The mixed feelings Johnson had about his current investigation, Shevchenko’s attempt at a summary execution of Bernice, the deaths of Gennady and Varvara Yezhov, and the nagging anxiety that he should have done more to prevent them all melted away as Jayne’s hand traced a path southward across his belly.
She swung a leg over his thighs.
“You did a great job, Joe,” she said.
“You mean the last couple of weeks? Or . . .?” He waggled his eyebrows.
Jayne laughed. “Both.”
“I could say the same about you. You’ve been great. There’s no one else I’d rather be with—in every sense.”
He grasped her shoulders, then wrapped his hands around the back of her neck as she once again bent forward to kiss him.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
London
They didn’t have long to enjoy the moment. No sooner had Johnson stepped out of Jayne’s shower than his phone rang. It was Vic, calling from his secure cell phone.
“I know you’re with Jayne,” Vic began, without preamble.
Was it really that obvious? Johnson thought.
“You both need to get yourselves back to Rossmore Road,” Vic went on. “Nicklin-Donovan’s team has found the SRAC base station in Regent’s Park and arrested the illegal who was downloading from it. We’ve got some files that were on the base station, and Mark is getting GCHQ to decrypt them.”
The unsuspecting illegal, Natalia Espinosa, had been arrested at her home in Wembley, where police had found an SRAC transmitter device and a few SD memory cards. One of the cards had two encrypted files on it, which were also being run through GCHQ, Vic said. The assumption was that she had been intending to place the card in the motorbike pannier dead drop site near St. Paul’s Cathedral for dispatch to Moscow.
“Excellent,” Johnson said. “But any luck with the transmitter that Bernice had in her bike tool bag? She must have off-loaded it somewhere. It’s probably in the canal.”
Vic explained that the route Bernice was believed to have taken on her bike along the Regent’s Canal towpath and up through side streets to the apartment building in St. John’s Wood had been sealed off, and an intensive search was continuing. The MI6 team had discovered one of the apartments in the building was an SVR safe house—that must have been Bernice’s destination.
Bernice had remained unhelpful and had not confirmed the exact exit she had taken off the towpath, but an analysis of the time taken to arrive at the apartment opposite Lord’s Cricket Ground dictated only two realistic possibilities.
“There’s a police search crew gathering down at the canal, which Mark’s team is directing. Other officers are interviewing boat owners and those who live in the canal boats moored down there in case they saw her cycle along there. It’s a long shot, but they are going to give it a try.”
Johnson ended the call, promising that he and Jayne would get to the safe house as quickly as possible.
As he ate the croissants and coffee that Jayne had fetched from the Starbucks on the ground floor of her apartment building, Johnson used his laptop to do a Google search for news articles about the La Belle bombing.
He was surprised to find that Dave Orton, a former Berlin correspondent whom Johnson knew, had written a recent feature article about it for The Times newspaper as part of a series on the Stasi.
Orton had also written a piece three years earlier about Johnson’s hunt for a Nazi concentration camp commander, and Johnson had liked his style of work.
Johnson smiled as he scanned the article.
It seems as though I have another story for him.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
London
It was at just before three o’clock on the third day of the search for Bernice’s SRAC device that the breakthrough came. The chief inspector managing the canal search called Nicklin-Donovan to say that a canal boat owner had reported seeing a woman on a bike, wearing Lycra and an orange helmet, throw something into the water near the short alley that led from the canal path onto Lisson Grove.
The man, who had been potting plants next to his boat, had then seen the woman jump off her bike and run with it up the alley onto the street and out of sight.
The chief inspector had immediately sent a team of divers into the canal at the spot identified by the boat owner, and after a short search of the canal bed with underwater metal detectors, they had found a circular steel electronic device with a USB port, an SD memory card port, and LED lights. Near to it they had also found a cell phone. Neither item had been in the water for long, as there were no signs of rust or other degradation.
A police officer delivered both items, sealed in bags, to the MI6 satellite office at Euston shortly afterward. One glance at the steel device told Johnson all he needed to know: its design matched the base station from Regent’s Park.
Nicklin-Donovan handed both items to a technical officer, who unsurprisingly failed to get any response from either device but did manage to extract files from the flash drive inside the SRAC device. GCHQ in turn decrypted the files, which were identical to those found on the base station.
Both sets of files included a four-page top secret US Defense Department report about strategy in the Black Sea and specifically the decision to send in the USS Donald Cook and the USS Taylor, together with details of the president’s visit to the Donald Cook.
The report had been sent to a highly restricted list of people in the defense, intelligence, and political arenas—including Bernice Franklin.
Furthermore, although the waterlogged cell phone was not functional, GCHQ had managed to identify its number from the SIM card inside. It was a pay-as-you-go burner phone. A check of the call register showed that the phone had been used only a couple of times. One of the calls had gone to the same cell phone that had been found in Shevchenko’s bag.
“Bernice is a goner,” Johnson said.
“She was a goner anyway,” Vic said. He smiled.
