by Matthew Dunn
His name was Luka, an SVR officer stationed in Istanbul whose presence in the city was fully declared to the Turkish intelligence service, Milli I?stihbarat Tes?kilat?. But even though his job required close collaboration with the MIT on issues of mutual Russian-Turkish concerns, that did not stop them from covertly following him everywhere he went.
He’d known Luka for three years, during which time the Russian officer had often passed Will secrets. Luka wasn’t a double agent; he was more complicated than that, and by his own admission he gave Will only information that he believed would foster better relations between West and East. Will knew that most of what Luka told him was lies, but occasionally he would produce a gold-dust truth that served both him and MI6.
Not that Luka knew he was talking to MI6. As far as he was concerned, Will was called Emile Villon and was an officer of France’s Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure.
As the tram pulled away, Will turned to the man next to him.
Luka smiled, then spoke in fluent French. “My friends are in the carriage behind us.”
The MIT surveillance detail.
Will returned his gaze to the front of the tram and responded in the same language. “Problem?”
“I don’t think so. But you never know. They can be… nasty fellows when they want to be.”
The tram followed the Turkish coastline. The evening was picturesque, though Will barely registered his surroundings, instead visualizing the rear carriage, knowing they were out of sight of the MIT team but also knowing they could be reached within seconds. “What’s your view on current Russian-American relations?”
Luka answered with a trace of sarcasm in his voice, “You’ve come all this way to ask me that?”
“No, but I’ll benefit from your opinion.”
“Opinion?”
“Insight.”
Luka was silent for a moment. “Relations are shit.” He placed a hand on the back of the seat in front of him, exposing an expensive Cartier watch. “Read the papers.”
“I have, but they don’t tell me what you know.”
“And you think I will?”
“I think you’d like to.”
The tram stopped at Sirkeci station, alongside the Marmara Sea. Both men were silent as people got onto and off the carriage. Two elderly ladies sat in the seats in front of them.
Luka stared at them before muttering, “Tomorrow morning the U.S. ambassador to Moscow will be summoned to the Kremlin to explain why the United States has pulled out of the economic talks with Russia. No doubt the ambassador will counter that Russia is taking a provocative stance by attempting to aggressively position its oil pricing while at the same trying to obtain a lead role in the WTO.” As the tram pulled away, the noise within the carriage increased, but he kept his voice quiet. “The summons will have achieved nothing other than creating more paranoia, more anger, more distrust, more… shit.”
Will chose his next words carefully, constantly aware that he had to be very careful with Luka. The slightest wrong word would be fed back to the SVR and could cause untold damage. “What would happen if there was an incident in Russia-an act of violence, maybe a bomb or several bombs detonating?”
Luka was silent for ten seconds before asking, “Is that going to happen?”
Will shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. But America’s petrified that a terrorist act could prompt Russia to jump to the wrong conclusions-maybe think it was a U.S. strike.”
“America should be scared of that possibility. Russia’s the twitchiest it’s been in living memory.”
The tram pulled into Cankurtaran. More people got off than on, leaving the carriage a third full. Will desperately wanted to look over his shoulder to see who was behind him. Time was running out; he had to get off at the next stop. “I have a favor to ask.”
Luka laughed quietly. “Today’s agenda seems a little one-sided.”
Will ignored the comment. “I need a name-an arms dealer, preferably someone who specializes in military blueprints. Must be an SVR or FSB asset and currently active.” He added, “Can you do a bit of digging to see if someone pops up with that profile?”
“I don’t need to. I already have a name.”
Will waited.
But Luka said, “Why should I give you that information? You’ve given me nothing today.”
“What do you want?”
Luka placed a hand on Will’s forearm. When he spoke, it was as if he was thinking aloud. “It would be interesting to know the French government’s stance if tensions between my country and America were to increase.”
Will’s mind raced. He had absolutely no idea what the answer was. But Luka would expect Emile Villon of the DGSE to know. “You need this answer by-?”
“The same time you need the identity of the SVR asset.”
Shit.
The tram was slowing. Yenikap? station was in view.
If Will gave him an answer, his information would almost certainly influence Russia’s view of France. But he had to say something. “France is openly a staunch ally of America, though privately it’s neutral.”
“If a situation arose, France wouldn’t stand in our way?”
Will hesitated. “No.”
Luka nodded slowly. “And the rest of Europe?”
“That information’s above my pay grade.”
“I doubt that.” Luka removed his hand.
The tram stopped.
People started to get off.
Will remained motionless. His heart raced. “Please. It’s all I can give you.”
Luka sighed. “Otto von Schiller. German. Lives in Berlin.”
“How can I get to him?”
“That’s all I can give you.”
Will stood to leave but stopped as Luka raised a finger.
“Some of our generals would love those bombs to go off. It would give them the opportunity they’ve been waiting for.”
