by Mark Dawson
“Are you sure?” Control asked him. “You understand the gravity of your decision.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. And I am sure—I would like that very much.”
“Excellent. Then you are now Number Twelve.” He put out his hand. “Welcome to Group Fifteen.”
Callan took his hand and shook it. Control found his grip surprisingly loose. His fingers were long, almost feminine, and his flesh was cold. Control removed his hand. He needed to move things along.
“I have something for you to do today, as it happens.”
Callan nodded, then sat quietly and listened.
“You’re aware of the news, I’m sure.”
“Southwold?”
“Indeed. An almighty mess, but we’re getting to the bottom of it. Two Russian sleepers are suspected of carrying out the murders. We tracked them back to a property near Winchester, but they were able to escape. They’ve been recalled to Moscow where, I’m sure, the president will fête them as returning heroes. We can’t have that, Number Twelve. We can’t have that at all.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We intend to move against the assassins this evening. Number Five is in Moscow now, planning the operation. I want you to join him. There’s a car downstairs that will take you to Heathrow. There’s an Aeroflot flight to Sheremetyevo in ninety minutes. You’re booked on it. Tanner will ride in the car with you to the airport and brief you on your legend.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“The Russians killed Aleksandrov the way they did to send a message to us—to us and to anyone else who might be thinking of working against them. We’re going to show them that we were listening.”
Moscow
51
Milton, Pope and Ross had spent the morning preparing for the operation. Milton had planned to go ahead that evening. Pope was responsible for making contact with the cut-out and it was decided that Ross would accompany him to the rendezvous, leaving the embassy after lunch in order to allow for an extended SDR. In the meantime, Milton would make the preparations for the hit and their exfiltration immediately afterwards.
Planning the operation had made Milton uncomfortable. The dream felt close; he saw glimpses of Callaghan out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look there was nothing there. He would have to add two more victims to his tally. He didn’t want to do it, but he knew he couldn’t easily say no. He felt deadlocked, caught between his fear of the dream and the consequences of insubordination. He found, to his surprise, that he wanted to go to another meeting.
They had a working lunch of sandwiches and coffee and pressed on. Ross seemed to have come to terms with the nature of the operation and had stifled any further objections. Pope had spread a map out over the table and Ross helped him plan the SDR, a long route with extensive switches and double-backs that would bring them to a vegetable warehouse in the Biryulyovo district where the cut-out had agreed to meet. Ross was evidently familiar with the city from her previous time here, and she suggested an alteration to the dry-cleaning run that Pope approved.
“What do we know about the cut-out?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Milton said. “That’s the point.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s just how it is,” Pope said. “He’s the only one who has contact with the source and with us. If we get into trouble, the only person we can give up is the cut-out. The same goes for the source. It’s insulation.”
“I know how it works,” she replied. “It’s just… wouldn’t you rather go straight to BLUEBIRD?”
“That’s never going to happen,” Milton said.
“Do we know anything about them?”
“No. And I don’t want to know. Neither do you.”
COS McCartney had returned to the secure room. “How far have you got?”
“It’s coming along,” Pope said. “Depending on what we learn this afternoon, I think we’ll be ready to go tonight.”
She sat down at the table. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to adjust things a little. There’s been a development.”
Milton looked up. “What?”
“Potential change of plan. We know a little more about Southwold.”
“Go on,” Milton said.
“Aleksandrov was killed because of his daughter.”
“Why?”
“Her name is Anastasiya Romanov. She wants to defect. She’s offered British intelligence a cache of restricted information in return for safe harbour.”
“Information?” Ross asked.
“Plans for a new Russian fighter aircraft. I’m no expert, but it’s got everyone in the River House sitting up and paying attention. Aleksandrov was arranging the transaction, going through Geggel. The Russians must have found out what he was offering and decided that it was important enough to send two of their most valuable agents to deal with it. They killed them both for it.”
“But not the daughter?”
“No,” McCartney said. “Because she’s still in Russia. That’s where the plans need to change. We’re researching her at the moment, but she’s made contact directly. And we don’t think the Russians know where she is.”
“But we do?” Milton said.
“She couriered a package to the consulate at Vladivostok this morning. It was a message—the deal stands if we can get her out. She’s going to be waiting at the railway station in Komsomolsk-on-Amur in two days’ time, and then again on the following day.”
“I don’t know where that is,” Pope admitted.
“No reason why you should,” Ross said. “It’s in the east. A thousand miles north of Vladivostok. It’s the arse-end of nowhere. Not the sort of place you’d ever be expected to visit.”
“But you’ve been?”
“I have,” she said. “When I was a student. I did the Trans-Siberian. I wandered around when I got to the Far East. Komsomolsk has got to be one of the strangest places I’ve ever been to. It’s basically two cities—one grew up around the shipyard and the other around the Sukhoi factory. And this is in a place that is minus-twenty in the winter and plus-thirty in summer.”
