Another moment, and she scrawled her signature across the sheet with a brusque motion, taking the folder and handing it off to the waiting courier.
“See that this gets to Brussels. Before nightfall.”
2:33 P.M.
The warehouse
Liège, Belgium
Gamal paused, taking another sip of his tea before going on—a wary light entering Harry’s eyes as he realized the man was getting to his point.
“And as a businessman, I. . .‘employ’ people to keep me informed of all that might concern my business. One of those men is a functionary in the security services of this country, the VSSE. And he knew nothing at all of Lahcen.”
Harry shook his head. “That means little—I’m sure the French take an interest in the affairs of the faithful in this country, after the blows our brothers have struck in the last few years. He could as easily have been an asset for the DGSE.”
“And the same could be said for you,” Gamal returned sharply, his eyes locking with Harry’s for a brief moment before he started laughing again, that same, harsh sound. “But if it were true, you wouldn’t have ventured to say it. As for Lahcen. . .he was a man of expensive tastes. If he had been receiving money from a Western service, he would not have been able to conceal it from us. He lacked. . .self-control, much like my son. So I do not weep for either of them.”
Gamal paused, running a hand over the scruff of his trimmed, greying beard. A shrewd look passing across the older man’s face. “You, on the other hand—you sought weapons from Said, yes? To carry out an attack?”
Harry inclined his head in an almost imperceptible nod.
“I may be able to help, if you can help me. But first,” the older man drew a small mobile phone from his pocket and slid it across the table to Harry, “call your people. Assure them that you’re all right. Tell them we should join our forces.”
All right? That hardly seemed an accurate way to describe his bruised and battered body. He just sat there, looking from him to the phone and back again. Gamal laughed. “You still do not trust me, do you? I’ve had the number for days—Yassin gave it to us—but it would be better if it came from you. They are your men, after all.”
And a woman, Harry thought but didn’t say, reaching slowly for the phone and dialing the number from memory.
Wincing in pain as he lifted it to his ear. Waiting as it rang—one, twice, three times. And then a voice answered—so familiar, but so unexpected.
Marwan.
Chapter 16
4:17 P.M. British Summer Time
Embassy of the Russian Federation
Kensington Palace Gardens, London
There was a long silence after Dmitri Litvinov took his seat in the rezident’s office, across from Kudrin’s massive desk. Waiting as the rezident finished up the last of his paperwork. The summer heat palpable even in the air conditioning of the rezidentura.
Climate control. It would have been a luxury in the old days, back in Russia. Perhaps the capitalists had something to offer, after all. But was it worth the cost? That was the question he couldn’t answer, even after all these years.
At length, Kudrin closed the folder—setting his pen aside as he looked up. “My apologies, Dmitri Pavlovich. I regret detaining you—I know you must want to get home. But Moscow is very pleased—they’ve validated the intelligence your new asset has provided, and they want us to continue cultivating him, as we had planned. See where it leads.”
“Good,” Litvinov responded, suppressing a laugh which would have been ill-advised. Leave it to Kudrin to make a premature report to the Centre in the endeavor to take the credit for an intelligence coup. “Because I have another meeting with him—tonight.”
The insincere smile vanished from the rezident’s face, replaced by a look of concern. “So soon?”
A shrug. “I thought the same thing, but he left the signal this morning. He will, no doubt, make contact with me on the Tube.”
“Do you think it could be a trap?” The concern was more genuine than the smile, Litvinov thought—the rezident clearly now wondering if he had overreached himself. “If you are arrested in the act of receiving classified documents, you could be deported.”
Litvinov shook his head. “What would the British gain from such an action? I am a functionary, Valeriy, we both know that. If they declare me persona non grata, Moscow has a hundred more to take my place. A thousand? We must remain wary, of course, but the intelligence value of what we have already received. . .it would not be risked in such a gambit.”
“Da,” Kudrin assented after thinking it over for a moment. “You are right, no doubt. Do you desire security for tonight’s meeting—a couple men from here at the rezidentura to shadow you, make sure the British do not have their own watchers?”
It was a loaded question, and Litvinov knew it. But that was the reality of being a double agent—a perilous course, and one which often relied upon one being as “open” with both sides as possible. Dispelling suspicion with honesty, or the closest counterfeit of it possible. Allowing people to interpret what they saw, through a lens of your own design.
“Of course, as long as they can be discreet. The back-up would be welcome.”
5:44 P.M. Central European Summer Time
A flat
Liège, Belgium
Harry stared down into the water pooling and eddying between his feet as it circled the drain—dark, rust-brown water stained with blood. The hot water pulsating into his naked, tortured back, a raw, indescribable sensation somewhere between pleasure and torture.
But he stayed under its hard, insistent stream, feeling it wash away the blood of the morning’s beatings, cleansing the fresh scars.
Scars. His body was covered with them—the physical evidence of mistakes of the past. Moments when he’d. . .miscalculated.
Like he had the previous night.
