by Tom West
When they pulled up, they could see the lavish foyer with its marble columns and rich red carpet. It was lit up like a Christmas grotto. Fleming paid the driver and caught up with Lou and Kate in the lobby. ‘Just need to do something,’ he said and they followed him to a vast mid-nineteenth-century teak and gilt reception desk. Three pretty, black-haired women in identical tight blue two-piece suits sat behind the counter each tapping busily at Apple computers.
‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Good evening . . .’ Fleming glanced at the receptionist’s name badge ‘. . . Natalia. I would like to change rooms . . . immediately.’
Natalia looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ambrose, sir. Is there something wrong with . . .’ she tapped her keyboard as she spoke ‘. . . your room? 545?’
‘Yes, I specifically booked a room with a view over Red Square. I was too busy earlier to mention it, but I was most disappointed with the room you have given me.’
‘I see.’ She was scanning the monitor as she typed. ‘I can find no mention of . . .’ She reread a few lines of the booking. ‘Your secretary Ms Smith made the booking from London.’
‘Correct, and she assured me she had booked a room with the appropriate view.’
Natalia fell silent for a moment and concentrated on the mouse, the keyboard and the screen.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ambrose, but . . .’
‘I’m sorry too . . . Natalia. I have stayed here quite a few times and my company places all our executives here when we have business in Moscow. I’m sure the other board members at Ambrose and Finch will be irritated by this slip-up. It is such an annoyance having to change regular venues for our visits and conferences in Moscow.’
Natalia was staring back at the screen and shuffling a little in her seat. Kate looked at Lou and raised her eyebrows.
‘Ah, yes, hang on a second, sir.’ The receptionist tapped earnestly, eyes scanning the lines of writing on her screen. ‘We . . .’ tap, tap ‘. . . do have . . .’ tap, tap, tap ‘one room . . .’ tap ‘. . . with a very nice . . .’ tap, tap ‘view directly over the square. Yes . . . 907, a junior suite. We can do this for . . .’
‘The same price as my existing booking.’
Natalia looked up from the computer, searched Fleming’s face for a moment. ‘A minute, please, Mr Ambrose.’
The receptionist picked up a cordless phone, keyed in three digits and started to speak in very fast Russian. ‘Da . . . Da,’ she answered, nodding. She clicked off the phone, gave Fleming a broad smile and flicked a friendly glance at Lou and Kate. ‘That will not be a problem, sir.’ She tapped some more keys on her computer, withdrew a plastic card from a drawer and slipped it into a narrow slot in a metal box to one side of the computer. The machine beeped and spat out the plastic. She handed the card to Fleming. ‘Do you need some time to repack, Mr Ambrose?’
‘No, I have just one small bag.’
‘Very good.’ She nodded to a porter standing stiffly just beyond the end of the counter. He approached, stopping a respectful distance from Fleming’s right. Natalia gave him instructions in Russian and he waved Fleming, Lou and Kate towards the lifts.
‘Thank you for your help, Natalia,’ Fleming said.
*
‘You didn’t say you were unhappy with your room,’ Kate said as she and Lou found armchairs to settle into and the door closed behind the porter. Room 907 was twice the size of 545 and came with a sitting room. The view through the massive bay windows was like something from Google Images, a perfect snapshot of the Kremlin and St Basil’s Cathedral.
‘I wasn’t,’ Fleming said, withdrawing a small device the size of an iPhone from his pocket. He paced around holding the contraption at arm’s length, thrusting it into each corner, under the chairs, around a fruit bowl, the minibar and the TV. ‘I wanted to be sure we had a fresh room for our chat with Zero.’
‘Bugs?’
‘Precisely.’ He checked the device in his hand. Satisfied, he tucked it back into the pocket of his overcoat.
Kate and Lou watched as Fleming unpacked a small suitcase, removing a laptop and two small, anonymous metal boxes. He placed them on a table close to the kingsize bed dominating the room, wired them up and powered them, using a plugboard and an adaptor. He then ordered two pots of coffee from room service and they walked through to the sitting room adjoining the bedroom.
