sound of the footsteps of the men and women who worked here. No one spoke, the silence disturbed only by the clacking of keyboards in the typists’ pool. Primakov looked left at the portraits of previous directors of the KGB, each man glaring down at him as he passed, as if disapproving of his illicit use of agency resources to further his own goals. The opposite wall was hung with the portraits of the directors of the ‘reformed’ SVR; a sick joke, he thought, knowing from personal experience that the current incarnation of the agency was at least the equal of its murderous forerunner.

  Primakov went through into his office and sat down behind the grand desk, a slab of oak finished with a leather top. He swivelled his chair so that he could reach the credenza and picked up one of the telephones, buzzing his secretary to ask her whether Nikolaevich had arrived for the meeting yet. The woman said that he hadn’t, and would he like her to contact the deputy director’s office to see where he was? Primakov looked at the clock on the wall. Nikolaevich was already thirty minutes late, and it was he who had asked for the meeting. He knew this was one of his old comrade’s favoured tricks, a not-so-subtle gesture designed to remind him that Nikolaevich was the more senior man. It irritated Primakov, and he would not normally have stood for it, but he knew that he might need Nikolaevich’s help if his plan did not succeed, and so he decided to make a show of just how patient he could be. He told his secretary that there was no need; he would wait.

  Primakov turned to look at the deep fringe of forest that encircled the building. He always found the view peaceful, and a little tranquillity was precisely what he needed now. Patience was one thing, but that didn’t mean that Nikolaevich’s game playing had no effect on Primakov’s mood. Primakov hated having to rely on others at the best of times, especially when it came to a rival. The two men had known each other for twenty years, ever since they had met at the Academy, and their careers had mirrored one another. Primakov had been an agent in Madrid. Nikolaevich had served in Bruges. Primakov had been made the rezident in Caracas. Nikolaevich had been made the rezident in Rio. They had returned to the Center within three months of one another and had both been promoted: Primakov was placed at the head of Directorate S while Nikolaevich was made First Deputy Director of the FSB. Both knew that the other coveted the directorships of their respective agencies. Those were the very top rungs of the ladder, with the only report being to the president himself. Primakov had had designs on his advancement right from the start, and although Nikolaevich was less obvious in his covetousness, he wasn’t fooling anyone; he most certainly wasn’t fooling Primakov.

  “Nikolai.”

  Primakov saw the reflection in the window and turned. Nikolaevich was standing in the doorway.

  “Alexei,” Primakov said. “I told my secretary to—”

  “I told her I’d go straight in,” Nikolaevich said. “I’m already late enough as it is. My apologies. The president wanted a report on a Chechen cell we’ve been keeping an eye on. The meeting lasted longer than I had expected.” There it was: a casual reference to a meeting with the president. It was classic Nikolaevich. He loved to present an impression of humbleness, but it was a show; he wanted Primakov to know that he had been to the Kremlin, that he had the president’s ear.

  “You wanted to see me,” Primakov said. “What can I do for you?”

  Nikolaevich took a seat. Primakov went to the sideboard. He had asked Catering to prepare tea for them both, and they had delivered a silver salver with two antique tea-glass holders. He gave one to Nikolaevich.

  “This is a little delicate,” the major-general said.

  Primakov opened his hands wide in a gesture he hoped would appear accommodating, and one that he hoped might mask the sense of foreboding he felt. “Please,” he said. “How can I help?”

  “You have a source in MI6.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “We do,” Primakov said.

  “And this source—he or she is well placed?”

  “Reasonably,” Primakov fenced. “What is it, Alexei—how can I help you?”

  Nikolaevich rubbed his temples. “I have a problem, and I wondered whether you—your source—might be able to assist.”

  Primakov felt a little twist of anxiety in his gut and took a sip of his tea to buy himself a moment. This had to be handled delicately. “Of course, but within reason. PROZHEKTOR is very valuable.”

