He was just finishing his tea when one of his team appeared, looking like she had something important to say. He nodded to show she could talk.
“We just listened in on a conversation he had with his office. He’s going to work from home for a couple of weeks, but he needs to go in next week for a meeting so they’re sending a car for him.”
“That sounds promising. What day and time will he be going in?”
“It’s scheduled for Wednesday - and he’ll be picked up at 10am and should be back by 4pm, at the latest.”
“Excellent. That fits nicely with our timetable and they should have fallen back into their normal routine, or as close to it as possible. Spread the word and make sure we are ready to move at noon on Wednesday.
“Can you make sure someone goes to double check the holding cell we have prepared? Can you tell everyone to carefully go through what is expected of them? If there is anything bothering them, no matter how small, come and tell me.
“I want this treated like we are all back at the start line again. Make sure that the day team is ready for a final briefing at lunchtime tomorrow, and I want the same for the night team at 10pm.”
The woman was ex-Army, and he suppressed a smile when he noted her right arm quiver as she stopped herself from saluting. At least he was still capable of giving orders, and that had to be a good thing.
14
It had been such a long time ago that he had been able to fool himself it never happened. He’d been in England for fifteen years, quietly inserting himself into London society. His generous contributions to charity and the arts made him a sought-after figure.
He even had a business plan for his donations. He didn’t just hand out money to any good cause: he was careful to find out what the really influential people were interested in and had invested in making sure he had the information to always back the causes closest to their hearts.
So, when he heard that one influential society hostess was becoming interested in a revolutionary radiation therapy for treating a rare type of children’s cancer, he had quietly stepped in and helped set up a well-funded charitable trust.
He had long ago realised that selective giving was the key to winning acceptance. He knew, and didn’t mind, that he would never be part of the inner circle; not even marrying a beautiful and fabulously connected English woman could do that. But he had paved the way for his children to be warmly embraced into the very heart of society, while he was a key player in the next ring out.
So when the call came, Georgi Yebedev had dropped the phone in shock and had to scramble to pick it up. Panic-stricken, he had missed some of what had been said and apologising asked the caller to start again. The voice on the other end might have been gentle in tone but there was steel underneath and he was left in no doubt that his family would be killed if he didn’t do precisely what was asked.
He didn’t know the people behind the threats but he knew of them - every sensible Russian did - and he knew what they were capable of, so he immediately let it be known that he was ready to receive his instructions.
It was then he was told his first lie. All that was wanted of him was a small task that might take up a few hours of his time as he made sure the secluded guest house on his Oxfordshire estate was available for a few weeks. Do this small thing and never hear from us again.
Three weeks went by and his “guest, or guests” departed, the house cleaned until it shone. He was sure this was to erase any trace of who had been there. He was even told it had been noted how willingly he had acted to repay his debt. It was unfortunate that sometimes people forgot where they came from and that led to unpleasantness which everyone wanted to avoid.
Much as he wanted to believe the whispers, he knew better; the price he had paid was trifling compared to what he had been given. He feared that, now this had started, there would be no escape for him until he had nothing else to give.
The pressure of waiting changed him from a loving, carefree husband and father to someone who took offence easily and literally jumped every time his phone rang or message service beeped. Strangely it almost came as a relief when the call he feared finally came.
This was a new voice, strong and full of power. He was to go to Moscow where he would meet a woman, a hero of the Soviet Union and brilliant scientist. She would provide him with all the answers he could ever need.
A couple of weeks later he was on a flight approaching Moscow. As it descended, his mood hardened. He might not want to be here but he had to shove his doubts out of his mind. He’d had a good life from the money he had taken and now he needed to get this right so that his family could survive. He was no longer scared for himself.
The scientist had come to meet him at the airport, keen to get started as soon as possible. A short woman, she had a shock of thick blonde hair that looked as though it was styled with the help of a pudding basin, and her clothes were of a design that may once have graced the pages of Soviet era catalogues in the 1950s. But it was her shoes that really stood out: they looked like they could withstand bricks being dropped on them.
As he shook hands with Maria Vasilev, he put these thoughts from his mind. He was a long way from home and the elegant Jimmy Choos in which his wife would occasionally totter about, before surrendering to the pain caused by eight-inch heels.
At first, Vasilev was good company, full of energy and a seemingly inexhaustible source of gossip about the people with whom she worked with. While Yebedev knew none of them, her stories were vivid enough to make him feel like he did.
She was also familiar with several excellent restaurants that had taken classical Russian cooking and elevated it to haute cuisine, so much so that he had surprised himself by asking for a second bowl of a spiced cabbage soup.
This period lasted most of the first week and Yebedev kept his counsel. He knew they were marking time and, on day six, the situation changed. She took him to another restaurant, where the other diners seemed to be drinking heavily but the conversation rarely rose above a murmur.