It was the first time in several days that Johnson had seen his old colleague show anything other than tension and anxiety, despite a reassuring note he had received from Director Veltman at Langley telling him not to worry.
Vic had been castigating himself for recommending to Veltman that Bernice be appointed London station chief and not anticipating how disgruntled she would be at being passed over for the number three role in the Directorate of Operations. But Veltman was blaming his counterintelligence team for failing to detect her contacts with Shevchenko.
Now Johnson could see the strain visibly draining from his friend’s face, just he could feel his own stress levels beginning to fall.
True, it was extremely unlikely that legal action could be successfully taken against either Severinov or Shevchenko. There was no way Russia would agree to them being extradited to Germany to face trial, no matter how furious the president was.
But there’s more than one way to skin a cat, Johnson thought to himself.
He was looking forward to seeing the chaos that would be stirred up by the Times article, which had broken that morning. Already it was being widely followed up by other news publications on both sides of the Atlantic. The coverage meant that justice would be handed down at least in some form—doubtless the version meted out by the Kremlin could potentially be more severe and more summary in nature than that by Germany’s Landgericht judicial system.
Johnson would have given anything to be a fly on the wall at the meeting between Putin and Severinov. Maybe more detail would trickle out of Moscow in time.
Vic beckoned Johnson and Jayne into the room that Nicklin-Donovan was allowing him to use as a temporary office until the investigation was completed. He closed the door.
“I just want to thank you both,” Vic said. “You’ve done an outstanding job under difficult and dangerous circumstances. I’m proud of you, and so is Veltman.” He paused and brushed a hand across his right eye. “And what’s more, my brother would have b
een proud of you.”
He seemed close to tears as he spoke. Johnson put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.
“Listen, buddy,” Johnson said. “I’m pleased we could help. We’ll eventually get Severinov, and Shevchenko too. They’re both going to be difficult to pin down. We all know that. They are both highly skilled operators. But I’m playing the long game here. I’m going to find a way.”
There was a knock at the door. Nicklin-Donovan entered, stepped over to Johnson, and shook his hand, then Jayne’s. “I’m glad you accepted my proposal to carry out this investigation, Joe. You delivered, just as I expected, as did Jayne.”
Johnson nodded. “What investigation?” he said with a straight face. “I wasn’t aware of one.”
Nicklin-Donovan smiled. “Correct. There has been no investigation. But nonetheless, off the record we might need to leave one or two of our media friends with the impression that there has been. Then we can of course deny it again afterward.”
Vic had now gathered himself. “All right, enough of that crap, Mark,” he said.
He turned to Johnson and Jayne. “What are your plans? I mean both of you together.”
Johnson did his best to spread an innocent expression across his face.
“Come on, Doc,” Vic said. “I can read you two like a frigging book.”
Johnson had to smile. Vic was right: he always had been able to read him like a book, as he put it. He could read most people and usually see right through them too, which was why he had carved out such a successful career in such a tough business.
“I don’t know, Vic,” Johnson said. He looked at Jayne, who was trying not to smile. “We haven’t even discussed anything like that. But don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.”
“As long as you’re still going to be available to work for me,” Vic said.
Johnson gave a faint grin. “There’s nothing quite like having someone who’s both deniable and dispensable at your beck and call to do your dirty work for you, isn’t that right, Jayne?”
He turned to Jayne, who was looking out the window. “It would seem so,” she said without turning around.
“Are you seriously complaining?” Vic asked. “The daily amount you charge us seems to very clearly include a premium for being deniable and dispensable.”
He flashed a grin at Johnson. “Look, I need to have a word privately with Mark about a few things, just to tie up the loose ends. If you don’t mind leaving us alone for a few minutes.”
Johnson and Jayne headed out the door, closing it behind them. They made their way to the kitchen, where Johnson turned on the coffee machine.
“So, I think Vic might be offering us more work now that he’s in the top job. He’s worried about Russia. But you seemed a little noncommittal when he hinted at it just then,” Johnson said as he bent over the machine.
“Yes. I’ve been offered a job.”
Johnson whirled around. “What?”
“Mark’s offered me a role. He’s worried about Russia too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? What did you say?” Johnson asked the questions almost before she had finished speaking.
She shrugged. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you. But I’ve said no. For now. After all, I have a date to keep in Portland: meeting your kids.”
Johnson leaned over and kissed her. “Ah, yes. An important appointment, that one. I’ve told the kids a lot about you. Don’t worry, though—it’s all good.”
They both laughed.
Epilogue
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Moscow
Despite the moderate temperature in the anteroom outside the president’s office, Severinov could not stop beads of sweat from forming on his forehead and trickling slowly down into his eyebrows. It was infuriating. Just when he needed to appear cool, collected, and in control, he found it impossible to do so.
What he was feeling was something very primal, he knew—and it was because the man in charge literally had the power to take his wealth, his status, and indeed his life away, if he pleased.
There was a click of shoe leather on the parquet floor to his right, and an aide appeared. Severinov didn’t know his name. It didn’t really matter. They never lasted very long in the Kremlin.