Milton turned to McCartney. “What does London want us to do?”
“They want to get Anastasiya out, but it’s going to have to be done quickly and discreetly. You’re already on the ground. You can move fast. London wants you to go and collect her, then get her out of the country.” She turned to Ross. “They want you to go, too, Ms. Ross. It’s Smith’s operation, but there needs to be a Russian speaker and you’ve been there before.”
“A long time ago,” she protested.
“You speak the language and you know the region. Smith will need assistance, and that’s the best we can do at short notice.”
Pope drummed his fingers on the table. “And what about the assassins? We forget about them?”
“We do not,” McCartney said. “But we have to decide whether you can still make it work. Smith?”
Milton found, with a mixture of relief and shame, that he was relieved to have had the responsibility of eliminating Timoshev and Kuznetsov taken from him.
“Smith?”
Callaghan was in the shadows at the edge of the room. Don’t think that you’re getting away with it. This is just a reprieve. There’s still more killing to do.
“Smith?”
Milton blinked the phantom away. McCartney was asking him a question.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I missed that.”
“I need to know whether you think we can still go ahead with the operation.”
“With just one man?”
“No. They’re sending another to make up the team. He’ll be here later this afternoon.”
“Do we know who?”
“We don’t,” McCartney said.
Milton could guess: it would be one of the others from the Group.
“That doesn’t matter,” Pope said. “I’ll meet the cut-out this afternoon as planned and then I can nail do
wn the plan with.” Pope turned to Milton for approval. “Agreed?”
“It can still be done,” Milton said.
“What about us?” Ross said, glancing over at Milton.
“You need to be on your way,” McCartney said. “London wants you to make contact with Romanova at the first available opportunity. That’s tomorrow. And Komsomolsk is a long trip. We’re going to need to work on new legends and get the travel documentation arranged. You’re flying out tonight.”
52
Primakov had been working on his plan all morning. He felt as if this sordid business was finally entering its end game. There were just a few loose ends to snip and then it would be done. He had to hold his nerve for just a little longer.
His intercom buzzed.
He turned back to his desk and pressed the button to speak. “Yes?”
“Major Stepanov and Captain Mitrokhin are here, sir.”
Primakov looked at the clock on the wall: they were on time, punctual as ever. “Send them in.”
Primakov sat down as Major Yuri Stepanov and Captain Boris Mitrokhin opened the door and came into the office.
“Good afternoon, Comrade General,” Stepanov said with the usual combination of respect and deference.
“Good afternoon, comrades,” Primakov said. “Please—sit.”
The two men unbuttoned their jackets and sat down opposite him.
Stepanov tugged down on both cuffs until an inch of creamy shirt showed beneath the sleeves of his jacket. He was a fastidious dresser, although, when the situation demanded it, adept at disguising himself so adroitly that he could melt into his surroundings. He was in his early forties, with an army buzzcut and thick, heavy features. Mitrokhin was younger, mid-thirties, and a little rougher around the edges. Both were more informally described as chistilshchiks, or ‘mechanics.’ Stepanov had first come to the attention of Primakov during the siege of School Number One in Beslan. Stepanov had been assigned to Vympel, the Spetsnaz unit that had been sent into the school to end the siege. He had eliminated more than a dozen of the Chechen terrorists who had been responsible for the atrocity, and had then chased down the leaders of the conspiracy as they fled into the hills and mountains of Ossetia.
Stepanov had then been reassigned to Department V of the SVR, bringing his enthusiastic junior officer with him. The Department’s role was described as ‘Executive Action,’ but that was a bland euphemism for the work that its agents concerned themselves with: they were deployed by the other Directorates when circumstances demanded a more rigorous solution to problems. Of course, Primakov knew of Group Fifteen, and Stepanov and the other men and women who comprised the Department fulfilled a similar function for the Rodina. The Department had existed in the same form during the reign of the KGB and had stubbornly resisted change during the KGB’s metamorphosis into the SVR. It seemed that there would always be a need for men like Stepanov and Mitrokhin, regardless of the window dressing and public relations nonsense that its mother organisation might now be subjected to.
Primakov had recruited them both six months ago. He wanted someone to whom he could turn when his illegals needed a specialist to close out their operations. There had been operations in the Crimea and the Ukraine, and all of them had been carried out flawlessly. Stepanov was something of a throwback to the purer days of the Soviet state, and his dissatisfaction with what he saw as the excesses of modern Russia had been noted in his file. That might have impeded his upward trajectory if he had stayed where he was, but Primakov was a pragmatist; Stepanov was an expert, a consummate professional who could be relied upon to deliver excellent results, and, as such, Primakov was prepared to accommodate his opinions. Indeed, Primakov too was opposed to much of what he saw at the Kremlin; he would have been a hypocrite to have penalised him.
