Lord of the Swallows

by Gérard de Villiers

  The red light over his door came on; he had a visitor. Tolkachev stood up and went to the door. Without a word, a man in a gray suit handed him an envelope, saluted, and left. Tolkachev waited until he was seated at his desk to open it.

  The envelope contained the note he had sent two hours earlier. Handwritten in the margin was a single word, Da, followed by Vladimir Putin’s familiar signature.

  Tolkachev just had been given a green light to kidnap the CIA agent and make him reveal why he had taken an interest in the Khrenkovs.

  Only when that was done would Tolkachev consider his next step.

  Chapter 14

  “There’s a covered arcade that runs between Jermyn Street and Piccadilly,” said Zhanna. “One of the shops sells small stone carvings. I’ll be there around noon, but I won’t have much time.”

  She hung up without waiting for Malko’s reply.

  He had called Zhanna on Irving Boyd’s instructions, though he was reluctant to approach her again so soon. He was still at Grosvenor Square, so at least he could walk to the meeting. And it wasn’t raining, thank God.

  As he headed down Piccadilly he silently prayed that she would deliver the goods.

  He reached the arcade at five past twelve, and spotted a store with carved animals in the window. Inside he could see Zhanna chatting with a mustachioed sales clerk who was holding a beautiful onyx rhinoceros. She glanced at Malko briefly, then resumed her conversation with the clerk. Malko moved to the next window, waiting for her to come out of the shop.

  Five minutes later, Zhanna emerged carrying a large package. She was wearing sunglasses, which he’d never seen on her before.

  “Do you have time for a drink?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t,” she said flatly. “I suppose you’ve come for my answer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If you hadn’t phoned, I would’ve called to tell you to stop bothering me. Forget this whole business. I made up the whole story.”

  “All of it?” he asked in disbelief. “Even the existence of Lynn Marsh?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” she said, dismissing the young dentist. “Don’t try to make trouble for me and my husband. If the police question me, I’ll tell them I invented it whole cloth.”

  With a crisp “Dasvidanya,” she turned on her heels and walked toward Jermyn Street, leaving Malko slack-jawed.

  Irving Boyd’s dream of a spy swap was going up in smoke.

  Malko walked to Piccadilly and hailed a taxi across from Le Meridien.

  “Grosvenor Square, please,” he told the cabbie.

  No point in making Richard Spicer wait to hear the good news.

  —

  Zhanna Khrenkov felt wonderful. She’d had a long conversation with Alexei that morning. He told her he had broken up with the Marsh woman and swore he would never see her again. He even suggested that the two of them take a trip to the Seychelles together.

  It would be like a second honeymoon.

  If she hadn’t heard Lynn Marsh’s messages on his phone, she might not have believed him. But they fit perfectly with what he had told her.

  Besides the joy she felt at getting rid of her hated rival, Zhanna was relieved not to have to betray the lastochkas network to the Americans. She had chosen to ignore the risk she would face at their Kremlin masters’ hands, but deep down she knew that she would have exposed herself and her husband to tremendous danger.

  All’s well that ends well, she thought. Rem Tolkachev would never know about her machinations, and she and Alexei could get on with their life of carefree luxury.

  —

  The CIA station chief was in shock.

  “What do you think is behind her turnaround?”

  Malko shrugged.

  “There could be lots of reasons,” he said. “Maybe Alexei found out about his wife’s plans and convinced her they would lead to disaster. Or Lynn Marsh decided to break it off on her own, for some reason. It could be anything. But in any case, there’s nothing left for me but to fly back to Austria.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to give Irving the news in person,” said Spicer. “He’ll be here at five o’clock.”

  —

  The CIA counterintelligence chief couldn’t hide his dismay.

  “This is a real kick in the teeth!” he said. “Langley’s going to be disappointed. And our Russian friends will go on rotting in prison.”

  “I did everything I could,” said Malko. “As I said, Zhanna Khrenkov is a tough nut to crack. I won’t be able to change her mind.”

  “Do you think she really made it all up?”

  “Certainly not,” he said. “But there is one thing you can do: give the Khrenkovs’ names to the FBI. They might get something on them.”

  Boyd sighed.

  “The damned FBI never finds anything, unless it’s part of some scheme they cooked up themselves. I’ll tell the Bureau about the Khrenkovs, of course, but they’re sure to keep their noses clean now. We can’t even deport Zhanna; she’s American.”

  “I’m really sorry, Irving,” said Malko. “But we sometimes strike out in this business, as you well know. Maybe it was too good to be true.”

  Malko felt bitter too. He’d wound up believing the beautiful story about an exchange of spies. And thinking of the agents locked away in prisons or labor camps for years on end made him heartsick.

  “Okay,” said Boyd with a sigh. “I’m going to the airport.”

  “Mind dropping me off at the Lanesborough?” asked Malko.

  Feeling depressed, all he wanted now was to get out of London. He decided to cancel his dinner date with Gwyneth and stay at the hotel until his flight to Vienna.