“The president will see you now,” the aide said. “Mr. Kruglov will also be there.” He walked to the double doors that led to Putin’s inner sanctum, pulled one of them open, and waited for a doorman to open the other, then nodded at Severinov.
Severinov closed his eyes momentarily. He knew very well why he had been summoned. It was always a double act—if it wasn’t Prime Minister Medvedev, then it was old dog breath himself, SVR Director Kruglov. Two against one. They always liked to make one feel outnumbered and outflanked.
Events over the previous few days had already made Severinov feel under siege, in particular the death of his Spetsnaz sidekick Balagula. That had been a hard blow given the close working relationship the two men had had over many years. He was still puzzling over how the hell Johnson had gotten the better of him in a gunfight. It was strange. Would the president use that as a stick to give him another beating?
Severinov felt as though his legs were operating on autopilot as he made his way through the doors and into the lavishly decorated office.
Putin was sitting at one side of what his aides called his chess table, which stuck out in front of his main desk. The president was sipping a glass of water and did not look up as Severinov approached. On the other side sat Kruglov, an ape of a man, with a neck that had almost vanished beneath a mound of shoulder fat and muscle and the jowls that hung beneath his chin.
“Mr. President,” Severinov said as he came to a halt two meters away. There was nowhere for him to sit.
Putin put the glass down on a coaster and turned his head to scrutinize Severinov with a pair of icy-blue laser eyes.
“When you screwed up last year in Afghanistan, I decided to give you a chance to put right your mistakes, your sewer pipe of bad decisions,” Putin said. “What were your instructions?”
Severinov shifted from one foot to the other, his hands clasped behind his back. “Sir, you wanted me to eliminate the American investigator Johnson. That was the message I received from Mr. Medvedev’s assistant. And I—”
“No excuses.”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t know how badly you have crapped all over yourself. Over the past few weeks and months, we have received a stream of golden intelligence from our asset in London. I will use the asset’s code name, because I believe you are aware of it. ANTELOPE. It has put us at a material advantage against NATO in the Black Sea. It has been invaluable. There was the prospect of much more to come over many years. But that depended on you carrying out the simple instruction I gave you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Putin leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. His eyes bored into Severinov’s.
“I have lost ANTELOPE. Her cover has been blown, and she is heading back to the States for trial,” Putin said. “I have lost my rezident in London, possibly the best recruiter the SVR has ever had. She is being deported from the UK on Saturday. And with them, I have lost what was my key advantage in the battle against the West: accurate, precise, relevant political and military intelligence. And it has happened because you failed to deliver on a simple task. To make things even more incomprehensible, I understand that Johnson was served up to you on a plate, wrapped in a bow. He made his own way to St. Petersburg.”
“Sir, if I could just explain something. There was—”
“Shut up. I’m talking,” Putin said, his voice remaining perfectly level and emotionless. “Then Johnson tried to get out of Russia via the Saimaa Canal. A rattrap if ever I heard of one. Your target stuck on a boat—it should have been like shooting fish in a barrel for you. But no. You missed. You screwed up yet again, and he got over the border into Finland.”
Putin paused and took another
sip of water, then reached over to his main desk and picked up a large sheet of paper that was facedown. He turned it over and placed it on the chess table.
“Then to cap it all off, there is this toilet piss,” Putin said, tapping his fingers on the sheet of paper.
Severinov leaned over to look. It was a scanned copy of page one of The Times. The lead headline stretched across the top of the page.
KGB complicit in Berlin La Belle nightclub bombing.
The story, written by a journalist called Dave Orton, ran across five columns. Below it was a large black-and-white photograph showing the damage to the nightclub building the morning after the bomb blast, with large piles of wreckage in the street outside.
“Read it,” Putin ordered.
Severinov tried to focus on the story.
New evidence has emerged of KGB involvement in the 1986 bombing by Libyan terrorists of the La Belle nightclub in Berlin, which killed three US servicemen and injured 249 more people.
The bombing was effectively given the green light by the KGB, Russia’s main intelligence agency, as well as the East German counterpart it controlled, the Stasi, it has emerged.
Both agencies were aware of the planned attacks several weeks in advance, according to new evidence from a former Stasi officer who secretly recorded minutes of meetings between KGB and Stasi officers at which the bombings were discussed.
The Times has seen the minutes, which were provided by a source who has recently been in touch with the Stasi officer.
The KGB officers implicated include billionaire oil and gas oligarch Yuri Severinov and Anastasia Shevchenko, currently in charge of the London office of the KGB’s successor organization, the SVR. Both of them were members of the KGB in 1986 and present at the meetings.
Other KGB officers who operated in East Berlin at that time included the current Russian president, Vladimir Putin.
It is clear that the Soviet government in the Kremlin agreed with the KGB and decided to take no action to stop the Libyan terrorists. Along with many other terrorist groups that were aiming to strike at the West, the Libyans were given refuge and accommodation in East Berlin during that period, again with Moscow’s blessing.
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