A waiter arrived with the coffee and placed it on an ornate marble and gilt table, arranged delicate china cups and saucers and was just exiting when Zero arrived at the door to room 907. He was wearing a calf-length fur coat and matching ushanka hat, the ear flaps dangling down, the whole ensemble drowning his face and body. As he removed the hat and coat to reveal a suit and tie, he looked like an astronaut slipping out of his EVA suit.
Fleming checked his watch. It was 1.16 a.m. ‘Very punctual,’ he remarked and led the man through the bedroom to the living area, where Zero shook hands with Lou and Kate before lowering himself into one of the four chairs around the table. Kate poured the coffee and handed Zero a cup and saucer.
He thanked her and took a sip. ‘That is very good.’
‘So, what do you have for us?’ Fleming asked.
Zero slipped a hand into an inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew an envelope. He opened it, removed a single piece of paper from inside and handed it to Fleming, who scanned the contents and passed it on to Lou.
‘What exactly do we have here?’ Lou asked and offered the piece of paper to Kate.
‘A photocopy, naturally. The original document is four pages in length,’ Zero began. ‘The paper is damaged in places and very fragile, but it is all legible. It is kept in a temperature-regulated chamber built specially to house and protect it. This is a copy of page one. Only a single copy of the original was ever made, some ten years ago.’
‘And how did Sergei acquire the document?’ Kate asked.
‘I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information, Dr Wetherall.’
Adam Fleming was studying the man silently.
‘How long has it been in your boss’s possession?’ Lou said.
‘Again, I cannot say. I’m sorry, Dr Bates, Dr Wetherall.’ Zero turned to Fleming. ‘I cannot answer any other questions concerning the Kessler Document. Now, Mr Fleming, you said you would need to have the authenticity of this verified?’ He nodded towards the piece of paper.
‘Yes.’ Fleming stood up and walked around to Kate’s chair. She handed him the photocopy. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. London is expecting me. Please help yourself to more coffee, Mr Zero.’ He turned and left the room, closing the interconnecting door to the bedroom.
The lock had barely clicked into place when the door flew inwards, smashed against the wall and started to swing back. Fleming was standing in the doorway assuming the Weaver stance, gripping in both hands a Glock 17 with a silencer, the barrel pointed directly at Zero’s head.
‘What the fuck!’ Lou was out of his chair.
Fleming did not waver an inch. ‘Sit down, Lou,’ he said calmly.
Zero raised his hands, staring straight into the MI6 agent’s eyes. ‘Bad news from London?’
‘Who are you?’ Fleming snapped.
‘My name is Zero. I work for Serg—’
‘Nonsense.’ Fleming took a step forward.
‘What is this all about, Adam?’ Kate said, her eyes darting from Fleming to the Russian. ‘Can someone please explain?’
‘Katie, this man is a fraud. I was able to take his photograph in the storeroom. I sent this to London with my phone as we were driving back here in the cab. Zero is actually Arseny Valentin, an FSB agent, or should I say a former FSB agent. He did not show up for work at the Lubyanka Square HQ on Monday. An alert was put out yesterday. You’re a wanted man, Arseny.’
‘It is nice to be desired.’
‘So what about the document?’ Lou exclaimed. ‘Is it fake?’
‘Indeed. I imagine it goes something like this: Mr Valentin here somehow learns MI6 is
following a lead to Sergei; he sees an opportunity and grabs it with both hands; he cobbles together a plausible story and a document and tries to pass it off as the real deal.’
Valentin lowered his hands and clapped slowly, softly. ‘Excellent work, Mr Fleming. So, what now? You will kill me and dump my body in the Moskva?’
‘That is one option.’
‘Adam!’ Kate stood up. Lou took her hand and guided her back down to her seat, shaking his head in warning.
‘Not a wise one though, I fear,’ Valentin said.
‘You sound remarkably confident for a man with a pistol pointed at his head.’
‘Do you really think I would embark on an adventure such as this without insurance?’
Fleming took a deep breath.
‘I have placed a note with a trusted friend,’ Valentin went on. ‘If I mysteriously vanish she will post the letter to my superiors in Lubyanka Square. It contains everything I know about the Kessler Document and about you.’ He turned from Fleming to glance at Lou and Kate.