  —

  It was nearly midnight, but the Lanesborough was still hopping, what with people returning from the theater and others drinking in the bar. A gorgeous black call girl headed for the elevators with a bearded man who barely reached to her shoulder. The desk clerk modestly averted his gaze, taking a sudden interest in the room register.

  At the Lanesborough, the customer was king.

  Nor did the clerk pay much attention when he saw two men come out of the bar a few minutes later and walk to the elevators. One of them had a large attaché case; the other, a black leather bag of the kind that doctors carry.

  —

  Having downed half a dozen shots of vodka, Malko collapsed full length on his bed. He hated failure, and even though it wasn’t his fault, he would be going back to Austria with a bitter taste in his mouth.

  —

  The two men that the front desk clerk had vaguely noticed stopped in front of Room 227. The hallway led to only four rooms and ended in a cul-de-sac. It was deserted.

  One of the men went to stand at the end of the hall, watching the elevators. The other set his attaché case down on the thick carpet. Opening it revealed a metal tank that took up almost all the space. Attached to it was a rubber tube that ended in a black suction cup.

  The man took the tube from the case and firmly stuck the suction cup over the door’s key slot. Then he turned a valve on the tank. A slight hiss was heard, and the tube stiffened under the pressure of a gas. The man checked his watch. He needed two minutes; not a lot, but a very long time under the circumstances. If someone showed up, he would have to start over again.

  Luckily, no one appeared.

  When the two minutes were up, he peeled off the suction cup, coiled the tube, and closed the case. He headed to the elevator without a word for his partner, who simply nodded.

  After the man with the attaché case went downstairs, his partner waited five minutes, then took a magnetic card and slid it into the door lock. It took a few tries, but a green light eventually blinked on and the lock clicked open.

  The hardest part was over.

  He opened the door partway and switched on the lights. Seeing a man asleep on the bed, he quickly threw open the window, then went back out to the hallway, leaving the door ajar. He dialed a number on his
cell, spoke a few words, and returned to his position at the end of the hallway.

  —

  Because Malko had canceled their date, Gwyneth agreed to have dinner with her think-tank colleagues. The evening turned out to be deadly dull, and long.

  She finally got free a little past midnight and thought of giving Malko a call. They could have a drink at the Library, or do something more if the mood was right.

  Gwyneth got his voice mail almost immediately. A bit surprised that he’d already gone to sleep, she left him a short message.

  —

  The black ambulance with the blue light bar pulled up in front of the Lanesborough. Two burly paramedics in white coats walked around to the back and rolled out a gurney. A third man, wearing a cap, remained behind the wheel.

  To the bowler-hatted doorman who gave them an inquiring look, one of the paramedics said:

  “One of your guests is sick, apparently.”

  “You can go see the front desk.”

  The two EMTs crossed the lobby and spoke to the clerk.

  “We just got a call for Room 227. One of your guests has fallen ill. A doctor is already up with him.”

  This was news to the desk clerk, but he didn’t take it amiss. The guest very likely called the doctor himself. As the two men headed for the elevator, the clerk turned his attention to an Italian couple who were insisting that they had a reservation.

  —

  When the two paramedics reached the hallway to Room 227, the man who had picked the door lock stepped aside to let them in. Pulling the gurney next to the bed, they deftly rolled the sleeping man onto it. In moments, they had him secured and covered with a blanket, held down with leather straps to keep him from falling.

  Meanwhile, the third man closed the window, made sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, and picked up his black bag. Then he went out, closed the door, and hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob.

  When the two men rolled their gurney across the lobby past the front desk, the man carrying the black bag gave the clerk a polite nod. With his case and serious expression, he looked very much like a doctor.

  The two nurses rolled the gurney into the back of the ambulance and climbed in along with the “doctor.” The ambulance slowly headed out toward Grosvenor Place.

  —

  Gwyneth Robertson hadn’t slept well. She looked at her clock: it was nine thirty. She called Malko again, surprised that he hadn’t called back. It went directly to voice mail. She then tried his room at the Lanesborough but got the hotel answering service.

  That’s strange, she thought. Malko was usually very good about returning calls.

  Gwyneth called the front desk and asked to speak to him. This time she had a little more success.

  “I think Mr. Linge got sick last night,” said the desk clerk, who sounded busy. “The night clerk said that an ambulance came for him.”

  “An ambulance? Where did they take him?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am, I wasn’t on duty. Would you like me to find out?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Now worried, Gwyneth quickly got dressed and ran out to her Mini. By the time she pulled up at the Lanesborough, her pulse was racing. Without stopping at the front desk, she hurried up to the second floor. Everything looked normal, but she spotted the “Do Not Disturb” sign on Room 227. Back downstairs, she demanded that someone accompany her up to the room. With ill grace, the desk clerk agreed.

  At the door to the room, Gwyneth pointed at the sign:

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? If Mr. Linge was taken to a hospital, who could have hung out the sign? Open the door, please.”

  Now thoroughly cowed, the clerk did so.

  The room was empty, and the bed unmade. Gwyneth immediately noticed a strange smell in the air. Now feeling deeply concerned, she took out her cell and called Richard Spicer.

  The station chief was delighted to hear her voice.