A waiter came over with a bottle of ordinary vodka and two glasses. It wasn’t anything like the fancy brands they had been drinking; this was a basic, popular Russian variety and he suspected it had been chosen to send a clear signal. The party was over.
This was confirmed when Vasilev poured out two glasses and knocked hers back before immediately refilling. She picked up the glass and held it towards him.
“A toast, to the good old days.” The second glass disappeared, and he quickly drank his first one.
“You may not be aware, but this used to be a sort of house restaurant for the senior people at the KGB. The food was never very good, but the vodka never ran out and it was understood that whatever was discussed in here stayed in here.”
There were no more toasts and the waiting staff stayed away as the scientist talked through exactly what was expected of him. As she talked he was astonished to discover it was a plan that had been decades in the making.
His first task was to provide a secure address in London to which objects could be delivered. Some would be coming from Russia, others from all over the world. Most of the components had been sent to their holding destinations during the 1970s and the people looking after them had recently been alerted they would be on the move again soon. The plan was simple and should ensure no one picked up on the true source of the material.
Yebedev would also need to rent flats for a team of people putting the parts back together. It was expected that this would altogether take six to eight weeks. To his relief he was told he did not need to arrange for the delivery of the plutonium; that would be dealt with separately.
He couldn’t help wondering about the damage and vowed to keep his family away from London for as long as he could. It was far too late for him to get out now but, in his heart of hearts, he knew he should have listened to the voice that had warned him: the more people gave you, the more they expected in return.
15
It was th
e uniformed police officer monitoring the new metal detector who had reminded him. After Hooley had finally cleared the machine at the third attempt, several coins and a penknife had triggered the alarms, the man had said. “A lot of people have started arriving a few minutes early because this thing slows everyone down. Anyway, have a nice day, Sir.”
It triggered his memory of being told off for arriving at Roper’s apartment too early. Then he realised the younger man hadn’t once mentioned his girlfriend since that day. He decided to make sure everything was OK.
He walked into their office and said. “I keep forgetting to ask: how was Samantha’s journey to Washington? I take it she arrived OK and you’ve been chatting to her since.”
“We’re not talking, so I don’t know. The last time we spoke was when you saw me saying goodbye.”
This wasn’t the answer he expected and it took him a few minutes to translate the words in his head. When they did finally make sense he stared at Roper, hoping he would say more, but the way he was studying his screen suggested that was it unless Hooley could prod more out of him. He decided to leave it for the time being.
It was only 6am. They had decided on a prompt start to maximise the time they could spend reading into what was an unfamiliar subject matter. They worked in what the DCI liked to think of as their customary companionable silence, although Julie Mayweather had once remarked that “it would be easier to get blood out of a stone than get you two to speak when you’re doing research”.
Although Hooley had scoffed at the suggestion, he did realise they could go all day without talking - so he did make the occasional effort to break things up a bit. He’d been mulling over going on the coffee run and decided to use it as an opportunity to get back to Samantha.
“It can be very difficult when you are working a long way away from each other; it puts a strain on any relationship, so it’s probably completely normal if you have had an argument, especially when feelings are running a bit higher after you have to separate.”
“We haven’t had an argument; we’re just not talking.”
He could have left it there but now he was intrigued.
“But if you haven’t had a row, why aren’t you talking? In my experience that sort of silent treatment only happens when you’ve got real problems. Towards the end of my marriage we both realised the best way to avoid arguments was if we didn’t speak to each other at all. I know that’s not on the marriage guidance recommended list, but it worked for us.”
“The reason we’re not talking is perfectly sensible because we are so far apart. Sam and I have worked out that, office to office, we are 3,691 miles apart, so we both need to get on with our lives and jobs.
“Neither of us likes talking for the sake of it and realised that the best thing to do was to not bother each other with pointless conversations. She gets some time off in six weeks, so we will be talking then, when we have something to say, and not before.
“It means we will actually have a conversation to look forward to. It’s just common sense when you think about it. We realised that a lot of people ring each other up every day and have nothing important to say and we didn’t want that to happen to us.”
“Fair enough that you don’t want to talk all the time, but haven’t you gone a bit far the other way? I mean what about calling each other once a week, say Saturday? As ancient as I am, I can remember a time when I loved talking to my wife.”
A look of horror appeared on Roper’s face. “You’re not talking about phone sex, are you? I think that sounds very unhygienic.”
“What? No! Where did that come from?” He felt his face going red. “We hadn’t invented phone sex in those days and, anyway, she’d have killed me if I’d tried to suggest it… and I’m not saying that I ever did,” he added hurriedly.
“Look. I get it that you two don’t want to live in each other’s pockets, but six weeks seems an awfully long time and everyone gets in touch after a journey to say they arrived safely. I mean what if something had happened?”
