Double Agent

by Tom Bradby

  Kate stared into her glass. ‘Damn,’ she said.

  ‘Is that what you came all this way to hear?’

  ‘I don’t know why I came.’ She looked up at him. His gaze was locked on to her. She dived for safer territory. ‘It was good to see your mother,’ she said.

  ‘She was overjoyed. She always thought I should have proposed to you and gone to live in the West.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your father. He was an incredibly kind man.’

  ‘He could be. Especially to strangers, who might think well of him.’ Sergei’s relationship with his father had always been complicated, a consequence, Sergei had once said, of the old man’s thwarted ambition. But he had been only kind and charming to Kate.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. It had just gone a quarter past eleven. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We’d better board.’ He took the bottle of vodka and the glasses with him.

  Sergei led her out of the station concourse to the platform. The Red Arrow train bound for Moscow was a long, sleek machine in red and grey livery to match its name. Women in red coats with black felt and fur hats stood on the platform waiting to welcome their passengers to first class, and Sergei seemed to know where they were heading. He presented their tickets, climbed aboard and led her down the narrow corridor. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ he said, ‘but I booked us into the same cabin. I figured after all this time we would spend most of the night talking anyway.’

  Kate didn’t risk an answer.

  The first-class cabins were a resplendent rich red, from the bunks to the curtains to the velvet seat backs. Sergei stored his case and Kate her slender gym bag, careful not to bump into each other, and then they sat on opposite bunks. Sergei poured two more glasses of vodka. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now we really begin. Nostrovia.’

  ‘Nostrovia,’ she replied, and they drank again. Her head was starting to spin.

  The train shunted a few times, forwards and back. And then it began to move slowly away from the platform, the urban grime beyond it softened by a thin dusting of fresh snow. ‘I was sorry to hear about Stuart,’ he said.

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yes. I know how important your family is to you.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘In Moscow?’ He shook his head. ‘By all accounts, he cuts a sad figure. The officers of the SVR don’t have a great reputation for looking after their agents and defectors.’

  In the long silence that followed, she held his gaze. ‘Who do you work for, Sergei?’

  ‘You know the answer.’

  ‘But that’s the thing. I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘I work for the Russian government.’

  ‘The GRU?’

  He didn’t reply, but in this case she took his silence to indicate consent.

  ‘Why did you tip me off that Igor, Vasily and the others would be on that yacht in Istanbul?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To help you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because in all this time I have not been able to get you out of my head.’

  ‘My colleagues think you told me what was to happen on that yacht in an attempt to discredit your rivals in the SVR.’

  ‘And you? What do you think?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’ And as she said it, she was aware that she really didn’t. Not honestly. ‘I don’t believe you would cynically mislead me.’

  ‘What else do we have to rely on in life but our instincts?’

  Now Kate was wishing she’d gone a lot slower on the vodka. ‘All the same, that leaves the possibility that you told me the truth, which also happened to be in your interests and those of your organization. There would be nothing dishonourable in that.’ He was looking out of the window, at the snow falling across a ghostly landscape. ‘I need to ask you something else,’ she said. ‘Is it true that Vasily Durov has been deposed as head of the SVR and is under house arrest?’

  ‘He’s not under house arrest. Not yet.’

  ‘But the Kremlin has turned against him?’

  ‘There is a battle. It is not clear who will come out on top.’

  Kate searched those big dark eyes. She was not sure how much longer she could keep up the pretence of professional detachment. ‘We have been offered evidence of our prime minister’s treachery.’

  ‘What kind of “evidence”?’

  ‘The details of how and when payments were made and a copy of the sex video used to entrap him, filmed with underage girls while he was an army officer serving in Kosovo.’

  Sergei nodded, as if entirely unsurprised. ‘Who has offered it? Durov?’

  ‘Igor and his son. They also feel under threat as a result of their alliance with Durov and are convinced the net is closing in on them here. They are prepared to give it to us in return for asylum in the West. So is the video real or fake?’

  ‘I don’t know. But you need to be careful, Kate.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘You think, after all these years, that your husband was the Russian state’s only asset at the heart of British in telligence?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘There are secrets even I do not know. But you took a huge risk coming here. It was brave, but also foolish. What if they have been following you?’ Sergei took another sip of his vodka and came to sit beside her, half twisted on the couchette seat so that his knee was touching her thigh. Then, quietly, ‘If you pursue this, it may cost you more than your career. You must know that. A reason to live for tonight, though, if ever I heard of one.’ He took the glass from her hand and placed it on the table. He reached behind him and flicked the lock on the door.

  He faced her. Kate’s head swam, her heart thumping as it had when she had been a student in that dacha aching for this moment. He touched her hair, her cheek, the white, freckled skin at her neck.

  And then he kissed her.

  The smell of him, the taste and warmth of his lips . . .

  She’d not thought of sex beyond an academic curiosity since she’d learnt of Stuart’s betrayal, but now desire exploded inside her. They moved with the urgency of the condemned, his firm, sure touch on her leg, beneath her skirt, pushing up her thigh until her blue polka-dot dress was rucked up at her waist to reveal long slim legs above blue socks and scuffed sneakers.