Chapter Eleven
The following afternoon, Will was in an executive suite within Prague’s Kempinski Hotel Hybernska, having arrived in the Czech Republic three hours before. Outside, snow was falling fast over heavy traffic and throngs of pedestrian shoppers, but inside the luxurious room it was warm and silent. Sitting at an ornate desk, he arranged some pens and papers before him and logged on to the room’s computer. He felt exhausted, but his mind was completely alert and he smiled as he thought through every move of the chess game that he was about to commence.
After thirty minutes of browsing company websites, he found one that suited his purpose-a large, well-known, London-based accounting firm. Looking at the profiles of the firm’s partners, he decided on one of them, noted the man’s contact details, and called him. Introducing himself as Thomas Eden, Will explained that he needed the firm to act on his behalf to secure an off-the-shelf limited company from Companies House, preferably one that had at least ten years of audited accounts and a background in consultancy. That, he was advised, could be obtained in under four hours. He told the partner that he was to be listed as the sole director of the company, that it needed to be renamed Thomas Eden Limited, and that the company’s function would be producing military research and analysis to defense contractors and specialist military journals. The partner asked some questions.
Company bank account?
Already set up in London with HSBC in the name of Thomas Eden, with a current balance of approximately?90,000.
Address?
He gave him details of a private residence in Barnes, London, omitting that it was an operational cover premise and run by a young woman who would collect his mail and forward it on to a post office box run by MI6.
Contact details?
A BlackBerry cell number and e-mail address were supplied. He added that he was traveling on business at present in Europe and would not be back in London for several weeks. Could all documentation requiring signatures be couriered to the Hotel Otrada in Ukraine?
Of course. They can be there to
morrow, and subject to our receiving them a day later, the company’s memorandum and articles of association and certificate of incorporation can be drawn up the same day.
The partner explained that he’d need a?1,000 down payment to be formally engaged and gave Will the firm’s bank details. The man sounded delighted that he’d secured a new client and concluded that he was sure this was the start of a long business relationship.
Will ended the call and got back onto the Net to find another website. Thirty minutes later, he’d spoken to a manager at Servcorp, a company specializing in providing office space and other facilities, including telephone receptionists and individual phone lines with divert-to-cell capabilities. After agreeing on a monthly price for the deal and promising to send copies of the company documentation once it came through in the next few days, Will gave the woman his bank details. Thomas Eden Limited now had an address in Canary Wharf, London, and would seem legitimate to anyone who checked up on the company.
He made a final call to the Hotel Otrada, advised the receptionist that he’d be back at the hotel the next evening, and asked if there was anyone he could speak to about getting some business cards made. After being transferred to the concierge, he was told that it would come with a charge but was no problem. Will gave the man the company name, the Canary Wharf address, and all the contact details. Design? Will didn’t care. Maybe plain white card with blue lettering and numbers.
Pouring himself a mug of black coffee, he turned off the computer and stretched his aching back muscles. He swiveled his chair to face the sumptuous bedroom. Five-star hotel rooms. He’d stayed in thousands of them but hated them all because they reminded him of his transitory existence and dislocation from a normal life.
He lay down on the double bed. In two hours, he needed to leave. Maybe that would give him enough time to get the rest he needed, though he didn’t know if he could sleep. He moved his arm to the empty side of the bed, smoothed his hand over the quilt, and let it rest there.
P etrin Gardens was one of Prague’s largest parks and usually very popular, but now it seemed almost empty of people. It was dusk, a thin layer of snow carpeted the park’s ground and trees, and the temperature was well below zero. Will walked through the place, using his BlackBerry sat nav, until he found the lamppost. He checked his watch. Twenty-three minutes ahead of schedule. Looking ahead along the tree-lined footpath, he saw that it curved out of view approximately two hundred feet away. Checking his watch again, he waited for the second hand to reach 12 before beginning to walk at a normal pace. He turned the corner and saw a prominent tree. Reaching it, he stopped and looked at the second hand. It had taken him fifty-three seconds to walk the distance. Turning toward the hidden lamppost, he wrapped his arms over his chest, shivered a little from the cold, and waited.
Brush contacts rarely took place with people you knew. Today, Will had no idea if his contact was male or female, young or old. For that reason, timing had to be precise down to the second.
Alistair had been exact with his instructions: 1639hrs, Latitude 50?4'58.73"N, Longitude 14?23'58.19'E.
He looked around. The park was heavily wooded; no one else was on the path. He stayed like that for twenty minutes, only occasionally checking the time. But as the moment to move grew closer, he kept his eyes fixed on the illuminated surface of the watch.
Thirty seconds before moving.
Twenty.
Ten.
Now.
He moved, resisting the urge to walk faster. Nearing the bend in the path, he deeply hoped that the contact would be experienced in this drill and that he or she had remembered to synchronize their watch with the online atomic clock before coming here. Turning the corner, he saw that there were three people on the path, two quite close to each other, the other closer to him. He ignored them for now, focusing only on maintaining normal speed, knowing that keeping that pace was extremely hard to do when you’re conscious of it.
