by Mark Dawson
Pope walked away from the Metro. He had been shown the route he would need to take before leaving the embassy, and he found it simple enough to match the landmarks around him with the images he had seen on Google Street View. He reached the warehouse that had been arranged as the location for the meet. The warehouse was a legitimate business, offering wholesale budget groceries to the city’s traders. He passed through the open door and made his way along rows of well-stocked shelving. The interior was functional at best, the lighting provided by ugly strip lights that swung from the ceiling on old metal chains. Pope reached the rear of the warehouse and the plain door that he had been told opened into the office. He went inside, passing between two lines of racking before he reached a second door. He rapped his knuckles against it.
There was a pause. Pope looked up at the camera that had been fixed above the door and knew that he was being scrutinised.
“Come in,” said a voice in heavily accented English.
Pope pushed the door open and stepped into the compact room beyond. It was evidently used as the office for the business. There was a desk with an old computer positioned on it, two green metal filing cabinets that had been dented and scuffed over the years, and a second screen that displayed the feeds from a number of security cameras that had been placed both inside and outside the property. There was a single window, little more than a slit in the wall, that offered an unglamorous view of the yard outside where industrial bins were stored in readiness for collection. The room was lit by an unmasked bulb that cast a harsh light on the man who was sitting on the chair behind the desk.
“Aleksey?” Pope said.
“Yes,” he said. The man’s name was Aleksey Varlamov. He was in his early sixties. The lines on his careworn face were deep, testament to the cold Russian winter and a life that was more than unusually full of stress. “I take it you have been careful?”
“I’ve been going around in circles for hours,” Pope said. “My feet ache. If they’re still on me, they’re better at this than I am.”
“Thank you,” he said. “They have been more vigilant than ever in these last few months. The president is building up the security apparatus to beyond where it was during the Cold War. It is tiring.”
The BBC’s twenty-four-hour news channel was showing on the monitor. The anchor handed over to an outside broadcast and the footage changed to a shot of the house in Kings Worthy where the Ryans had lived. The camera was positioned so that it could shoot up the drive. The house was invisible, but there were police officers in protective gear gathered around a plain white van. It was momentarily disorientating: Pope had been inside the house just thirty-six hours earlier.
Varlamov noticed that Pope’s attention was on the news. “It is quite a story,” he said.
Footage of Putin at a meeting in the Kremlin appeared on the screen. The old man waved a hand at the images. “Vova is making a point,” he said, using the president’s nickname. “It doesn’t matter where you hide and who is protecting you. He has a long arm and a longer memory.”
Varlamov leaned over, clicked a mouse and closed the window down.
“Shall we begin?” he suggested. “You are interested in Kuznetsov and Timoshev.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Our mutual friend has provided me with information,” Varlamov said. “He says that they were debriefed this morning and that the sessions are expected to last for the rest of today and then tomorrow. The Center has a lot to ask them, no doubt.”
“And now?”
“The source tells me that they are staying in the Four Seasons hotel. They are being presented to senior members of the Center at a reception this evening, and then, I assume, they will return to the hotel to rest.”
“Where is it?”
“Ulitsa Okhotnyy Ryad.”
“How easy is it to get in?”
“Simple enough. They are not being given special security. Why would they need it? We are in the heart of Moscow. The British would not be so foolish as to make an attempt on them here.” Varlamov glanced over at Pope and smiled. “That you would be so foolhardy is what will give you your advantage. The Center has grown too arrogant. Perhaps you will teach them some humility.”
“Afterwards,” Pope said. “I’d prefer them to stay arrogant until I’m out of the country.”
“Of course,” Varlamov said.
“How do I get in?”
“We have taken measures to make that as easy as possible.”
He opened a desk drawer and took out a small key.
“This opens a locker at Leningradsky railway station. The locker is number 537. You can get there from here on the Metro. Everything you need is there. There are two uniforms for the hotel and a keycard. You must go around the back of the building. There is a passage that leads to the staff entrance. The card will open the door. You will go inside, through a lobby area, and then you will find the staff canteen and bathrooms. You won’t be challenged there. You and your colleague should get changed into the uniforms and then you will be able to make your way to their room without issue.”
Varlamov had been working on the basis that there would be a two-man team and hadn’t been updated since the recent change to the plan.
“What number room are they in?” Pope asked him.
“1022. The tenth floor.”
“What about the equipment?”
“There is a bag inside the locker,” he said. “It is all there.”
Varlamov got up, taking a moment to stretch out his shoulders. “Is there anything else?”
The monitor flicked across to its screensaver: a horizontal tricolour of green, white and red. The Chechen flag. There was almost always a personal reason—a family reason—why men and women decided to take such great risks to work against the state. Pope guessed that Varlamov had plenty of reasons.
“No,” Pope said. “That’s all I need.”