  He unclasped the back of her bra with practised skill and kissed her stomach, working steadily downwards. She arched her back, aching for him, and he gently freed her until all she saw was her white underwear wrapped around one leg, before losing herself completely in him.

  It had never been like that before, was all Kate could think as she lay lazily in his arms afterwards. Never with Stuart – not in all honesty – loving and marvellous and fun as that had so often been. And certainly not the first time with Pete Carter, which had been painful and mortifying by turns, or with the young boys who’d followed him episodically before she’d met Stuart.

  It was as if, in some strange way, this secret had been revealed at the time of life when she needed it most.

  She was so lost in her reverie that it was many minutes before her total failure to reach for any kind of contraception struck her. She rolled off the bunk in a hurry, retrieved her underwear and rearranged her dress and bra into crumpled respectability.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I just need the loo.’

  ‘You’re an incurable romantic.’

  ‘Back in a second. Don’t go away.’ She reached the door, glanced back at him. ‘It was worth the wait. That’s all I’ll say.’

  He smiled at her. ‘It was a pleasure to discover you like to make love with your pumps still on.’

  ‘I always knew you were a pervert.’

  Kate skipped down the corridor and didn’t think about the possibility she might be pregnant again until she had been sitting on the toilet for quite some time. What was she trying to do – shake it out?

  She cast her mind back. Her last pe
riod had been . . . Shit, how long ago? Maybe a month. No, two. Perhaps even three. She’d always been irregular at times of stress and it had taken a long time to get pregnant with both Fiona and then Gus.

  She couldn’t be pregnant. She probably wasn’t even still ovulating.

  But what if she was? She couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining the circumstances to the children. What would she say? That she’d had a one-night stand with an old flame on a trip to Russia?

  There was no way she could have an abortion. Ever. Not after the joy both children had brought her. And probably not even before that, either, if she was honest. My God, what had she been thinking? She stared at her underwear on the floor and at her offending blue sneakers. She’d have to get a morning-after pill. From a chemist in Moscow.

  Yes, why not? It made sense. She’d ask Sergei to take her to one. And, anyway, the extra time together might even prove useful: it would give her the chance to tease out of him more information as to what was really going on in Moscow Centre.

  She pulled herself together both physically and metaphorically, washed her hands and walked back down the corridor with the pleasant certainty that, conception or not, this was unlikely to be the last time she had intercourse with Sergei that night.

  ‘You ready for dessert, sir?’ she asked, as she pulled back the door. But the sight that awaited her smashed every last sentiment from her except instinctive, animal panic.

  Sergei lay naked on his back, his lean body covered with blood, his throat sliced from one side across to the other.

  21

  KATE SAT DOWN on the bunk opposite him. The walls were splattered with blood from Sergei’s severed artery, which had been sprayed across a wide arc in his violent death throes. There was blood on the window, even on the vodka bottle, as he had evidently scrambled to get hold of some kind of weapon with which to fight back.

  Who had killed him? Where were they?

  She stood again, yanked the door shut and locked it. She sat down, trying to think straight against the tide of far too much vodka. Her heart thumped like a jackhammer in her chest.

  Where was the killer?

  Gone. He must have been waiting for Kate to leave before attacking. If he’d wanted to kill her, then . . .

  He would have. He’d have murdered them both. Surely. No, definitely. But who was behind it. The GRU? Sergei’s colleagues, infuriated he might spill their secrets? In which case, why not kill her, too?

  The SVR? Its supposedly departing head, Vasily Durov? Igor Borodin and his son Mikhail?

  The Russian Mafia?

  But why not kill her, too? Why wait for her to leave and kill only him?

  Somebody passed outside. Christ, what about the guards? What would they do when they discovered this? She’d be arrested, tried, sent to prison for more than a lifetime . . .

  She had to get out of here. Now. Her DNA was everywhere – all over every inch of him and the carriage. No attempt at a clean-up was likely to do any more than deepen a state of suspicion as to her true intent. She took her bag from the rack, opened the door and looked up and down the corridor. It was dark, save for the night-lights and the moonlight reflected off the snowy landscape beyond.

  She pulled the door firmly shut behind her and walked away down the carriage. She went through the connecting door to the next. It was quiet, but for the rattle and hum of the wheels on the tracks below. At the end of the corridor, she heard two attendants chatting quietly in their galley, but she flitted past them into another carriage. And then another, until she could progress no further. She put her bag down by the door and simply waited.

  She pulled down the window a fraction and lit a cigarette. She smoked it as she looked out at the endless succession of snow-covered pines, fields and houses.

  Kate waited for the consequences of the terrible scene she had witnessed to take their natural turn, but the strangest part of it all was that nothing whatsoever happened. The train did not stop suddenly at a small station in the middle of nowhere. No police stepped on board. No guards came running.

