by Matthew Dunn
“And in one of those files he read about the junior MI6 officer.”
“Chulkov was a stupid man, but even he would have instantly recognized the name in the file.”
“Though it seems his stupidity ultimately got the better of him. Instead of taking the file and the MI6 name to his FSB superiors so that they could reopen the case, he took it straight to Razin.”
“Who thanked him and shot him in the head.”
Will took a sip of his coffee. “Razin approaches the Head of Moscow Station and—”
“Blackmails him to get the names of my agents.”
Though partly conjecture, their theory made sense to Will. But it didn’t help them beyond explaining how Razin had the names of the tier-1 agents. He felt overwhelming frustration. “We can’t warn off your agents.”
“I know that!” Sentinel sounded equally frustrated. “If we do, we take them out of the game. And if that happens, we’ll get the same result we would if they’re killed—a protracted war and all that will follow it.” He muttered, “Shit, shit, shit,” and looked at Will. “What’s the likely success of the operation you’re mounting?”
Will answered, “Provided I can get to the right people, I’m confident it will work, but I can’t guarantee that more of your agents won’t be killed.”
“I thought so.” Frustration was now replaced with a look of despair. “I can’t let any more of them die.”
“There’s nothing you can do right now.”
“There’s one possibility.”
Will waited.
Sentinel stared at the floor, clearly deep in thought. “Supposing we told Razin which agents I was going to next meet and when.”
Will frowned. “That would only help if you were a target.”
Sentinel smiled. “Maybe I am. He knows I’m after him and has already tried to kill me once. Plus, maybe my death would be the jewel in his crown. If he kills me, he’s killed the man who runs the tier-1 agents, the man who has the capability to recruit more agents to replace those Razin’s killed, the man the Russians stupidly released to carry on working against them.”
Will’s stomach muscles tensed. “We can’t use you and your agents as bait.”
“Why not? You’d be there to protect us.”
“I might fail!”
“You will if you think like that.”
“It’s too damn risky.”
For a moment, Sentinel seemed surprised by Will’s reaction. “You care?”
“Of course.” He pointed a finger at his colleague. “A huge number of people rely on you staying alive.”
“Conversely . . .”
“Yes, conversely—but we don’t need to play into that group’s hands.” Will shook his head. “How would you alert Razin to the meeting without him becoming suspicious?”
Sentinel looked up. “I’ll liaise with Kiev Station and get them to send a telegram to London, telling them to instruct the Moscow Station that I’m reactivating the Minsk DLB. It’s only ever cleared by Moscow Station—they have one officer who has official cover to travel in and out of Belarus. He gets my messages and takes them back into Russia in a diplomatic bag. Tomorrow, I’ll deposit a coded message there saying that I’m meeting Shashka in three days time.” Code name Shashka was a tier-1 agent and a general in Russia’s ground forces, based in the Western Operational Strategic Command in Saint Petersburg. “The message will be delivered to the head of station. Then I’m hoping he’ll give the details to Razin.”
“He might not do that.”
Sentinel stood up and poured himself more coffee. “Razin will be putting the squeeze on the head of station to find out anything he can about our plans. He’ll have the man in his grip. The message will be passed, I’m certain.”
Will said, “I’m strongly against using you as bait. I’m under orders to stop Razin, but I’ve also been instructed to protect you at all costs. Your idea feels wrong.”
“Then give me an idea that feels right and doesn’t allow more of my agents to be killed.”
Will was silent.
Sentinel sat at a table, grabbed a piece of paper and a fountain pen, and began to write. When he finished, he stood, walked to Will, and thrust the paper toward him, saying, “I’ll rewrite the message and encrypt it when I’m in Belarus.”
MEETING SHASHKA AT 1800HRS ON 24TH THIS MONTH AT ST PETERSBURG SAFE HOUSE. VITAL THAT I’M ALERTED TO ANY SOURCE INTEL RELATING TO SHASHKA OR ST PETERSBURG PRIOR TO MEETING. MY RUSSIAN ASSETS CAN’T BE TRUSTED. BREACH OF SECURITY. NEED TWO HANDGUNS AND A TWO-PERSON COMMS SYSTEM. RESPOND ON 23RD WITH COLLECTION DETAILS.
SENTINEL.
Will tossed the paper to one side. “The other major risk is to Shashka himself. He’s an extremely valuable agent.”
“He has to be there. We can’t use a stand-in.”
“I know.”
Shashka could have the ability to locate Razin. Meeting him to get that information would be vital. Moreover, it was possible that Razin would follow Shashka to the meeting. He’d easily spot a fake and would probably abort going to the meeting if he saw one.
But Will was still uncomfortable with the whole thing. “You’re playing with fire.”
“It’s been ever thus.”
Will looked at him. Over the last few days, Sentinel seemed to have aged. Will hesitated before quietly saying, “If we succeed in stopping Razin, you need to get out of the field. Make a home in England. You’ve done more than enough.”
“I’d never request that.”
“But by your own admission, you’ve thought about it.” He leaned forward. “Maybe you’d not object if the decision was taken out of your hands.”
Sentinel said nothing.