  “That’s the cryptonym?”

  Primakov said that it was.

  “Searchlight.” Nikolaevich gave an approving nod. “Shining a light onto MI6’s darkest secrets?”

  The words sounded gauche when Nikolaevich said them, and Primakov felt a pulse of irritation. “Indeed,” he said. “They have been an effective source, and they promise more. But, because of that, I wouldn’t be able to agree to anything that might jeopardise their position.”

  “Their position,” Nikolaevich mused. “Where is that?”

  “You know I can’t say, Alexei. Please—what is your problem? I’ll help if I can.”

  Nikolaevich slumped back in the chair. “Very well. I hope we can keep this between ourselves.” He waited for Primakov to indicate that he wouldn’t share whatever it was that Nikolaevich was about to tell him.

  “Fine,” Primakov said.

  “Thank you. Two British agents entered the country this morning. We picked them up at Sheremetyevo and we have surveillance on them, but I wondered if there was anything that PROZHEKTOR might be able to tell us about them. More specifically, what they are here to do.”

  It was early, but Primakov glanced over at the decanter of vodka on the sideboard and yearned for one to steady his nerves. He couldn’t, of course; the last thing he wanted was for this cunning old fox to know that he was anxious.

  “British agents come here all the time,” he said. “Why are these two any different?”

  “I’m thinking about the operation with Aleksandrov. I have my own sources, of course, and the suggestion is that they are from Group Fifteen. And that makes me nervous.”

  “I can’t speak to that,” Primakov said.

  “I realise that. I suppose I’m a little embarrassed to know so little about them—ignorance will not be looked at kindly by the president if something were to happen.”

  “What could happen?”

  “There are several possibilities. Your agents, for example. The ones who carried out the operation. They are in Moscow?”

  There was no point in pretending otherwise; it was common knowledge. “They are.”

  “It crossed my mind that if the British knew who t
hey were, they might try to take revenge. It would be the kind of thing that they would do. You are as familiar with Control’s file as I am, I’m sure—his vengeful streak is well known.”

  “He wouldn’t be so foolish as to do something like that.”

  “Why not? We killed one of theirs on their soil. It would be a quid pro quo.”

  Primakov stood, eager to bring the conversation to an end. “Thank you for mentioning it, Alexei. I will review the security arrangements for my agents.”

  Nikolaevich stayed seated. “And I will continue to watch the two of them. If, in the meantime, you felt able to ask your asset whether he or she knows anything about what they might be doing here, any information would be very gratefully received.”

  Primakov had to resist the urge to reach down and pull Nikolaevich to his feet.

  “What about our own mole hunt?”

  Primakov fought back a sigh. Nikolaevich wasn’t finished. “Yes? What about it?”

  “I had hoped that our colleagues in Line KR would have smoked out whoever it is by now.”

  “But they haven’t. We must continue to be cautious.”

  “Until they have been found, we must assume that they are providing intelligence to the British—intelligence like the location of your two sleepers. That’s why I am nervous about these two agents.”

  “But that presumes that the leak is in my department. And I’m confident that it is not.”

  Nikolaevich smiled and, finally, he stood. “It goes without saying that any help you can provide will be treated as a personal favour. It would be one that I would never forget; you would be able to call on it whenever you wanted and I would be honour bound to come to your aid.”

  “Thank you, Alexei,” Primakov said. “I understand. I’ll see what I can do.”

  London

  49

  Control was unhappy that his morning had been interrupted. He had received a call that he was urgently required to attend a meeting at headquarters at ten. It was inconvenient, to say the least. He had scheduled a call with Moscow Station to discuss the operation against the Russian sleepers, and now he would have to postpone it. He queried the request with Tanner, but, after checking, his adjutant had reported that there was no way he could absent himself. Control asked for clarification on what was to be discussed, but Tanner was rebuffed and reminded that this was classified Strap Two-Level Secret. Eyes only.