  After an hour, or perhaps two, a guard came to his galley at the far end of the train. He caught sight of her and put his head around the side to ask if she was all right. She shrugged, pretending not to understand the language, and he left her in peace.

  In the dead of night, nothing stirred. She smoked cigarette after cigarette, then closed the window and sat on the floor, resting her head uncomfortably on the wall of the carriage.

  Dawn broke. The train clattered on through the grubby outskirts of the Russian capital and eventually glided to a halt inside Leningradsky station.

  Kate was the first off. She did not look over her shoulder, because they knew where to find her if that was their intention, though she did have the clarity of mind to reflect on how little idea she really had of who ‘they’ were. Tired, distraught, shocked as she might be, nothing made any sense at all.

  She almost ran through the bright concourse to the pedestrian section of Komsomolskaya Square beyond. She stopped by the line of yellow taxis and looked back over her shoulder at the clock tower above the station. It was eight thirty. She glanced about her. If they were watching, she certainly wasn’t in a fit state to pick them out from the huge thronging crowd of early-morning commuters. She briefly considered getting into a taxi or heading straight back to catch a return train to St Petersburg.

  She brought up Google Maps. She needed somewhere to sit, to think. She found Sokolniki Park was only a short distance away and walked there fast, oblivious to the people around her.

  There was an Orthodox church adjacent to the park, so she installed herself in a pew at the back and closed her eyes. The moment she did so, she conjured an image of Sergei’s face, his eyes bulging with the pain and shock of his sudden death. She hadn’t seen any particular sign of a struggle: had it been someone he knew, expected even?

  Who could have killed him? And why?

  She wasn’t on the passenger manifest but they must have watched them get on the train. If so, why had she been spared? Kate tried to pull herself together. She looked around the empty church.

  She walked to the entrance and peered out. Two women in long trench coats leant against an iron fence by the road, as if waiting for her. She retreated again.

  On an instinct that she later spent a great deal of time trying to analyse, Kate decided to call Stuart. He answered on the third ring, as if he had somehow been expecting her call. That was almost enough to prompt her to ring off straight away, but not quite: she was desperate. ‘Hi, love,’ he said, ‘how nice to hear you.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Er, at home. Well, if you can call it that. In my apartment in Moscow.’

  ‘I need your help.’

  There was a momentary pause. ‘Of course. How?’

  ‘I’m in Sokolniki Park. There’s an Orthodox church. I’m sitting at the back of it. Please come and get me.’

  ‘In Moscow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus, Kate, what are you doing here?’ If he had truly expected this call, then his surprise was well faked.

  ‘I just need your help urgently. I don’t know if it will cause trouble for you and, well, I’ll understand if you want to turn me down.’

  ‘Of course I’ll help you. I’ll leave now. Just keep your phone on.’

  Kate went back to the entrance and peered through the doorway. The two women had moved off. She stepped out and looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of either of them.

  It took Stuart almost an hour to reach her and her first thought was again how incredibly well he looked. He was wearing a dark green T-shirt, but the same black jeans and leather jacket as when he had met her in Venice only a few weeks – or was it days? – ago. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The traffic is horrendous at this time of the morning.’

  It was all Kate could do to prevent herself throwing her arms around him. He looked so . . . safe. Just like he always had: her Stuart. F
or a moment, they didn’t know whether to kiss or hug. Kate eventually put him out of his misery by brushing his cheek. ‘Can you take me to your apartment?’ she said. ‘I just need some time . . .’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Please don’t ask any questions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He led her to his car, a battered old white Fiat. A man in a dark North Face raincoat, jeans and trainers stood just beyond it, smoking, as if waiting for something or someone. Her, she assumed.

  They got into the car and pulled out into the morning traffic. Kate glanced in the side mirror. She watched a black BMW 5 Series saloon turn out behind them. ‘Everything all right?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Fine,’ she lied.

  Their progress was slow. The capital’s roads might be filled with many more shiny new cars since her first visit as a student in the early nineties, but they didn’t move any faster. Kate kept a nervous, watchful eye on the side mirror. The BMW dropped back, but never out of sight. She bit her nails.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Stuart asked again.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Fine.’

  Stuart’s apartment was out in Taganka, on the twenty-third floor of a concrete block that looked forbidding against a dark grey Moscow sky. The landing smelt of urine, and the wind had gathered rubbish into its corners. Kate glanced over the railing to see that the BMW had parked outside the block opposite. She averted her gaze before Stuart could remark upon it.

  He let her into a small flat that had all the antiseptic appeal of a serviced apartment. It was clean and newly painted, but spartan and infinitely depressing. There was a small kitchen, with cheap Formica cupboards and a tiny table pressed up against the window, a single bedroom and a small sitting room at the end, with a cream leather sofa and two chairs in front of a large widescreen TV. ‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘I know.’

  Kate felt like bursting into tears, for him, for them, for the mess she was in. But the warmth of his smile stalled her. ‘I can stretch to tea, though,’ he said. ‘English Breakfast or Earl Grey?’