He reached the nearest person but made no attempt to get close to him. Too bad if the man was the contact; he was beyond the lamppost and out of position. But the two people ahead of him were not. He tried to establish if they were together but couldn’t be sure. The darkness hid their features.
He got closer and could now see that the two people were not side by side as he’d previously thought; one was slightly ahead of the other.
Thirty feet from the lamppost. The man in front was too close to it. But maybe he’d got his speed wrong by half a mile an hour. Soon he was beyond the lamppost and walking toward Will. They passed each other. Nothing happened. Will kept walking.
He was ten feet from the lamppost.
So was the old woman whose features were now vivid under the light’s glow.
Older people walked at a more consistent speed than the young. They were a good choice for brush contacts.
He kept to the right-hand side of the track so that he’d be passing directly alongside the lamppost. By contrast, the woman was on a route that would take her a body width away from it.
Five feet. The woman’s arms were by her sides.
Three feet.
The lamppost. They were directly alongside each other. The woman lifted her arm ever so slightly. A tiny package was in her hand.
Then it was in Will’s hand.
Will kept walking as he secreted the alias passport containing the Russian multientry visa into a pocket.
O ne hour later, he entered Bunkr Parukarka bar. It had been difficult to find, hidden away in Prague, and as he walked down the winding metal staircase to the converted 1950s nuclear bunker, he wished he’d not worn a suit. The walls were covered with ghetto graffiti, industrial rock blared out of the windowless basement bar, and twenty-something clubbers eyed him with looks of suspicion, no doubt wondering if he was a secret policeman.
He ordered a beer and took a seat at a low table. The place was not full-it was too early in the evening-though it still felt claustrophobic and intense. After removing his tie and jacket and undoing a couple of his top shirt buttons, he stretched his legs out, took a big gulp of beer, ruffled his hair, and tried to do anything to make him look unlike an on-duty cop.
Looking around, he wondered why Krystof had chosen this place to meet. The former Bezpecnostni Informacni Sluzba intelligence officer, now private investigator, was in his midforties and would have as little in common with these kinds of bars as Will.
Krystof was five minutes late. That wasn’t unusual; sometimes he could be hours late. At the far end of the cavern, a band was setting up its instruments. Judging by the look of them, whatever they were going to play later that night would be loud and angst-ridden. Will took another swig of beer and looked at the groups of people scattered around the bar. Some were long-haired Goths, others bohemian slackers; all of them looked totally comfortable in their surroundings. He’d never experienced that kind of belonging or cultural rebellion, and for a moment he felt envious of the strangely pretty people around him. But then he wondered if he did have something in common with these men and women. Perhaps they were happy here because normal places made them deeply unhappy.
Krystof emerged at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in a worn brown suit with his tie loosened and top button open. Cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, he stopped at the bar and leaned across it to say something to the barman before walking over to Will’s table. Though the bunker’s lighting was dim, Will could see that the Czech was unshaven and had dark bags under his eyes.
Will stood, held out his hand, and said in English, “We could have met somewhere else.”
Krystof shook his hand. “Where’s the fun in that, David?”
David Becket. An MI6 officer whose profile deliberately approximated Krystof’s: passed over for promotion, in debt, weary, cynical, failed marriages, and adolescent children who no longer wanted to know him. The only difference between them was that David’s fictitious older daughter was prospering in high school, whereas six months ago, Krystof’s real da
ughter had been brutally gang-raped and strangled to death.
They sat just as the barman came to them and thumped a bottle of Becherovka liquor and two glasses onto the table. Krystof unscrewed the cap and poured the spirit into the glasses until they were nearly full. Stubbing out his cigarette and lifting his glass to his lips, he muttered, “Your health” and downed the drink.
“Your health.” Will took a small sip and placed the glass down.
Krystof refilled his glass to the top and gripped it while staring at Will. “You still in?”
Will shrugged. “I’m trying to last another ten years, until I can draw on my pension.”
Becket was forty-five; youthful looks were the only thing he had going for him. Krystof didn’t even have that. Age, stress, and depression had been less kind to his once handsome face.
Krystof drank some more and lit another cigarette. “I meant to thank you.”
“What for?”
“The flowers and the card.” He glanced away, his expression one of sadness and irritation. “Her mother wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.”
“I thought that might happen. That’s why I sent them to your house.”
Krystof looked back at him. “She said that no doubt I was now happy that I had one less child to pay alimony for.” He emptied the contents of his glass and topped it up.
Will sympathized with Krystof’s plight, though he worried that the man was losing his sanity. He twisted his glass on the table. “I have some work for you if you’d like it.”
Krystof blew out smoke. “They’re still giving you tasks?”
“A few.”
Krystof nodded. “It’s not a question of like, rather need.” He poured more drink down his throat. “What do you want?”
“Names.”
“Price?”
Will sighed. “The service wanted me to get you on the cheap.”
“Bastards.”
