Motorbike Men

by Duncan James

  He motioned to his secretary, who bustled across the room.

  “Do you know this man?” he demanded.

  “Indeed I do, Ambassador,” said the man. “It is comrade Makienko. I know him well, and, as a matter of fact, we frequently lunch together at the St. James’ coffee house. I recognise that, also.”

  “That will do, thank you,” said the Ambassador, waving his clerk away angrily. The man was a fool. Fancy agreeing that the photograph had been taken in the very coffee house where Jarvis was murdered.

  “So, Mr. Permanent Secretary,” said Nevsky tetchily to Sir Wilfred Forsyth, “You appear to have a photograph of one of our officials having luncheon. Have I been summoned here just to confirm that?”

  “Up to a point, yes,” said Forsyth. “Your official happens to have been lunching, if that is what he was doing, in the very establishment in which our man was murdered, on the same day and at about the same time.”

  “A pure coincidence,” claimed Nevsky, haughtily. “It can be nothing else.”

  “Perhaps I could ask you to look closer at the photograph, Your Excellency,” invited Forsyth, “since there appears to be little or no evidence that your official was having lunch at all. It is, as I understand it, a self service coffee shop, and your man has nothing on his table apart from a coffee mug. It would not appear that the man went there for lunch at all.”

  “I am not familiar, Sir Wilfred, with the man’s dietary habits.”

  “I put it to you, Ambassador, that your official did not go there yesterday to have lunch, but to meet our man Jarvis.”

  “Rubbish!” exclaimed Nevsky. “I really must protest that you should waste so much of my time on this trivia and wild speculation. I shall regard it as my duty on returning to the Embassy, to write a full and detailed report to my superiors in Moscow, who will no doubt deliver an official and formal protest at your action in summoning me here today.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Nevsky.”

  “If you have a shred of evidence that my man Makienko knew your man at all, I should be pleased to hear it.”

  His secretary shuddered. The Ambassador was getting carried away.

  “Certainly, Ambassador. If it’s evidence you want, look at this.”

  The ambassador’s secretary raised his eyes to the heavens.

  “Here is another photograph,” said Forsyth, reaching in to the envelope. “This shows Makienko leaning over Jarvis, apparently in conversation with him. You will note the date and time printed at the foot of the picture. A little later on that day and in the same place, Jarvis died.”

  Forsyth waited for a reaction, but there was none.

  “Your excellent and efficient secretary has already confirmed that the photographs of Makienko were taken in the St. James’ coffee bar, and that he frequented the place often. No doubt that is why he suggested it as a rendezvous, don’t you think?”

  At the moment, the Ambassador was not thinking at all. This interview was not going at all as he had hoped and planned.

  Nevsky removed his glasses, polished them again, and picked up both pictures.

  “You will also notice, in the second photograph I have handed to you, what appears to be a phial in Makienko’s right hand, near Jarvis’s coffee cup,”

  Nevsky said nothing.

  “And here is another,” said Forsyth, adding to the man’s discomfiture, “which shows your agent – sorry, second secretary in your commercial department - having just replaced the phial in his pocket.”

  Forsyth almost felt sorry for the man across the table, who remained silent, studying the pictures intently through misted spectacles.

  “Finally,” said Sir Wilfred, twisting the knife, “I will show you a photograph of Makienko picking up Jarvis’s briefcase, and then yet another,” he produced it from the envelope with a flourish, “of him leaving the coffee bar with the briefcase. A few moments after that, Jarvis died.”

  Sir Wilfred Forsyth sat back in his chair, as he watched the Ambassador wrestle with the evidence he had been shown. Nevsky mopped his brow, and then, similarly, sat back in his leather armchair with a resigned air. He removed his spectacles once again.

  “What do you expect of me, Wilfred,” he asked with a sigh, casting formality aside.