‘But that could all be a bluff of course,’ Fleming said.
Valentin shrugged. ‘Poker happens to be my favourite game.’
‘Not convinced,’ Fleming said icily and his finger whitened on the trigger.
‘No, Adam!’ Kate screamed.
Valentin seized the moment, surged forward and grabbed Fleming’s wrist. The gun went off almost noiselessly, the bullet smashing a light fitting and ricocheting into the plasterwork beside a Louis XIV-style mirror above a grand stone fireplace. The FSB agent was lean and very fast. Fleming lost his balance, stumbled back against the door and fell to the carpet. Valentin kicked him savagely in the head and rushed through the doorway into the bedroom.
Kate ran to help Adam to his feet.
Fleming scrambled for the gun, snatched it up. ‘I’m fine,’ he snapped and pelted after the Russian.
The door out to the hall was slamming shut. Fleming crossed the room in a second and was out in the hallway. Valentin disappeared around a bend in the corridor. The MI6 man ran after him. An empty stretch of carpeted corridor fell away left and right. At the end of the passage to the left there was an emergency exit. Fleming raced towards it, through the door, and into a concrete stairway. He stopped, holding his breath to hear any sign of Valentin. Nothing. He took the stairs three at a time, reached the sixth floor and stopped again, panting for breath. ‘Fuck!’ he spat.
28
‘What the hell just happened?’ Kate said. She looked drained as she pressed an ice pack improvised from a face towel and a handful of ice from the minibar against Adam’s left temple. A large bruise was spreading down his jaw.
‘We’re after a very desirable item. We aren’t going to be the only ones interested in it.’
‘But how did you know Valentin was faking?’ Lou said. ‘Sure, he was FSB, if London said he was, but maybe he had acquired the real document.’
‘I wasn’t sure until he arrived here and gave us the photocopy.’
Lou handed Fleming a cup of coffee. ‘Explain.’
‘The Einstein film I showed you back at Norfolk had actually been manipulated.’ He smiled faintly at Kate and Lou’s surprise. ‘Not in any major way,’ he added. ‘It is indeed a real film of the scientist explaining what had happened in 1937, but we cut out a section in which he described briefly what form the document took on its journey from Germany.’ Fleming topped up his cup. ‘We did it deliberately in case the film fell into the wrong hands or its contents leaked, which they clearly have. As soon as Valentin said the photocopy was one page of a four-page document, he gave himself away. The original written by Kessler was etched into a single sheet of tin foil. This was rolled up and placed in a redundant pipe aboard the merchant vessel SS Freedom. There never was a paper original.’
‘That’s very clever,’ Kate said and sat in one of the chairs across the table from Adam. ‘So, what do you think happened to the document? Was it really lost with the ship?’
‘Possibly,’ Fleming began and took a sip of coffee, wincing as he drank. ‘But it’s also possible that the Germans got hold of it. There are only two ways that could have happened. The merchant ship must have been boarded, then either it was taken back to Germany and dismantled piece by piece, or the crew were tortured and eventually gave away the location of the document before they were killed and SS Freedom sunk. We might never know.’
‘The Germans must have had pretty good intelligence to go to all that trouble. They must have been sure the document was on the ship.’
‘Agreed. Presumably, they had acquired some concrete information through their spy network.’
‘And it was also a daring thing to do politically,’ Lou added. ‘Britain and Germany weren’t even at war in 1937.’
‘But war wasn’t far away. Everyone knew that,’ Kate said.
‘Yes. The spy network in Europe was already working overtime on both sides,’ Fleming agreed. ‘We and the Germans wanted to get any possible advantage as early as possible.’
‘Could Kessler have been tortured, or at least threatened?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Fleming said. ‘If that had happened, the Germans would have had a lot of material towards developing their own shield, and there’s no evidence to support that, at least as far as we know.’
‘But the Nazis would only have had Kessler’s contribution anyway. Einstein’s work was at least as important,’ Kate interjected.
‘True.’
‘What did happen to Kessler?’
