by Duncan James
Perhaps when Barbara knew the girl better. Then she could expose her husband, Dmitri, as the murderer of Donald’s father. On the other hand, why wait? No, she decided. She would tell her now. Once arrangements had been made for Donald to return to London, then she would tell Sasha.
***
Things were getting busy again in Clerkenwell. Later that night, the machine in the corner burst into life again.
“Wilkinson has been to embassy wanting to arrange repatriation of the boy stop official will ring Marsden to fix stop”
Nick immediately told Bill Clayton.
“With your approval, I shall go over there to collect him. As you know, I speak a bit of Russian, and I’ve been there before, so we have people on the ground to help. One day out, and one back should be enough.”
“If you’re quite sure that’s what you want to do, then I guess we could spare you for a couple of days.”
“Good. Thanks. Donald can be looked after at the Embassy until I get there. He will feel more at home there among English people than in a strange flat in a strange City, and the sooner he gets away from Barbara the better.”
“All we want now is for the Embassy to ring. If only Gladys could find out how to send messages on that machine.”
“Ask Nigel Mynott, the IT man downstairs. He should know.”
“Never thought of him. I’ll get him back in as soon as possible. He’ll have gone home by now.”
Shortly afterwards, the man from the Moscow Embassy rang Bill.
“Am I speaking to ‘S’”, he asked.
“You are.”
“It’s about Donald Wilkinson.”
“I know. We were told you would ring.”
The man was puzzled.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“We have our sources, even in Moscow,” replied Bill. “We are happy to take the boy back if you can look after him for a day or so. Commander Marsden will fly over to collect him.”
“Is that the famous ‘Nick’?” asked the official.
“It is. He speaks Russian, and knows Moscow, as well as the boy. He will travel as a tourist under his own name as plain ‘Mister’. Let us know when you have the boy within the Embassy, and Marsden will catch the next available plane. Don’t meet him or make any special arrangements. He can look after himself, and will just turn up. Make sure he is expected at the gate, that’s all.”
Embassy officials aren’t that used to being told what to do and how to do it, but he meekly said, “Very well. There will be no problem looking after the boy for a day or so. I’ll be in touch when he is here, probably early tomorrow,” and ended the call.
Gladys was already on the phone booking Marsden on the next available British Airways plane to Moscow’s Domodedovo airport. It was a four hour flight, or thereabouts, but Nick wanted plenty of time before the pick-up. He withdrew street maps of Moscow from the store downstairs, and Gladys made him sign for them. He decided he did not want to go armed, even with a personal protection Smith and Wesson.
He caught BA0233, which left Heathrow at 0835 the following morning. It didn’t arrive at Domodedovo until just after four that afternoon, Moscow time, but that would give him all the time he needed.
Gladys booked the two of them to return on the afternoon flight the next day, business class, of course. The first flight out left at about six in the morning, and Nick judged that this was just too early for a young lad who would be both tired and excited, whereas BA0232 left Moscow just after five in the evening Moscow time. That would give Nick plenty of time to make sure he was not being followed before collecting Donald, and they would then have plenty of time to book in, look at the aircraft coming and going, and have a bit of lunch. Nick was keen to get ‘air side’ and through passport control and immigration as quickly as possible. Because of the time difference, they would be in London only an hour later.
“Keep all your receipts,” instructed Gladys.
“I’ll get a car to meet you both on your return,” Bill had said. “Come back to our place. We’ll look after the boy until we can formalise things, or even afterwards, if he likes, and I suggest we put a bed up for you in his room for the first night or so until he’s settled. We’ve already retrieved all his clothes and toys and books and things from Battersea, so he should feel at home more or less immediately.”
“Certainly more at home than he does now.”
“You bet. Catherine has also been on to his old school, which is more than happy to have him back. She told them he had been for a short last-minute holiday to Moscow, where he had a relative.”
“Nothing more to do, then, by the sound of it,” said Nick with a grin.
“Just go get him, that’s all! Do you plan to see Barbara while you’re there as a matter of interest?”
Nick looked at Bill quizzically. “I haven’t decided, and I may not tell you anyway.”
“Understood,” said Bill, knowingly. “Just be very careful, that’s all.”
“Leave everything to me.”
***
Before he left, Nick had another word with Moscow station to finalise arrangements.
He wasted no time after he landed, apart from remembering he was there as a tourist. He collected maps and guides from the kiosk before he ambled out of arrivals.
He checked his secure mobile phone. There was a text message.
“The chick is in the nest.”
So far, so good.
He had spotted a man among the ‘meeters and greeters’ holding a sign above his head, reading “NIKOLAI NYKTIN”. Common enough Russian names, but today that was him.
He nodded to the man, who headed towards the taxi rank. Nick followed.
When they reached the cab, the man said, in Russian, “You Steve?”
“No. Paul.”
“Silly of me. Steve’s my next pick up.”
The agreed formula; theatrical perhaps, but in this town you can never be too sure.
Nick threw his backpack on to the back seat, and got into the cab.