  “First of all, Yuri,” replied Forsyth, “I hope we can avoid any major diplomatic incident over this matter. Her Majesty’s Government does not wish to see a repeat of the aggravation and tension which followed the murder of Alexander Litvinenko. In that incident, your Government refused, and indeed still refuses for that matter, to extradite the killer. The circumstances here, however, are somewhat different. Litvinenko was a Russian citizen, murdered by another Russian citizen, but on British sovereign territory. In this case, we believe one of your fellow Russians has murdered a British citizen, and we regard that as altogether more serious, as you can imagine.”

  The Ambassador nodded.

  “I am sure my Government would also wish to avoid a major dispute arising out of this case, always assuming, of course, that you are able to prove your allegations in the first place.”

  “I must admit that, apart from the photographs, the evidence we have is so far largely circumstantial. The poison administered to Jarvis was one of the fastest acting there is, based on nicotine, but without access to Makienko’s clothing or the phial he carried, we cannot directly prove that it was he who administered the poison. I have no doubt, however, that given half a chance, a British jury would not hesitate to conclude that Jarvis was murdered by Makienko, and bring in a guilty verdict.”

  “I have to agree with you,” admitted Nevsky. “In spite of what I claimed earlier, I was given a detailed briefing about this incident, and we have also concluded that you would have difficulty in bringing a satisfactory case to court. We were then, of course, unaware of the existence of the photographs that you have shown me.”

  Nevsky sipped his sherry, thoughtfully.

  “May I keep the photographs?”

  “No, sir. You may not.”

  Nevsky nodded.

  “So I ask again, Wilfred, what it is you expect of me.”

  “First of all and perhaps most importantly, I must demand the return of Jarvis’s briefcase and its contents. We have, of course, mounted an urgent and detailed search in an effort to ascertain what papers Jarvis may have passed to you, but they must be returned immediately. I also need your assurance that Makienko will leave this country at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “Would you propose to expel him? That would result inevitably in tit-for-tat expulsions, and who knows where that might end.”

  “If I must expel him, then I shall, but I hope you will see to it that expulsion will not be necessary. I also hope it will not be necessary for us to recall our Ambassador for consultations, with all that implies in the public mind.”

  “So be it,” replied the Russian. “As it happens,” he added, grasping for some sort of face-saving device, “Makienko is about at the end of his tour, and due to leave anyway.”

  Forsyth knew this was not true, but said nothing.

  “If it would help to speed up his repatriation, I can arrange tickets for him and his family on the first British Airways flight to Moscow in the morning. Her Majesty’s Government would be only too happy to meet the cost.”

  “Thank you, Sir Wilfred, but that will not be necessary. Similar arrangements are already in hand. As to the briefcase,” added the Ambassador, recovering his composure, “I fear its return will not be possible. It belonged to us in the first place, and I can assure you that, when it was returned to us at the meeting between Makienko and Jarvis, it contained no papers or copies of papers relating to any business of the British Government.”

  Forsyth smiled. At least Nevsky was telling the truth about the contents of the briefcase.

  “Your Excellency,” he said formally, after a pause for thought, “I accept your assurances about the contents of the briefcase, and that Makienko will be leaving
this country tomorrow on the first available flight to Moscow. For my part, I shall take steps to ensure that there is no public or official comment made on the press speculation about Russian involvement in the Jarvis case, and no doubt, in the absence of any direct evidence at the present time, Scotland Yard will similarly refrain from official comment.”

  Nevsky stood to leave.

  “Thank you Sir Wilfred. I am glad that you and I understand one another.”

  They shook hands.

  “By the way,” said the Ambassador as he reached the door, “as an ex-member of the KGB myself, I must congratulate your people on the technically excellent fake photographs you have shown me. Very convincing!”

  He grinned and left.

  Forsyth immediately emailed a full video recording of the entire meeting to Sir Robin Algar, at the Cabinet Office.