“Maybe . . . I could arrange for that to happen.”
Sentinel was clearly digesting Will’s idea. Then he beamed. “Get a wife, a nice house in the country, do some gardening, have an occasional pint at the local pub. And would I come to you to learn how to do all those things?”
Will laughed. “Fair point.”
Sentinel smiled. “I think so.” He sighed. “But still, it is a pleasant notion . . .” He folded his arms. “Tomorrow I will be in Minsk. I don’t need you for that, but I will need you for the Shashka meeting in Russia.” His eyes became cold. “I’m going to kill Razin. And when I’ve finished with him, I’m going to visit the Head of Moscow Station.”
Part II
Chapter Fourteen
The Russian intelligence officer drove his vehicle off the Moscow highway onto a minor road and headed north. Normally the journey to his home would take only thirty minutes, but it was dark and the snow was heavy. He hoped his wife wouldn’t be angry with his delay. Tonight they were hosting a dinner party with friends and were allowing their young children to stay up and eat with them. Nikita and Ivan had been so excited at the prospect and had promised not to fall asleep before the meal.
Soon there were no streetlamps on the road; woods were either side of him. He increased the speed of the car’s windshield wipers and squinted to try to focus through the snow. The car’s heater was noisy and turned up high but barely seemed to be producing any heat. He recalled his wife nagging him to get a new car. She was right; this one was falling to pieces, and he doubted it would last through the winter.
A vehicle came toward him with its headlights on high. The officer swore as its glare nearly blinded him, and he slowed down until the car had passed. The road before him was now empty. He increased his speed, wondering if his wife would be preparing his favorite dish of kholodets. She had her own special recipe that eschewed veal in favor of pork legs and ears and beef tails.
He thought about the last few days. His work had been risky, and he was glad he’d completed his task successfully. Tonight he could relax, and he would uncork a few bottles of Pinot Noir. None of the guests knew what he did for a living, and even though his wife did know, she wasn’t privy to the details. And she certainly didn’t know his big secret. That didn’t matter. He
’d simply tell them all that tonight he was celebrating getting through a tough week of work.
With every mile he drove, his mood lightened. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Picturing the dinner, he smiled. Maybe, when the evening was over and the children were asleep, his wife would make love to him.
Lowering his window a few inches, he moved the cigarette to the gap to tap ash outside of the car. A sudden gust of wind through the gap blew the cigarette out of his fingers and onto his chest. Cursing his stupidity, he looked down, searching for the glow of the cigarette’s embers before it burned a hole in his clothes. He found it in his lap, grabbed it, and looked up.
As he did so a car rammed his vehicle from behind.
The officer lurched forward until the seat belt tightened and forced air out of his lungs. He moaned, heard tires screeching and metal grinding against metal, and felt the steering wheel shuddering in his grip. Lifting his head, he saw headlights in the rear mirror, urgently looked ahead, and realized that his car was being pushed diagonally across the road toward the dense forest. He yanked hard down on the steering wheel; his car went into a spin.
What was happening?
Drunk driver?
The car spun 360 degrees. The officer saw that it was still heading toward the forest, where upon impact it was sure to be squashed. There were no air bags in this heap of crap.
He was just a few feet from the trees.
Barely three seconds away.
No chance of regaining control of his car.
Releasing the seat belt, he pushed open the door and dived onto the road, a moment before he heard the vehicle smash against the large wooden trunks. His elbows and kneecaps screamed in pain. Breathing deeply, he looked to his right. The car that had rammed him was 150 feet away, stationary, its headlights pointing at him. A tall man was walking toward him, only his silhouette visible.
Coming to help?
No, not with a long knife in one hand.
He pushed himself off the ground, wincing as his legs nearly buckled.
Fear and adrenaline.
Limping away from the scene, he moved along the center of the road. His home was only a couple of miles away. That’s all that mattered.
Two miles.
Home.
Lock the doors.
Get his gun.
He tried to run but could barely manage a jog; one of his legs was limping badly. Glancing urgently over his shoulder, he saw that the big man was still walking after him. He looked ahead. All was now in near darkness; snow was falling fast. The forest was on either side of him.
Go in there and hide?
And maybe freeze to death?
Or stay on the road in case help comes?
Just after the man easily caught up and murdered him?
He’d no idea what to do, so he kept moving along the road. His breathing was fast and shallow. Too many cigarettes. Too much rich food and wine. But he kept moving, even though every step sent shots of pain up his legs.
Get home.
Cuddle Nikita and Ivan.
Tell them he loved them.
Stay with them forever.
Don’t die.
The blow to his back sent him flying forward. Lying on the ground, he tried to crawl forward, his fingers digging through the snow.
Something hard smacked onto the nape of his neck and held him still.
A boot.
No adrenaline now.
Only absolute terror.
The boot lifted. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him onto his back. Then two hands grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet. The man’s face was inches from his. There was just enough light to see that he looked calm.
That he was Taras Khmelnytsky.
The officer’s legs kicked out, but it made no difference. Khmelnytsky held him firm, a smile now on his face.
Rapid movement.
Immense pain in his gut.
Of course.
The knife.