Roper’s expression went from irritated to pained, tinged with sympathy.
“That’s where so many people make mistakes. If there had been something serious with the journey, then I would have known. It’s not as if there could be some sort of crash or incident and for it not to be all over the news. So why ring to tell me she got there safely? She either did or she didn’t, and talking about it won’t change that.
“And we didn’t just pick six weeks without thinking about it. We both deal with intelligence material and, even though hers is very top secret, the same rules apply, especially when you are trying to analyse it and do whatever research needs doing.
“Giving ourselves six weeks means that we should have got on top of whatever you are looking at. If you haven’t worked it out by then you are probably never going to, but at least we won’t have wasted valuable time by annoying each other.
“So that means we are giving ourselves the best chance to get on top of our jobs without being distracted by someone ringing up to ask how we are. Sam is like me: she hates people asking how she is. No one ever wants to know the real answer; they just want you to say, “I’m fine, thank you.” But if you tell people the truth, that maybe you don’t feel well, or something, they don’t want to know. So what’s the point?”
The DCI was genuinely flummoxed. As much as part of him wanted to tell Roper he was wrong, another part of him could see where he was coming from. It did make sense, in a weird kind of way. He supposed that Roper was actually putting forward quite a convincing explanation for keeping a little mystery in your relationships.
He wondered if he and his wife might have benefitted from such an approach. Who was he kidding? She always liked to know what he was up to. Even now, after their divorce, she made a point of checking on his progress, either through their children, or on those unavoidable occasions when they needed to communicate about some shared issues, when she attached a personal question to an email. Was he eating well? Getting enough sleep?
He suspected there were times she hoped to get news that he was suffering a painful, if non-life-threatening, medical condition. But she also just liked to be in the know, and would have been quite unable to cope with Sam and Jonathan’s silent approach. That was the thing about taking logic to the extreme: sometimes it could make the brightest people seem a bit daft.
16
Roper was leaning back in his seat, his feet on the desk and eyes firmly closed. He’d been like that, unmoving, for the last half-an-hour. Hooley winced as he thought about trying the same thing. His back would probably implode.
Finally there was movement. Roper swung his feet back to the ground and looked slowly around the office. He was giving every indication that he wasn’t quite sure where he was.
“Welcome back,” said Hooley. “Am I right in thinking you’re been checking out your Rainbow Spectrum?”
“How could you possibly know that?” Roper looked annoyed.
“Trust me. I’ve worked with you long enough to know the signs. Feet on the desk, eyes shut, unmoving. I don’t need to be a detective on that one.”
Roper still looked disgruntled but Hooley shrugged. It was what it was. “Don’t get side-tracked by me guessing what you were doing. More importantly, have you made any progress? I could tell you a lot about Yebedev but nothing that links him to any crime.”
“You were right. I have been using the Spectrum, and for a while I was worried that something was going wrong.”
While he had never fully understood how Roper used the Spectrum, Hooley had come to think of it as a method that never failed. Now he knew why his colleague had become oddly defensive when he had raised it.
“Are you still having problems? Maybe it’s just something that you need to give time to.”
“I’ve worked it out,” said Roper and, as he spoke, the DCI noticed that he was visibly relaxing, with the deep frown slowly disappearing.
“I was looking at it the wrong way.
You know I see things in colours so I can assign the same colours to different bits of information. That’s what lets me see links that aren’t obvious. It’s not something I can always control - it just sort of happens.
“I’ve been digging around in some Russian archives using some translation software to help me read them. I found lots of little bits that fit into different colour codes but I couldn’t get everything to link up and point in just one direction.
“Then I added in what we got from MI5 but, again, it just gave me little bits. There’s nothing solid out there, other than he seems well-liked on the social circuit and gives quite a bit to charity. We already knew that.
“I was getting a little frustrated but drew up a profile of him anyway, based on what I had. Then I ran it through my Rainbow Spectrum to see what emerged. There was nothing, and I was about to give up when I realised that actually told us quite a lot.”
Hooley grinned. “Classic. I’m looking forward to hearing how nothing is a lot.”
“Don’t you see? There is nothing about his life in Russia before he gets rich. Then nothing emerges about any ongoing links to Russia, or other Russians afterwards. Don’t you think that is a bit odd?”
“You’re saying it is as though he suddenly appeared,” said the DCI, who was starting to think he knew where this was headed.
“I think he might be the ultimate sleeper agent. His cover is buried so deep that even he may not be aware that is what he is. He might have gone his whole life without being activated but now I am certain that is what has happened.”
“And are you thinking that is bad news?”
Roper gave him an approving nod. Hooley smiled. He could put up with a bit of patronising in return for demonstrating he had a few little grey cells of his own.
The Long Reach_British Detective Page 6