  ***

  The Ambassador was not a happy man. He had learnt nothing from his meeting at the Foreign Office, except that the Permanent Secretary was a very clever and astute public servant, who had got the better of him throughout. For one thing, he, Yuri Nevsky, had missed the chance to probe about Professor Barclay. All his staff at the embassy were quite sure that Barclay had been shot as planned, but there was now an ominous silence from the British about the whole affair, both from official sources and in the media, which he and his colleagues could not understand. Surely, the shooting of an eminent scientist like that would have provoked a good deal of interest, but there was, as yet, simply no confirmation of his death. Barclay certainly seemed to have disappeared suddenly, and that had been officially admitted, but there were only the unsubstantiated rumours circulating that he might have had some sort of nervous breakdown. It would have been a tricky subject for him to raise with Forsyth, but he could have engineered it given time. The fact was, though, that he had been wrong-footed almost from the start.

  Those damned photographs.

  It had been stupid of him, as well, to make that rather cheap remark about them being fakes. He wished he hadn’t said that. Altogether, a bad afternoon. He concluded that, in spite of Putin making it to President, ex-KGB men were not really cut out to be diplomats. Certainly Dmitry Makienko did not even appear to be a good KGB officer. He had been sent to England with the specific responsibility for getting rid of Barclay, but on the present evidence, he should never even have been allowed out of the Russian Federation.

  As Yuri Nevsky got into his car and drove off, he turned to his secretary and fixed his forearm in a vice-like grip.

  “If that incompetent buffoon Makienko is not on the first aeroplane out of here tomorrow morning,” he hissed, “then you will be on the next.”

  The bruises showed for a week.

  ***

  The first flight out of London the following morning was a British Airways departure from Heathrow at 8.40, so Dmitry Makienko did not have a lot of time to get himself ready to leave. At least his special pleading had been partially successful, in that his family had been granted an extra two days before they were required to follow him. Flight BA0872 was always popular, as its arrival at Domodedovo after a seven hour non-stop flight gave businessmen time for a good dinner and a whole day’s work in Moscow the next day. Makienko was booked tourist class, and there was no chance of an up-grade. Neither could he plead diplomatic status, as this had been withdrawn, and he was travelling on his personal passport. So he was treated just like anyone else, except that the Embassy had at least provided him with a car and a driver to get him to Heathrow.

  This was probably just to make sure he actually got on the aircraft.

  Dusty Miller was there for exactly the same reason.

  The only difference was that the driver left the airport after he had seen Makienko check in. Miller, on the other hand, followed him through passport control and the security checks, into the departure lounge. But then Miller had a special pass which allowed him to do so. He also had a small case with him – cabin baggage – so he looked just like any other passenger. Not that Makienko knew what he looked like, anyway, so there was no way he would be recognised or arouse any suspicion.

  Miller was sitting near the Russian in the departure lounge, and noticed that he was wearing the same overcoat that he had on in St. James’ coffee bar. The man left it on his seat, with his hand baggage, to visit the toilets, and Miller generously offered to keep an eye on it for him while he was away. It was too good a chance to miss.

  Miller risked all, picked up the coat, and hurriedly followed Makienko into the gent’s toilets, where he found an empty cubicle. It took him no time at all to cut the right hand pocket out of the coat with his knife, and be back in his seat before the Russian reappeared, still casually wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. The man nodded his thanks to Miller.

  Dusty knew that if there were to be traces of that poison anywhere, they would be in that pocket. Then the authorities would have all the evidence they ever needed to prove that Makienko had killed Jarvis. They already knew the poison that had been used. It was nicotine based, made from soaking tobacco leaves in extreme heat, and then crystallising the resulting tar. It took only a tiny amount to cause death, often in as little as a minute, and coffee was the ideal drink in which to disguise the poison’s strong taste.

  When the flight was called, Miller followed the Russian along the extended footbridge pier to the aircraft door, watched the man board the aircraft, and then waited with the ground staff until the engines started and the aircraft was cleared for ‘push back’. Only then, when he was sure there was no way the Russian could avoid being taken back to Moscow, did he return to the terminal building and report to the Clerkenwell Ops. Room that Makienko was on his way home.

