“But Ivan’s no fool. It won’t take him long to work out what you’re up to, and then he’ll drop me like the proverbial hot potato.”
“Or worse,” said Hammond. “Because I have to make it clear that your life would be in danger if Donokov were to discover that you were working with the CIA.”
“But on the other hand,” Travis added, “with your help, we might just be able to break the ring and put Donokov and his gang behind bars for a very long time.”
“What makes you think I’d even consider taking such a risk?”
“Because it was Ivan Donokov who ordered your father’s death.”
“No, you’re wrong about that,” said Alex. “I can prove it was Polyakov.”
“Polyakov is just a pawn on the KGB’s chessboard. Donokov moves the pieces.”
Alex was speechless, then said, almost to himself, “That would explain why he’s always so well informed.” It was some time before he asked, “How did you blow his cover?”
“We have an agent working for us in Leningrad who detests the KGB even more than you do.”
* * *
Alex returned home later that evening. Now he had yet another secret he couldn’t share with his mother, or even Dimitri. Could it be possible that Dimitri was also working for Donokov? He had, after all, recommended he visit Players’ Square. Or was he a CIA operative? One thing Alex knew for certain—he couldn’t risk asking him.
He tried to continue working for Ivan as if nothing had happened, but of course it had, and he was sure it would only be a matter of time before he was found out.
It was about a fortnight after his meeting with the two CIA agents that the first interception took place. Alex was standing on the platform at Queensboro Plaza, waiting for a train to Lexington Avenue, when a voice behind him said, “Don’t look around.”
Alex obeyed the simple command, although his whole body was shaking. A few moments later the voice whispered, “What’s today’s message?”
“A package will be arriving from Odessa on Thursday, dock seven. Make sure you pick it up.”
The man left without another word. Alex delivered Donokov’s message as usual.
For the next few weeks, agents would appear on the subway, on buses, and once when he was crossing a busy intersection. He always passed on whatever message Ivan had given him that day, and then, like the morning mist, they evaporated into thin air, never to be seen again.
Alex could only wonder how long it would be before Ivan worked out that he was serving two masters. But he had to admit, if only to himself, he enjoyed the challenge of trying to convince the KGB man that he had no idea what he was really up to, although he accepted that Ivan was as good a chess player as he was, and his queen was exposed.
* * *
He couldn’t have missed him. In fact it worried Alex just how obvious he was, standing on the subway platform wearing a smart charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He even smelled CIA.
Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Never believe in coincidences, Hammond had warned him. He smiled at Alex, something no other agent had ever done, which only made him more suspicious. Perhaps he was mistaken, and it was just someone who thought he recognized him.
Alex moved away, but the man followed him down the platform. His first mistake. If he had been a CIA agent, he would have disappeared, assuming he’d been spotted. Alex looked down and noticed his second mistake. Although his shoes were highly polished, they were slip-ons, frowned upon by the CIA, who insisted on laces. Such a trivial error.
Alex heard the rumble of an approaching train, and decided to try the jump on/jump off routine, to see if he could lose his shadow. As the train emerged from the tunnel, Alex moved toward the edge of the platform and waited. Suddenly, without warning, he felt two massive hands in the middle of his back, and with one tremendous shove he was propelled toward the track.
He had no way of stopping himself from falling in front of the train. If anything flashed through his mind at that moment, it was that he was about to die, and not a pleasant death. He didn’t notice a young black man racing toward him, who tackled him at the last possible moment, as if he was trying to prevent a touchdown.
The young CIA agent left Alex spreadeagled on the platform, while he set off in pursuit of the assailant. Another tackle, as he felled the man halfway up the steps. A moment later a second agent pinned him to the ground and handcuffed him. The assailant turned and looked at Alex, who was pushing himself up from the platform. Despite the noise and clamor of the train doors opening and the passengers streaming off, Alex didn’t need to translate his mouthed words, “You’re dead.”
18
SASHA
Cambridge
Sasha sat alone in a small, badly lit basement room that he’d previously only read about in a Harry Clifton novel. He wanted to turn the page and find out what was going to happen next.
The door swung open and DS Warwick, accompanied by a female officer, entered the room. They took their places on the opposite side of the table.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” said Warwick, switching on a tape recorder by his side. “A serious allegation has been made against you, but I want to hear your side of the story before I decide how to proceed.”
The one thing Sasha did remember from Harry Clifton novels was that Derek Matthews, the bent barrister whose regular clients were all too familiar with this predicament, always instructed them to say nothing until he arrived. But Sasha wasn’t a criminal, and he had nothing to hide. He waited impatiently to discover what the “serious allegation” was, aware that by withholding that vital piece of information, the detective was trying to make him feel uneasy and nervous. He was succeeding.
“A Miss Fiona Hunter,” said Warwick eventually, “has made a statement that on Thursday, November the sixteenth—last Thursday—you climbed the fire escape outside her room in Newnham College around ten o’ clock, entered her study on the third floor, and stole a confidential file.” He stared directly at Sasha. “What do you have to say about this accusation?”