  “Gwyneth, what a pleasant surprise!”

  “I’m not sure the surprise is a good one,” said the former case officer. “When did you last talk to Malko?”

  “Yesterday, early evening. A friend dropped him off at the Lanesborough. Why?”

  “Was he feeling all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “In that case you better get over here to the hotel. I think Malko may have been kidnapped.”

  Chapter 15

  Malko had to strain to breathe through his nose, but he didn’t have any choice: thick tape was plastered across his mouth, right up to his ears. He’d regained consciousness some time earlier to find himself in complete darkness, strapped to a bed. He was wearing only his underpants, as he had been when he’d gone to sleep.

  There was no way to know what had happened. He had a sour taste in his mouth and a dull, persistent headache. He felt slightly nauseated.

  Though it seemed incredible, he’d obviously been drugged and kidnapped from his room at the Lanesborough. How had they gotten him out of the hotel? He couldn’t remember anything about it.

  Gradually, his brain began to work again. Why this strange kidnapping, and what did the kidnappers want from him? It had to be connected to the Khrenkov affair, but the timing made no sense, since he’d just abandoned his mission.

  Foreign intelligence services seem to be treating London like their own private war zone, he reflected.

  Malko tried to move, but without success: his bonds were so tight, he could barely raise his hips, which didn’t do much good.

  His eyes were also taped shut, and he had no idea where he was, or any notion of how long he’d been held prisoner.

  Just then, he heard the sound of a door being unlocked. From the muffled noises, he gathered that one or more people had entered the room. Almost immediately, the straps securing his left arm to the bed railing were loosened. He felt a chill on the inside of his elbow, which was being swabbed with damp cotton. A vaguely medicinal smell reached his nostrils, and he felt a slight stab of pain. He was being given an intravenous injection, and he could feel something flowing into his vein.

  What were they giving him? Fighting a rising sense of panic, he told himself that if they’d wanted to poison him, they could’ve done it in his room at the Lanesborough.

  The injection seemed to go on and on. Gradually Malko’s head began to feel heavy, and he had trouble thinking clearly. When they finally pulled the needle out, he barely felt it.

  They carefully strapped his arm back to the railing. Now semiconscious, Malko realized he was alone again. But he was floating in a kind of pleasant haze that eased his anxiety. He felt almost good and lost consciousness without realizing it.

  —

  The Lanesborough general manager felt so mortified, he wanted the polished floor beneath his feet to open up and swallow him. Never in his wildest dreams would he have expected to find himself interrogated like a criminal by a senior MI5 official.

  Yet Sir William Wolseley showed him only the most exquisite politeness. He was just curious to know, he said, how unknown people could have drugged and kidnapped a Lanesborough guest without anyone noticing.

  “Of course I questioned everybody on duty last night,” the manager said. “The front desk saw two paramedics and a doctor leave with a guest who had fallen ill.”

  “And nobody thought to talk to them?”

  “No, they didn’t,” said the manager unhappily. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. I assure you that—”

  “Very well,” said the MI5 official, cutting him off.

  Wolseley understood there was nothing more to be learned here. It was a classic case of negligence.

  To Richard Spicer, who had followed the conversation in silence, he said:

  “Let’s go upstairs to see how the examination of the room is getting on.”

  The Lanesborough was crawling with MI5 and Special Branch agents. After Gwyneth Robertson sounded the alarm, they descended on the hotel, calling in every staffer on night duty for questi
oning, and examining the concierge and front-desk guest registers.

  So far, in vain.

  Assisted by a police forensic specialist, a Special Branch team was going through Malko’s room with a fine-tooth comb.

  The officer in charge came over to Wolseley.

  “We think we know how the kidnappers did it, Sir William. A powerful soporific gas was pumped in through the keyhole of the door. We’ve collected traces of it, and we’ll analyze them, but I wouldn’t expect any big surprises. They opened the door with a magnetic passkey. The person in the room was unconscious by then, and a second team carried him out, disguised as paramedics.”

  “What about their vehicle?” asked Spicer.

  “A black ambulance with a blue light bar. No logo or lettering. And nobody thought to write down the license number, of course.”

  An appalled hush fell over the group.

  With so little to go on, they weren’t likely to find the kidnappers any time soon.

  Wolseley turned to Spicer.

  “Let’s all meet at Thames House, Richard, and see where we stand.”

  The CIA station chief hadn’t yet alerted Washington, partly because he didn’t have any specifics, partly because of the time difference. But he couldn’t put it off any longer.

  —

  The man conducting the interrogation watched his subject’s eyes carefully. Though his blindfold had been removed, Malko had the bizarre sensation of being two people at once, as if he could observe himself.

  Electrodes had been stuck to various parts of his body and temples and connected to a machine that looked like a lie detector. The person asking the questions studied the erratically moving needles on three dials.

  It was all being recorded, of course.

  To remove a possible psychological barrier, the man was interrogating Malko in German.

  In a slow, patient voice, he asked:

  “Also, fing alles in Monte-Carlo an, nicht wahr?”

  “Jawohl,” said Malko, in a strangely dull tone. “It all started in Monte Carlo.”