  Later that day, MI6’s Moscow station confirmed that he had arrived. He had been met, and whisked away in a large Zlin with blacked out windows. Moscow station could only guess where he had gone.

  Actually, the people in London were more excited about the coat pocket Miller had brought them, than the whereabouts of the ex-second secretary in the commercial department of the Russian Embassy.

  ***

  Dmitry Makienko was taken from Domodedovo airport direct to the Lubyanka Building in central Moscow, now Headquarters if the FSB, the successor organisation to the KGB. The KGB was too well known for its new title to have gained popular currency yet, and in any case there was still a KGB museum in the building. But the notorious Lubyanka prison was also still there, and for one terrifying moment, Makienko wondered if that was to be his final destination.

  Instead, he was taken to the office of one of the FSB Directors, who asked him for ‘an explanation’.

  There wasn’t one.

  He, Dmitry Makienko, had thought it a good idea to use an Englishman to murder Barclay, so as to remove any shadow of suspicion from the Russian Federation, and then to eliminate the perpetrator after the deed had been done. That had the additional benefit of getting rid of one of Britain’s top spies, as part of the same operation. So far as he knew, the whole operation which he had meticulously planned and executed, had gone exactly to plan.

  The mystery now, though, was why the British authorities had not yet announced the death of one of their most eminent nuclear physicists. It was only this that was now casting some doubt, in certain circles, about Makienko’s professional abilities. He explained to his Director that he had personally been to the block of flats in London used by Jarvis, across the car park from where Barclay lived. With high powered night vision binoculars, the prone body of Professor Barclay was clearly visible on the floor of his apartment. There was no question about the fact that he was dead.

  The fact also was, though, that the British authorities appeared not yet to have discovered the body. That was why there had been no announcement. Makienko had considered tipping off the police, but had decided against it. His target was dead, and that was good enough. The body would be discovered in due course, without doubt.

  As to the so-called photograph
s of his involvement in the subsequent death of Jarvis, these were obviously fakes. His Excellency the Ambassador had said so himself. No British agent could possibly have known that he was to meet Jarvis at that awful coffee bar, and he, Dmitry Makienko, had most definitely seen no evidence at all of anyone acting suspiciously, agent or not, with or without a camera, and of course had been there some time before Jarvis arrived. Naturally, he hadn’t seen the photographs himself, and his colleague the Ambassador had been denied copies, so they were obviously clever forgeries, used by the British to get him out of the country.

  “Perhaps,” suggested the Director, “the British were listening in to your telephone calls, or even to Jarvis’s. As we would have done. Perhaps that’s how they knew where and when you were to meet.”

  Dmitry Makienko shrugged.

  “Perhaps the photographs were not fakes after all, and that you were stupidly caught red-handed.”

  Makienko shrugged again.

  “But the body in Barclay’s flat is real enough,” he said. “I have been there and seen it. And there is no question either that Barclay has disappeared – the British have admitted as much.”

  “How can you be sure it is Barclay in the flat? How did you positively identify the man? Had you ever met him? Had Jarvis?”

  Dmitry Makienko was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I conclude that you have been less than thorough on your handling of this case, comrade Makienko,” said the Director. “You have taken too many risks and left too many loose ends. That is not how you have been trained.”

  The man wondered what was coming next.

  “You have, through your stupidity, caused considerable embarrassment to the Russian Federation, without in the end being able to show us a shred of evidence that your original mission has been successfully completed. I would have every right to throw you into the cells below, don’t you agree?”

  He nodded, fearing the worst.

  “However,” concluded the Director, after a pause, “in view of your previous experience and seniority, and in view of the fact that I can no more prove that you have failed in your mission than you can prove that you have succeeded, I have decided that you should undergo an immediate and intensive period of re-training. This will last a week or so, after which you will be returned to London to collect evidence which will convince us that your clumsy plan did indeed result in the death of Professor Barclay.”