He picked up the package waiting for him on the seat, swiftly unwrapped it, and shoved the contents up his sleeve, the wrapping in his backpack.
“Do you know where to go,” he asked the man in Russian.
“English will do, if you prefer,” said the driver. “Yes, I know where the lady lives.”
“That’s more than I do,” replied Nick. “How far?”
“Half an hour, depending on traffic.”
The driver told him the flat number when he dropped him off.
“I’ll be around,” he said. “See you later.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” replied Nick.
“Give me time to go round the block,” said the driver. “In case we’ve been followed.”
Barbara answered the door, and was plainly shocked to see Nick standing there. He pushed her roughly inside before she could say a word.
As she fell back, wide eyed and mouth agape, she managed to whisper, “Donald’s at the Embassy.”
“I know that,” Nick said in Russian, “I just wanted to say good bye.”
He immediately turned on his heel and left, closing the door firmly behind him.
He looked carefully to his left and right, and then walked at a leisurely pace to the road.
He had decided to leave the knife where it was.
As luck would have it, there was a passing taxi, which he waved down.
“Where to Guv’?” asked the driver cheekily, in English.
“You booked the Hotel,” replied Nick.
Nothing smart, but full of tourists, and not far from the Embassy.
“Would you mind ditching these when you get back to your garage,” Nick asked the driver, handing him his vinyl gloves.
“No problem,” said the man. “Pick you up in the morning?”
“No thanks. I’ll walk.”
Nick needed time to think and relax a bit. There was no need to pass messages to anyone. The tax
i driver would do that.
He booked in, and mingled with the tourists to make sure he was not being followed.
He had a quick meal before turning in.
He quite enjoyed the rough brown bread and bowl of borsch.
***
Donald had spent a happy night with one of the Embassy staff families, the first time he had been able to talk to anyone properly for some days.
They had told him that there was a big surprise for him the next day. He was already tired out by the excitement of everything that had happened over the last few days, so needed no persuading to get to bed early.
When Nick got there the next morning, he went in by the side entrance, and made straight for the office where diplomatic passports were waiting for him. The Embassy had prepared one for each of them, which would save time at both ends of their journey.
He made his way to reception, where Donald was waiting for him.
“Uncle Nick, Uncle Nick, Uncle Nick!” he shouted as he rushed over and threw himself into Nick’s outstretched arms.
“I knew you’d come to take me home,” he declared.
“Come on then! Let’s go home,” he said, picking up the boy and his backpack.
The couple who had looked after Donald were obviously amused to see their temporary lodger in such excitement.
“Thanks for all you’ve done,” said Nick.
“Yes, thank you,” said Donald, politely, kissing them both.
“It’s been a pleasure having you,” said the girl. “I haven’t seen anyone so happy for a long time!”
“I had quite a fight, I can tell you Uncle Nick,” said Donald, as he was bundled into the waiting cab. “I know you fight for what you want, being in the Army and everything, so I fought for what I wanted.”
“And you won!”
“I knew I would in the end,” said the boy. “I just knew you’d come to take me home again. I knew it. Don’t ever let them take me away again. I don’t want another fight like that.”
“You’ll be OK now, soldier,” said Nick, who explained they were both going to stay with Catherine and Bill for a bit. Until things got sorted out properly.
“My mum won’t be there, will she?” he pleaded. “I don’t want to see her again. They said my Mum was a foreigner and a spy.”
“Who told you that?”
“A friend of hers who lives in the flats – satchel or something her name was.”
“Sasha,” suggested Nick.
“That’s right, Sasha. That’s her. Do you know her?”
“We’ve never met,” said Nick. “Did she speak English, then?”
“No, but I kept asking what people were saying, and that’s what Mum said she was saying. We had long meetings in an office, too, but they never told me what they were talking about.”
“What else did your Mum say about the lady in the flat?”
“She told ‘satchel’ that you went to Switzerland, to save a professor. Is that really why you went?”
“Something like that,” admitted Nick.
“Satchel, or whatever you called her, said she would go there too, soon, to try to find somebody. Does that mean you will have to go again? Please don’t go again, now you’re taking me home. Stay at home with me for a bit.”
“I won’t go again,” he promised.
But somebody might have to, he thought. Certainly Lloyd should be warned. Damn that woman!
***
Marsden used his mobile at the airport, to send an encrypted message to Section 11. It looked just like any other mobile phone, but had been modified to operate at a high level of encryption.
So they had told him. He hoped they were right.
“The chick is flying. Mrs Mak heading for Geneva to find Lloyd or Dmitri or both. B is OK.”
It caused quite a stir in Clerkenwell. They debated whether someone should get over to Geneva to look after Lloyd, like they always had.
“That responsibility has been passed to the Swiss police, but we’d better tip them off if nothing else,” said Clayton. “I can’t imagine that Lloyd is as important to this country or such a threat to Russia as he used to be, now that he’s given up the research he was doing.”
“We could always ask Sir Robin Algar,” suggested Northcot.