The old man leaned back against the wooden slats of his chair. “My people have a saying: Oyla yocuš lettarg ka docuš vella. Look before you leap. Be careful. They do not know you are coming, but Moscow is a dangerous city. They have eyes everywhere.”
Pope took the old man’s hand; his skin was leathery and the bones felt brittle beneath. “Good luck,” he said.
“And to you.”
Pope turned around and opened the door to the office. He slipped the key in his pocket and started for the street. He had plenty to do.
55
Stepanov was in one of the surveillance cars that was responsible for tracking the British spy. They were passing by the warehouse just as the man came out onto the street.
His driver reached down to the radio and opened the channel. “He is on the street again,” he reported.
“Go around,” Stepanov said to the driver. “He will go back to the Metro. I want one more look at him.”
The operation had proceeded smoothly. The surveillance team was large; Stepanov had counted eight cars, and there were more agents on foot. Ground units were arranged in several layers, able to swap in and out seamlessly. Foot assets waited ahead of the British agent along likely routes, and teams matched his progress on parallel flanks. There was nothing to suggest that the target had noticed that he was being watched. Primakov would be pleased.
The driver spoke into the radio again. “Alpha team: stay on Varlamov,” he said. “Find out where he goes. He is to be kept under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Beta team. Stay on the British agent.”
“Understood,” the leader of the second team radioed back. “What are the rules of engagement?”
Stepanov took the microphone. “This is Major Stepanov,” he said. “Follow him, but you are not to intervene under any circumstances. You only move against him with my express permission. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, Comrade Major.”
Stepanov was careful. He had advanced to his present position through a combination of planning, political acuity and ruthlessness. He was not old
enough to remember the days of the KGB, but he had heard stories of how it had been from his uncle and his father, both of whom had served with distinction. He knew that he was as guilty of romanticising the agency as the ex-spooks who recalled it with such fondness, but he liked to think that advancement then had been more honourable and straightforward than had been the case during his own rapid rise to the top. The Kremlin today was a nest of vipers. The desire to please the president had bred an atmosphere of poisonous treachery, of risk assessments, of “optics” maintained by duplicitous press secretaries, an environment that favoured promotion by way of back-stabbing rather than merit. It was not what it once was. That was a cause of regret for him. At least the comrade general had given him the opportunity to indulge the strategies that had served his predecessors well for so long.
The driver looped around and they went past the warehouse in the opposite direction. It was a short drive to the Metro, and Stepanov saw the Englishman making his way along the sidewalk toward the entrance to the station. The man had conducted an impressive counter-surveillance routine; he wouldn’t have risked the meet unless he was satisfied that he was clean, and that assumption was reasonable. But the surveillance team was expert and they swarmed around him like bees around a honeypot. There were enough of them that they could duck in and duck out, varying the followers so that the subject continued to be blissfully ignorant of the true situation.
Stepanov expected him to return to the city and meet with his colleague. They would equip themselves and then prepare to put their plan into effect. Timoshev and Kuznetsov would be oblivious, nothing more than the bait used to lure the enemy into the trap.
Stepanov was confident that he could leave the surveillance detail to maintain their coverage. He told the driver to provide regular reports, and then indicated that he should stop alongside a cab rank. He got out of the car and then slid into the back of the taxi at the front of the queue.
“Where do you want to go?” the driver asked him.
“The Four Seasons,” he said, and settled back as the car pulled out. He took out his phone and sent a text to Mitrokhin, telling him to meet him at the hotel in an hour.
Stepanov closed his eyes and started to work through the list of things that they needed to do. They were going to be busy for the next few hours.
56
Pope rode the Metro to Leningradsky station. He spent the journey thinking about the operation, and the alterations that had been rendered necessary by the change in priorities. It would have been a straightforward job with Milton; they had worked together before, and Pope trusted him implicitly. But Twelve was different. He was new to the Group, stepping up from the reserves to replace the unfortunate Ten. Pope had known nothing about the agent—even his or her gender—until Tanner had forwarded him a brief précis from his file. Twelve’s history was impressive, but it didn’t carry the same weight as would personal experience gained in the field together. Pope would proceed with more caution than usual.
The train arrived at the station and Pope disembarked. He took the escalator up and into the station, made his way to the left luggage facility and found locker 537. He took the key from his pocket, put it into the lock and opened the door.
There was a leather backpack. He opened the backpack inside the locker so that he could examine it without being observed. There were two bundles of clothes, neatly folded, jackets and trousers that looked like the uniform one might expect a hotel porter to wear. Pope saw the logo of the Four Seasons on the lapel of one of the jackets. There were two Sig Sauer P224s, together with two boxes of ammunition and two suppressors. There was an envelope. He pushed his finger inside the flap and slid it along, opening it. The envelope contained a keycard that was also marked with the Four Seasons logo, a wedge of high-denomination banknotes, and two wallets with bank cards and other IDs in the name of two fresh legends, one for him and one meant for Milton. There were passports in the same names, with their pictures on the photo pages.