No chance now of cuddles with excited children, of consuming kholodets and Pinot Noir, of making love to his wife.
Khmelnytsky wrenched the knife up and dropped the officer.
He lay on the road, his whole body violently shaking. But his mind was still alive.
Khmelnytsky towered over him for a moment.
The officer thought about the secret that had made his week risky and tense. He wondered how his wife would’ve reacted if he’d told her about his work as an MI6 double agent.
He’d never know.
Khmelnytsky knelt down and thrust the knife into Borzaya’s face.
Chapter Fifteen
Will was back in Ukraine, striding through the lobby of Kiev’s Hyatt Regency, his cell phone against his ear. “I’m dining with him at seven tonight at the restaurant here. Will that give them enough time to assemble a team?”
Patrick’s voice sounded hesitant. “It’s going to be tight, but we’ll mark the telegram as urgent.”
Will sat on a corner sofa, away from other guests. “Tell them it’s imperative that they get every word.”
“Still can’t guarantee you won’t be lifted.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Will looked around the lobby. “When you get the transcript back, all I need to know is whether they’ve kept in the reference to the colonel.”
“Understood. I’ll send you an SMS.”
“Not to my Eden phone.”
“No shit.”
The lobby was starting to fill up. Will decided he needed to move.
“If they do lift you, you’re deniable—even if they throw you in prison for a few years.”
Will smiled. “No shit.”
It was early evening. Will was in his hotel room, finishing putting on his suit. Examining himself in a mirror, he was satisfied that he looked the part.
Thomas Eden. British national. Director of the London-based Thomas Eden Limited—a legitimate company but a suspected front for illegal arms procurement and one that had been under scrutiny by MI6 and the CIA.
This morning, the CIA had sent an urgent telegram to Ukraine’s security service, the Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny, stating that Thomas Eden was meeting the defense attaché of the Iranian Embassy in Kiev at seven P.M. in the Hyatt Regency’s restaurant. It requested that the SBU covertly record the conversation between the two men and send the transcript back to Langley; that Eden should not be touched, as to do so would compromise a bigger investigation into his arms deals; and that if the SBU did this the CIA would be very grateful and would supply some new intelligence on U.S.-Russian relations and the likely effect on Europe.
It was a straightforward request and the type that intelligence services often made of each other. It also suggested that the CIA was behaving itself in Ukraine by not trying to do things in the country without the SBU knowing.
But the truth was not straightforward. The telegram was transmitted with the hope that the SBU would send the transcript not only to the CIA but also to the SBU’s closest ally: the SVR.
Will gathered up his new business cards, which he’d collected from the Hotel Otrada the day before, after completing and couriering all Thomas Eden Limited documentation to his London accountant. It was time to go. He left his hotel room and took an elevator to the restaurant. As he descended, he began to get his mind into character.
Be gregarious, affable, money-driven, and occasionally crude, have an eye for anything in a skirt and no allegiances, and hate lawmakers. Be nothing like Will Cochrane.
The elevator doors opened; he walked into the restaurant. The 155-seat venue was three-quarters full. After giving his name to a waiter, he was shown to his table. The stocky, middle-aged Iranian DA was already there, dressed in a suit and sporting a mustache and lacquered black hair. He rose to shake Thomas Eden’s hand.
Will grinned and said in a loud voice, “Mr. Mousavi, good to meet you.”
The DA did not smile; instead, he looked cautious. �
��We could have met at the embassy.”
Will smiled wider as he sat down at the table. “Embassies are terribly dull places”—he grabbed a wine menu—“and they don’t normally have a good wine cellar.”
“Maybe I don’t drink.”
“If that’s the case, maybe you’re in the wrong job.”
Mousavi’s expression softened, though he still did not smile. Sitting down, he opened his white cloth napkin and placed it carefully over his lap. “Officially, I’m not supposed to meet strangers outside of the embassy.”
Will leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye. “But unofficially”—he glanced around before looking back at the DA—“these types of places are where the real work is done.” He whipped open his napkin and positioned it. “I’m so sorry, you need a business card.”
He gave him one, certain that the two couples at the table next to him were the SBU surveillance team and could easily overhear his conversation.
Mousavi looked at the card for a while before stating, “Canary Wharf is a prestigious address.”
Will shrugged. “I chose it because it gives me a good view of female bankers strutting to work in their tight office skirts.”
Mousavi smiled. “Business must be good.”
“Damn good.” Will beckoned a waitress. “So good that demand is outweighing supply.”
The waitress came over.
Will beamed at her. She was in her midtwenties and had short blond hair and no rings on her fingers.
In Russian, he asked, “What do you recommend to eat?”
She smiled, looked a little coy. “I’ve only just started working here and don’t really know the menu. Let me get someone else to serve you.”
Will wagged a finger. “That would ruin our evening. You’re the prettiest woman in here.”
She giggled. “Well, I’ve heard the steaks are good.”
Will glanced at Mousavi, who nodded and said, “Make mine well done.”
“And mine rare.” Will hated rare steaks but thought that’s how Thomas would like them. He opened the wine list, winked at the DA, and said while pointing at the list, “We’ll have this bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”