“Let’s not. We’ll make up our own mind this time. If he was still of value, we’d be over there already.”
“If Dusty was still on active service, he could go.”
“Well, he isn’t. He’s only just got to Headley Court,” said Bill. “I think I’d better ring Catherine, to make sure she’s ready for our new lodger.”
“I’ll ring Switzerland, then.”
***
12 - SASHA MAKIENKO – TIME TO KILL
It had been something of a shock when Barbara Wilkinson arrived in the previously quiet, and quite exclusive, apartment block near the Lubyanka building.
It was an official residence provided by the authorities for their senior employees and families. Most were employed by the KGB, or FSB as it was now known, and many of the families living there had husbands who, for one reason or another, were away ‘on business.’
There was a certain dignity about the place, and there were certain standards which the residents were expected to maintain.
As Sasha Makienko often explained to neighbours afterwards, Barbara herself was a model of what one would expect. It was her son who had been the problem.
One could perhaps understand the boy’s behaviour. His mother had been an undercover agent in London for some time, but her sudden recall had meant that her young son, British by birth, had been torn away from his home and familiar surroundings at short notice. He had pitched up in a foreign country, surrounded by people who did not speak his language, and so one could hardly expect him to behave normally.
In the short time that they had known one another, however, Sasha had got on well with Barbara. Sasha herself was lonely and worried by the disappearance of her husband while abroad on duty. Nobody seemed to know where he was, or even if he was still alive. So Barbara, who knew him while he had been in London, was an unexpected and welcome contact, and she had been looking forward to getting to know her even better.
What she had said about husband Dmitri’s disappearance had been truly shocking, but at least she now had a clue as to where he might have gone when left London. It was good of her to confide in her new friend and mentor, when she had resisted attempts by Director Ivanovic to glean the information. It was even more of a shock to learn about Alan Jarvis. Dmitri had told her about the facts surrounding the blackmail, and the eventual death of the man who had acted as assassin on his behalf, but now to learn that Jarvis had been Donald’s father was a real bolt from the blue.
She and Barbara agreed that it was a cruel twist by the people in the FSB to bring them together in this way. They had a sadistic turn of mind, reminiscent of the bad old days. But then, as Sasha reminded Barbara, Putin, the ex-Director of the KGB, was now President, and things were again changing for the worse, with signs that the State machine was reverting slowly to its old ways.
But there was no animosity between them, in spite of everything. They were both victims of the system, after all, and had no real control over events where the Politburo was concerned.
Barbara herself was a pleasant and likeable person, she found. She was distraught at the prospect of having to send her son Donald back to London, although she knew he would be well looked after and loved as she had loved him. But a mother is not easily parted from her son, whatever the circumstances.
Sasha had offered to go with her to the Embassy, where Donald was to be left while arrangements were made for his return home, but Barbara had chosen to go alone. She could understand that. One does not want virtual strangers hanging around at tearful farewells, and Barbara realised that, once the doors closed behind her, she would never see Donald again.
So she had not seen her new neighbour since the previous morning, and was surp
rised to find two uniformed policemen at her door when she answered it.
“Comrade Makienko, I gather you were appointed as the mentor to the apartment’s latest resident, Barbara ‘Wilkinson’?” asked one of them, needlessly.
“Quite correct,” replied Sasha.
“Can you tell me when you last saw her?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“How did she seem?”
“Very distressed, since you ask,” replied Sasha.
“Why?”
“Because her son was to be sent back to England, and she was preparing to take him to the British Embassy, where she would see him for the last time. In similar circumstances, you would probably have felt the same,” she added.
“Quite so,” said the man. His colleague was taking notes. “Did you see her or hear her return?”
“No.”
“And you have heard nothing of her since?”
“Nothing. But tell me why you are asking. What has happened? Has she not returned from the Embassy? Perhaps she chose to stay there for one last evening with her son.”
“No, she returned to her flat,” replied the policeman.
“So what is the problem?” asked Sasha.
“The problem is that, since she returned to her apartment, she has been murdered,” said the man dramatically. “We need to ask you whether you have seen or heard anything at all suspicious. That is why we are here.”
“Murdered?” asked a disbelieving Sasha. “That is not possible. She has not been here long enough to make any enemies. Who would want to kill her? Was it a robbery?”
“That is what we are trying to find out,” said the man. “You will accompany us, please, to the office of Director Egor Ivanovic, who will ask you further questions.”
Sasha knew Ivanovic well. He was the idiot whose organisation had lost all track of her husband, Dmitri. At least, thanks to Barbara, she now had a clue as to where he might have gone. That would be something she could tell the man at least.
But that did not lessen the total shock of hearing that her newly found friend had been killed.
There could be only two possible explanations.
If she had been a double agent after all, then the FSB itself could have done it, to keep her quiet after she had ‘got rid’ of her son, as she had been instructed.
Or it could have been the British, to protect what secrets she may have brought with her after her sudden withdrawal.
Would anyone ever know who had done it or why?
***
Director Ivanovic was waiting when she arrived.