Belkaïd would have found them anyway, of that he was now certain—Yassin’s cooperation had made that a foregone conclusion, but he should never have come for the kid. Risked everything to. . .what—save him? Kill him?
Looking back, his actions didn’t make sense. Even to him. He’d been running on little save emotion since Vegas—a dangerous mental state for an operator—and if he couldn’t get it under control, it was going to be the death of him. If he was lucky.
If he wasn’t, it would involve far more than just his own death.
He wasn’t alone, even now, as he leaned back against the wall of the shower stall—water beating down upon his upturned face and chest. Three of Belkaïd’s men had taken him from the warehouse to this apartment. . .somewhere, he’d been hooded for the trip—fresh proof that the Algerian wasn’t ready to trust him, not yet, all his talk of cooperation aside.
Belkaïd was a dangerous man, of that much Harry was certain—but he’d met a lot of dangerous men over the years, and he’d been able to get a fairly solid read of the Algerian in the course of those moments together in the warehouse.
There was more to his claim of being a businessman than one might think, strange as it had sounded coming from his lips.
He was devout enough to have despised a son who strayed from the path, but the business would come before the jihad. Always.
It didn’t mean he was any less of a threat, but the threat he presented was different than that posed by the young men of the Molenbeek cell.
By. . .Marwan, Harry thought, remembering the shock of hearing his voice once more on the other end of the line. Their exchange had been necessarily guarded, over the open line, but the young man was clearly back in circulation.
He’d hoped against hope that he had been swept up in the raids.
Maybe he was, a dark voice suggested from somewhere deep within as Harry pushed himself away from the wall, reaching forward to shut off the water.
Swept up and turned, laying a trap for them all.
No. He might have believed it of Yassin, but Marwan was too far gone—a “true believer”, in
every sense of the word.
And he would have to be dealt with, sooner or later.
Harry stepped from the shower, catching a glimpse of his battered body in the mirror as he wrapped a towel around his torso, biting back a cry of pain as the cloth pressed against the raw flesh. Running a hand through his dripping black hair.
They would all have to be dealt with.
7:32 P.M. Central European Summer Time
A residence
Brussels, Belgium
The TV was on in the other room, but Armand Césaire paid it no heed, staring straight ahead into empty space as the light faded without, the evening sun casting declining shadows down the streets of Brussels.
Recalling his meeting with Daniel, just the day before, standing in the shadow of the monument to fallen men.
“I need you to do this. Your country needs you to do this.”
The words with which he’d consigned a man to a danger far beyond any he should have ever been expected to face. They felt like a betrayal now.
Paris had made contact two hours earlier, delivering word of the decision which had been made to read the Belgians in on the operation.
His operation. He’d lodged a vehement protest, but it was too late for any of that. The decision, already made—handed down like a decree from Mount Olympus.
It would have been different, using a recruited asset, Armand told himself for what seemed like the hundredth time since this operation had began. Far less reliable, and even so. . .far easier on the conscience.
As it was, Daniel would have to be told, sooner or later. He deserved to know the risks, all of them. Even if it meant that he chose to walk away.
But for the moment, he had no way of reaching out to him. No way to warn him.
He could only hope that the Belgians would, themselves, keep the circle close.
Hope. Such a fragile thing.
8:35 P.M. Moscow Time
An apartment building near the Belorusskaya Metro
Central Moscow
Smoke drifted away from the tip of Gennady Ivanovich Natashkin’s cigarette into the fading twilight as he leaned back into the outside wall of the Stalin-era apartment building, listening to the traffic pass on the street, forty feet or more below his balcony.
All these years, almost half a century, since he had come to the city—a teenaged Young Pioneer from the banks of the Dnieper, in Smolensk Oblast.
He frowned, taking another long drag of the cigarette—the dying rays of sunlight reflecting off his balding head. He felt exposed out here, as he always did, old instincts from his days as an intelligence officer, refusing to die.
But Maryana wouldn’t hear of him smoking indoors, and even now—with her out of the country, visiting their son in Los Angeles, he dared not violate her prohibition.
A smile touched the older man’s lips at the thought of his wife. She was a good woman—the two of them had been together for nearly forty years, through the good times, and the very bad. And he’d known she was formidable from the moment he’d laid eyes on her—even after all the time they’d been married, he rather feared the thought of crossing her.
She’d been working as a typist at the Lubyanka when they had first met, both of them employed by the famous—or infamous, depending on one’s perspective—Committee for State Security. The KGB.
A service he had alternately served, and betrayed, over the course of a twenty-five, almost twenty-six-year career. It was curious, the absence of regret he felt at his actions.
Perhaps he had known, all along, that the old system he had been a part of had not been worthy—of the country it had claimed to serve, or his own loyalties. Maryana knew nothing of all that, of course, nor could she. Ever.
No point in thinking about all that now. His business affairs wrapped up, he was due to fly out of Sheremetyevo at the end of the week, to join her. It would be good to see Michael again, after all these years.