‘He continued to work in Germany throughout the war and died in 1946. As far as we know, he never left his homeland again; never saw Einstein again. There’s also no record of the two men ever communicating after the failed attempt to get the material Einstein needed for his experiments. The tests in America were called off, the project scrapped.’
Lou yawned. ‘Sorry.’ He looked at his watch. It was almost 2 a.m.
‘So where does this leave us?’ Kate asked. ‘Back at square one?’
‘Not entirely,’ Fleming replied. ‘Zero, or Valentin, was impersonating a Sergei contact. I had no hint from him that he had ever met the man. It is quite possible Sergei or one of his minions will still contact us. I think right now the only thing we can do is get some sleep and hope things fall into place tomorrow.’
29
Lou woke to the sound of the shower running. He sat up in bed and saw a trail of running gear leading into the bathroom; then he glanced at the clock. It read 06.54.
‘Fuck me!’ he said to the empty room and flopped back down with the covers drawn over his head.
Sixty seconds later, the phone rang.
He groaned and reached for the receiver; dropping it, swearing and plucking it up to his ear.
‘Lou? Adam. We have a breakthrough. The two of you get down to reception asap.’
‘But . . .’
Adam had hung up.
Kate was at the door to the bathroom looking decorous in nothing but a flimsy white gold necklace. She gave him a questioning look.
‘Adam. In reception. There’s some news. Wants us downstairs asap apparently.’
‘Better get a move on then.’
Lou jumped from the bed. ‘Not so fast . . .’
Kate laughed and spun back to the bathroom shutting and locking the door.
‘You have to let me in,’ Lou said through the wood. ‘I have to get ready, remember?’
‘Not till I’m dressed.’
Lou turned, leaned back on the door and produced a weary sigh. ‘I’m going to have to do something about that lock.’
*
Adam was in reception looking fresh and rested.
‘Great, let’s go for a walk,’ he said. ‘Wipe away the cobwebs. I have a lot to share.’
‘Fabulous,’ Lou said. ‘But can we at least have breakfast first?’
‘No need.’ Adam lifted a pair of Starbucks cups. ‘Very convenient, just a block away.’
Kate laughed and squ
eezed Lou around the shoulder. ‘Come on, Eeyore.’
*
It was almost frighteningly cold outside, the sort of sub-zero temperatures that make you wonder how you can still keep moving. The sky was a grey-black, the sun some way from rising; the red pinprick of Mars could be seen above the trees lining Teatralny Proezd, the main thoroughfare beyond the revolving doors of the Grigovna Zempska Hotel. They walked at a brisk pace west towards Maly Theatre.
‘I wanted us to walk. It’s the safest way to keep things between just the three of us,’ Fleming said, steam billowing around his mouth in the chill. ‘London got back to me after I filed a report this morning. My team are working around the clock and have what we believe is a genuine contact with Sergei.’
‘They contacted your people?’ Kate asked.
‘A few hours ago. The guy representing Sergei is called Max. No surname. He expressed outrage that Sergei should be misrepresented as he was by Zero and sent through some details about himself, including a head shot. My team have matched the image to one of the background figures standing behind Sergei at the funeral in Rublyovka five years ago – the one and only clear ID of Sergei we’ve had in recent years.’
He handed Kate a photo of the man.
‘Another ugly bastard,’ Lou commented peering at the picture of Max in the half-light – a flabby-faced bald man with large protruding eyes and no eyebrows.
‘Quite so, but hopefully more genuine than our friend Zero.’
They had reached the end of the main road and turned right, heading towards Ploshchad Revolyutsii, the Revolution Square Metro station, its impressive pillared frontage and art-deco friezes standing in sharp relief against the gloom. Straight ahead stood Resurrection Gate, the entrance into Red Square. Sixty seconds later, they were through the gate with the stunning panorama of Red Square spread out before them. The bricked ground was decorated with a patina of frost and snow left behind after a snowplough had, minutes earlier, swept away the worst of the overnight fall. Snow draped the line of bedraggled trees edging the plaza and lay banked up close to the State Department Store GUM, which took up most of the north-eastern side of the square. At the far end, some three hundred yards away, stood the onion domes and tent peaks of St Basil’s.