“What’s in the file?” said Sasha.
The detective ignored the question. “Miss Hunter claims that she has proof you entered the country illegally after escaping from prison, having murdered a police officer.”
“I did escape,” said Sasha, “from the biggest prison on earth. I didn’t murder the KGB officer, but only wish I had.”
“That may all be true, Mr. Karpenko, but as Miss Hunter has made such a serious accusation, we are bound to follow it up. So to start with, where were you on Thursday evening around ten o’clock?”
Sasha knew exactly where he’d been on Thursday night. After attending a debate in the Union, he’d accompanied Charlie back to Newnham, and while she’d entered the college by the front door and gone straight up to her room, he’d made his way around to the back of the building, climbed the fire escape to the second floor, and spent the night with her.
He had woken just before five the following morning, and after they had made love again, he had got dressed, climbed down the fire escape, and walked back to Trinity. He was in his room just before six, and spent the next couple of hours working on an essay that needed to be polished in time for his morning tutorial.
The only problem with Sasha’s cast-iron alibi was that if Charlie was to confirm his story, under Newnham College regulations she would automatically be rusticated, and sent home for the rest of term, making it impossible for her to sit her finals until a full investigation had been carried out, which was bound to conclude that she had indeed broken the rules. Not least because Fiona would be happy to report what she had seen, should her other ruse fail.
“Last Thursday evening,” said Sasha, “I attended a debate at the Union, and after I’d accompanied Mr. Anthony Barber to the University Arms, where he was staying overnight, I returned to my college just before eleven. I went down to breakfast around eight the following morning.”
“So none of the f
ingerprints we’ve found on the fire escape of Newnham College will match yours?” said Warwick, raising an eyebrow.
Sasha suddenly wished he’d obeyed Derek Matthews’s golden rule, and remained silent. He pursed his lips and said, “I have nothing more to say until I’ve spoken to a lawyer.”
Warwick closed his file. “In that case, Mr. Karpenko, I will require a set of your fingerprints before you leave. You will report back to this station with or without your lawyer at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Sasha was surprised when, after turning off the tape recorder, Warwick added, “That should give you more than enough time to sort this out.”
The next surprise came when Sasha left the interview room to find Dr. Streator sitting on the narrow wooden bench in the corridor waiting for him.
“Don’t say anything,” he said, “until we’re in my car.” He led his pupil out of the police station and across the road, where an ancient Volvo was parked. “Now,” he said, once Sasha had closed the passenger door, “tell me what this is about, and don’t spare me the gory details.”
Sasha had almost come to the end of his story by the time they reached the fellows’ car park at Trinity.
“Clearly the detective sergeant doesn’t believe a word of Miss Hunter’s story, otherwise he wouldn’t have released you. I suspect Miss Hunter spotted you climbing into Miss Dangerfield’s bedroom and saw an opportunity to derail your chances of becoming president of the Union,” Streator said, as they climbed the steps to his study.
“Could Fiona really be that ruthless?” said Sasha.
“Don’t think of her as Fiona, but as Sir Max Hunter’s daughter, and then you’ll know the answer to that question. But all is not lost. No doubt Miss Dangerfield will corroborate your story, which will make Miss Hunter look extremely foolish.” Streator was clearly enjoying the prospect.
“But I’ve already lied to Warwick in order to protect Charlie,” said Sasha. “Why would he believe me if I suddenly change my story?”
“He’ll be enough of a man of the world to understand why you did that,” said Streator as he opened his study door.
“But I don’t want Charlie to be rusticated, and unable to sit her exams.”
“I expect Fiona was well aware of that, but if you don’t tell Warwick the truth, it will be you who’s rusticated, which will mean Fiona Hunter will have knocked out her only rival for the presidency. And even when you’re eventually proved innocent, there will always be those who believe there’s no smoke without fire, especially if you’re considering a career in politics.”
“But I have to protect Charlie.”
“You say you left her room around five thirty?” said Streator, ignoring the comment. “And returned to college immediately?” Sasha nodded. “Did you see anyone you knew on the way?”
“No. There weren’t too many people around at that time in the morning.”
“Didn’t Mr. Perkins spot you when you sneaked back into college?”
“I’m afraid not. He was fast asleep, which I was pleased about at the time.”
“Was he indeed?” The phone on Streator’s desk began to ring. He picked it up and listened for a few moments before saying, “It’s Perkins. He says he needs to have a word with you.”
Sasha grabbed the phone as if it were a lifeline.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Karpenko,” said Perkins. “But your mother has just called and says she needs to speak to you urgently.”
* * *
“It’s all over the Union,” said Ben, as he sat down on the end of the bed in Sasha’s study.
“Don’t spare me.”
“You were arrested during a supervision this morning, handcuffed, dragged out of Dr. Streator’s study, thrown into the back of a police car, driven to the nearest nick, charged with breaking and entering a female undergraduate’s room and stealing a confidential file, and left to rot in a prison cell while you await trial.”