It all looked to be in order; Pope put the envelope back, zipped the bag up, took it out of the locker, unhooked the garment carrier and closed the door. He put the bag over his shoulder and, instinctively checking the aisle in both directions, made his way back to the entrance and the concourse outside.
Pope made his way to the Romanovsky Obelisk in Alexander Garden, close by the walls of the Kremlin. The monument had originally been erected to commemorate the Romanov dynasty, but Lenin’s propagandists had altered the obelisk so that it now paid homage to revolutionary thinkers: Marx, Engels, all the others.
Pope recognised Number Twelve from the description that Tanner had given him. He was waiting for him on the steps near the obelisk. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and thin and dressed in jeans, a shirt and a light jacket that he wore undone in the pleasant weather. He had a rucksack slung over his shoulder.
Pope nodded at Twelve as he approached. Twelve drew alongside and matched his pace.
“Good evening,” Pope said.
“Evening.”
It was a short ten-minute walk to the Four Seasons. They set off through the gardens. Pope glanced over at Twelve. He was looking left and right, eyes open for possible repeats that might suggest that one or both of them had brought surveillance with them. Pope had been watching, too, and had seen nothing. He saw nothing now, either.
Pope glanced over at him. “Do you have an update?”
“The operation is authorised. They want it done tonight. Do you know where they are?”
“The Four Seasons,” Pope said. “It’s not far.”
“Did you get the equipment?”
“I did. A keycard to get in, two uniforms for us, two pistols.”
They passed a couple sitting on a bench and Twelve was silent until they were out of earshot.
“Is this your first operation?” Pope asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “But I have experience.”
“I’m sure you do,” Pope said. “But this is my job. I’m the senior man. That going to be all right?”
Twelve looked across at him, his face impassive. “Of course.”
There was something about Twelve that Pope did not like. His tone, his coldness; it was difficult to put his finger on it, but he decided that he would need to be careful with him.
57
Primakov and Natasha had met at the safe house earlier that evening. Primakov had made them cocktails and then they had retreated to the bedroom for an hour. Primakov had fallen asleep and, when he awoke, it was to the smell of cooked liver. He showered, dressed, and padded through to the kitchen on bare feet.
Natasha was preparing a midnight snack of toast and pâté. She was an excellent cook, and it was his favourite of the dishes in her repertoire.
“Are you well rested?” she said, smiling at him.
“I am,” he said. “I needed it. It’s been a long week.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I know it’s my fault.”
“No, no,” he said, worried that she might think that he had rebuked her. “I don’t blame you, not at all. You were unfortunate.”
“And yet fortunate that I had you to take care of it for me.”
He stepped behind her and massaged her neck. He was happy to accept her gratitude. He stepped closer now so that her back was pressed against his chest and watched over her shoulder as she worked. She had caramelised chicken livers and pancetta, and then deglazed the pan with a slug of brandy. Now she was chopping parsley, capers and shallots, the knife slicing down with impressive speed and accuracy as she prepared the ingredients.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.
“YouTube,” she grinned.
“Smells good,” he said.
She reached up with her left hand and held his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Nikolasha,” she said, using the diminutive that he liked so much.
“For what?”
She turned her head so that she could kiss him on the lips. “For helping me
. Thank you for everything.”
She added the chopped ingredients to the pan and then added lemon zest, lemon juice and a tablespoon of oil. The aroma deepened and Primakov’s mouth began to water.
“Five minutes,” she said.
He had left his phone on the dining table and he heard it buzzing with an incoming message. He went over to it, saw that it was an encrypted text, and waited for the algorithm to decrypt it.
He frowned. It was a message from PROZHEKTOR.
WE NEED TO MEET. USUAL PLACE. MIDNIGHT. PLS CONFIRM.
“Chyort wozmi,” he said. Shit.
“What is it?”
He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty.
“Nikolasha? What’s the matter?”
“It’s work,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Now? Why? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t want to tell her that it was PROZHEKTOR, and that this was likely to do with the British and his attempt to clean up the mess that she had made with Anastasiya Romanova.
“I can’t say,” he deflected. “It’s probably nothing—nothing that you need to worry about. Will the pâté keep?”
“I can put it in the fridge,” she said, pouting a little. “But don’t be long. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”
He put on his socks and shoes, took his coat from the back of the sofa and shrugged it on. “Give me an hour,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
58
Pope and Twelve found the hotel and split up so that they could scout the area independently of each other. The Four Seasons was next to a colourfully decorated arch that opened onto a neat communal square. The street was busy, despite the hour, with cars hurrying in both directions. There were a few pedestrians out and about, although Pope saw nothing to suggest that he was being surveilled.