Mitrokhin was easier to handle: he did everything that Stepanov told him.
“How are you both?”
“We are well, Comrade General,” Stepanov said, speaking for them both. “You have need of us?”
Stepanov was all business, just as ever. “I do.” Primakov stood up and went around to the other side of the desk. “The British have sent agents to Moscow to assassinate two SVR officers. I would like you to stop them from doing that.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Who are the agents?”
“Two men from Group Fifteen.”
If Stepanov was concerned about the pedigree of their targets, he did not show it. “When?”
“They will make an attempt on the lives of our agents this evening,” he said. “We have a source within their organisation—they will be told where the SVR officers are staying. We believe that the attempt will be made there.”
“Where?”
“The Four Seasons.”
“Do the SVR officers know that they are at risk?”
“They do not. It’s unnecessary. You will intervene before any action can be taken against them.”
“What action would you like us to take, sir?”
“Follow them—I’ll make a surveillance team available to you. They will be meeting a cut-out, and that might lead us to the traitor within the Center.”
“And then?”
“Kill them both when they make their attempt and then disappear them. This is something that must stay between us. No one else is to know what we have done.”
Primakov swivelled and reached down for the file on his desk, a manila folder with three sheets of paper clipped inside. It contained everything that Stepanov and Mitrokhin would need to know. Primakov handed it to the major.
Stepanov flipped through the pages, then closed the folder and stood. Mitrokhin did the same.
“Very good, sir. I’ll see that it is done. Is there anything else?”
“No.” Primakov looked at the silent Mitrokhin. “Captain? Anything to add?”
“No, Comrade General,” Mitrokhin said.
Stepanov gave a sharp nod. “We will report tomorrow.”
Both men saluted, turned on their heels and made their way out of the office. Primakov exhaled. Stepanov was a peerless operator, efficient and utterly ruthless, and Mitrokhin was the same. He had lost count of the number of files that he had passed to Stepanov for action—thirty, maybe more—and none of the men and women put in the chistilshchiks’ way was still breathing. It was strange: they both made Primakov nervous, and yet there was a calming sense of finality that came with handing the assassins a file and knowing that the work would be done without any further need for him to be involved.
He thought of Natasha. It would all soon be finished. The only loose end was Anastasiya Romanova, but PROZHEKTOR would find her eventually, and when that happened, the whole sorry mess would come to an end. He would prepare another file and hand it to Stepanov and then, finally, he would be able to relax.
53
Pope was driven out of the embassy at five o’clock that afternoon. The sun was still shining down onto the city, and it was pleasantly warm. The driver had taken a route that followed the Moskva River before looping around and crossing it on Smolenskaya Ulitsa. He had waited until the last moment to leave it, hanging a sharp right that pointed them toward the park at Lesya Ukrainka. He turned right again and then, almost immediately, left onto the narrow street that skirted the park. The driver turned again onto another quiet side street and, holding up three fingers, started a countdown as he slowed the car. Pope opened the door and bailed out, throwing himself down behind a parked van as the driver sped up again. The unmarked FSB tail followed just behind, maintaining a discreet distance that had allowed Pope—so far as he could tell—to get out without being seen.
He stayed where he was, waiting for another minute to confirm that there was not a second car, and then, satisfied that there was not, he set off toward the tall, dilapidated apartment block that loomed over the park like a sentinel. He took a cap out of his pocket and pulled it down so that the brim was tight around his forehead, and then put on a pair of dark glasses.
He walke
d north, caught a bus on Raduzhnaya Street and rode it for fifteen minutes before getting off at Otradnoye station and riding the Metro back in the opposite direction. He continued the game for four hours, covering miles of the city until his feet were aching and sore. By the time he finally reached out his arm to flag down a taxi he was as confident as he could be that he was black.
The taxi was an old Lada that had seen better days. The driver leaned across to wind down the window and asked him where he wanted to go. Pope told him the Annino Metro station; the driver grunted his approval and indicated with a jerk of his head that Pope should get into the back. He did, settling into a musty-smelling leather seat that was held together with strips of duct tape. He yanked the seatbelt across his chest and pushed it home. He had been driven in taxis all around the world, but he remembered his previous experiences on the streets of Moscow as being particularly concerning. This driver looked very much like the others that he remembered: surly, aggressive and, judging by the smell of alcohol that permeated the cabin of the car, quite possibly drunk. The car didn’t look as if it would offer much by way of protection if they were to be involved in an accident, and so he resorted to crossing his fingers as the driver bullied his way out into the traffic and set out toward Pope’s destination.
54
The warehouse district was open, with wide roads and lots of space within which the buildings had been constructed. Pope stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver the two thousand roubles he demanded, and then looked around in an attempt to gain his bearings. The streets around the station were broad, with three lanes of traffic passing in each direction. The sky looked especially large here, with clouds idling overhead on a gentle breeze.