And it would also be good to get out of the country, Gennady thought, his face darkening as he reached over to stub out the cigarette against the metal railing—glancing briefly down to the sidewalk below.
Hearing from Margaret Forster—the woman he had known simply as “Teresa” back in those dark days of betrayal—a week prior had been as unexpected as it was unwelcome.
He’d given her what she wanted—even in his retirement, he retained certain contacts inside the security services—but he’d known even as he did so that it was a mistake. The risk of her exposing him weighed against the risks of discovery. And found wanting.
He flicked the cigarette away, watching it arc out into the gathering darkness, a faintly flickering ember still visible as it fell, winking through the night.
The door opened behind him even as he started to turn to go inside, a rush of feet against the surface of the balcony—a glimpse of hard eyes behind balaclava masks. Rough hands, descending onto his shoulders.
A brief, desperate struggle, and then Gennady Ivanovich followed the cigarette down to the street. . .
6:45 P.M.
The Circle Line
London Underground
Alexei Vasiliev. Litvinov crushed the folded piece of paper in his hand, willing his fingers to stop trembling. He had known this was coming, but somehow he hadn’t expected Greer to move this fast. And yet. . .
He glanced back into the British officer’s eyes—the two of them crushed together in the standing-room-only press of the car, the flood of commuters making their daily exodus from the city. His eyes radiating an unspoken question.
Are you sure?
The only response was a barely perceptible nod, not even significant enough to be picked up by the closest of the rezident’s men, just on the other side of the carriage, near the door—an unwavering certainty in the black man’s eyes. But of course they were sure.
He was the one that had to make this work—sell it to Kudrin. His life, on the line, if he failed.
There was only one way to play this, he thought, clutching tighter hold of the strap above his head as the train slowed, lurching to a stop as it came into Blackfriars. And he would have to do so with the utmost of care.
When he looked back around, neither Roth nor Kudrin’s man were anywhere to be seen.
Darren Roth came out of the tube station onto Queen Victoria Street on the north bank of the Thames, his eyes flickering up and down the street in the fading light—every muscle alert, his body poised for action.
He was being followed, he knew that much—a man, hanging about thirty feet back. Average height, perhaps a few years younger than himself—a distinctly Slavic face.
Litvinov had had watchers, on the train. Someone from the embassy, watching him—watching Roth, it was hard to say.
Had the Russian been burned? Roth glanced in the window of an idling taxi as he began to cross, catching sight of his tail in its reflection, still behind him—closer now.
Just as importantly, what did it mean if he wasn’t? If he’d known the surveillance was going to be in place on the meet, and yet made no sign?
If he hadn’t made both of them—at least he thought there had been only two—within minutes of boarding the train. . .things could have gone very badly.
Roth swore under his breath, digging in the pocket of his jeans for his phone—dialing a number from memory as he moved down the far side of Queen Victoria Street, working his way west.
He waited until Greer picked up, a moment later, then, “You still at the office?”
“Yes.” The CI spook’s voice was instantly alert. Cautious.
“Stay there,” Roth advised, his dark face grim and drawn. “I’m inbound.”
11:08 P.M. Central European Summer Time
A hotel room
Paris, France
The man was a criminal. That much was clear after reviewing his file. That. . .and so much more.
Grigoriy Stepanovich Kolesnikov leaned back against the headboard of the hotel bed, running a hand over the lower half of his
face as he stared at the sheets of paper scattered across the duvet.
The sordid story of a life—deposited for him, eleven hours before, in a dead drop not far from the Seine. The life of the man his superiors in Moscow now expected him to do business with.
Gamal Belkaïd.
Kolesnikov shook his head, his lip curling in an expression of disgust. It wasn’t the man’s criminality that bothered him—criminals were ever useful in his chosen profession.
It was the nature of it. Counterfeit electronics, prostitution, and drugs—that last most of all. A scourge which had touched even his own family.
He put a hand to his chest, a reflective look entering his blue eyes as his fingers touched the pendant hanging from a golden chain about his neck, its raised surface just visible beneath the fabric of his athletic shirt.
An icon of Our Lady of Vladimir, the Christ Child cradled in her arms—an image he knew almost as well as he knew his own face. The protectress of Russia.
His older brother Sasha had fallen prey to drug addiction in those dark years following the collapse of the Soviet Union—heroin flooding the streets of a once-proud nation now humbled, brought to its knees, by the West.
Heroin trafficked by the mafiya. By criminals, just like Belkaïd.
Grigoriy had never known his father, a Red Army veteran whose body had never come home from Afghanistan, but Sasha, nearly eight years his senior, had filled the role as well as any teenager could. Already nearing adulthood at the time of their country’s collapse, he’d been a talented hockey player, with dreams of one day, perhaps, even representing the Rodina abroad. The Olympics?
Anything had seemed possible, then, even after their father’s death. Youth was invincible like that. He could still remember those afternoons after school, watching his older brother move across the ice—looking up to him. Idolizing him.
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