“Then this must be the cell,” said Sasha.
“Fair point. Which is why we need to go straight to the Union and be seen having a pint at the bar together, looking as if you haven’t got a care in the world.”
“I don’t think that will be possible.”
“It has to be if you’re going to have any chance of becoming president of the Union.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sasha, “but I have to go to London. My mother needs to see me urgently.”
“What could possibly be more urgent than gathering evidence to prove you’re innocent of any charge?”
“I don’t even know what the problem is,” admitted Sasha, “but the last time my mother used the word ‘urgent’ was when Mr. Moretti died.”
“Then at least let me tell Charlie what’s happened, so we can expose Fiona for what she is and clear your name.”
“Now listen carefully, Ben. You are not to go anywhere near Charlie, unless you want to find out just how close that KGB officer got to having his throat cut.”
Ben froze, and it was some time before he managed, “Just be sure you’re back by nine tomorrow, because you can’t afford to miss your appointment with Sergeant Warwick. Otherwise you could be the first president of the Union to be elected while in prison.”
* * *
When Elena heard the knock on the door she assumed it must be Sasha. She was already regretting phoning during term time, and bothering him with her problems. It would be just like him to drop everything and try to help. She stopped packing and opened the door to find Gino standing there.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as he embraced her. “I just wanted you to know that I’ve handed in my notice, along with five of the kitchen staff and three of my waiters.”
“You mustn’t do that, Gino. I don’t want to be responsible for you all being out of work.”
“Most of us realize we wouldn’t have survived too long with that bastard Tremlett. And in any case, my motives aren’t entirely pure, as I’ve already been offered another job.”
“Who with?”
“Matteo Agnelli.”
“The enemy!” said Elena, laughing.
“No longer. There’s an old Italian saying: My enemy’s enemy is my friend. But Mr. Agnelli only offered me the job on one condition.”
“And what was that?”
“That you’ll come with me.”
“And Betty?”
“I’m sure he’d agree to that.”
“But where would I live?” asked Elena. “Because there isn’t a flat above Mr. Agnelli’s restaurant.”
“You can always come and shack up with me until you find your own place.”
“But what about your partner?”
“He’d only object if you were a man,” said Gino. “So, are you willing to cross the road and join me at Osteria Roma?”
“You should have been christened Coriolanus,” said Elena.
“Corio … who?”
* * *
Sasha had to admit that losing both one’s job and the roof over one’s head could certainly be described as an emergency. He only wished he’d known about Gino’s proposal before he got on the train. But he’d been left with no choice once the operator told him his mother’s phone had been cut off. He spent a sleepless night on Gino’s sofa, and took the first train back to Cambridge the following morning. He had to fork out almost a pound on a taxi to make sure he arrived at the police station at 8:54 a.m. A young constable took him straight through to Detective Sergeant Warwick’s office, and not an interview room.
“Miss Hunter has withdrawn her allegation,” said Warwick, once Sasha had sat down.
“Please tell me Charlie hasn’t been to see you.”
“Charlie who?” asked Warwick innocently. “No, it was a simple piece of detective work that caused Miss Hunter to have second thoughts. We were able to point out to her that your fingerprints on the fire escape stopped at the second floor, and as she also claimed that you left her room within minutes of stealing the file, it’s difficult to expl
ain why it took you five and a half hours to get back to your college, unless of course you were tucked up in bed on the floor below.”
“But the college porter, Mr. Perkins, wouldn’t have been able to confirm the time I returned to college, because he was fast asleep.”
“Turned a blind eye, would be a more accurate description,” said Warwick. “If you’d been seen coming in at five thirty in the morning, he would have had to enter your name in his log book for breaking college regulations, and then you would have needed to explain to the proctors where you’d been all night.”
“So has Fiona got away with it?”
“Not entirely. Miss Hunter has been cautioned for wasting police time. Frankly, I’d have banged her up overnight if her father hadn’t had a word with the chief constable. Still, you’d better be off, as I understand you have a busy day ahead of you.”
* * *
“As you know, Elena, I’ve wanted you to join me for some time,” said Mr. Agnelli, “but you made it clear that there was no point in asking while you were still working for Mr. Moretti.”
“And there still might not be any point,” said Elena.
“My previous offer still stands. I’d make you head chef, and I can promise that you’ll never see me in the kitchen. I’ll double what Mr. Moretti paid you, and you’ll also receive ten percent of the restaurant’s profits. But you’d have to find your own accommodation.”
“And can Betty join me?” asked Elena. Agnelli nodded. “And will Gino be the maître d’?”
“Yes. I’d already agreed that with him. Is there anything else you were hoping for?”
After listening to Elena’s final request Mr. Agnelli said, “I’ll need to think about it.”
“It’s a deal-breaker,” said Elena, repeating Sasha’s exact words.
* * *
When Sasha left the police station, he ran all the way to the Union, where he found his campaign manager trying to explain to a voter where the candidate had been for the past forty-eight hours.
Heads You Win Page 17