Maybe, she thought, this was her chance to find something for a wedding she was going to in May, but a quick foray into Burberry on the corner of Conduit Street unearthed nothing under £500. So she decided she would do as she usually did and look in the little dress shop in Stockbridge, which she passed on her way down to her mother’s Wiltshire house. Cutting down towards Berkeley Square, her thoughts turned to her impending appointment.
Liz was using her operational cover name of Jane Falconer. She had her hair tied back and she wore a conservative grey suit, for from his CV, the man she was going to meet, Brigadier Walter Cartwright, was unmistakably traditional: Wellington, Sandhurst, four tours in Northern Ireland, active duty during the Falklands campaign, followed by command of a tank regiment during Operation Desert Storm in the first Iraq War.
He had resigned from the army soon after the Gulf campaign and begun a second career in a risk analysis/security firm of international repute. After five years he had struck out on his own, forming his eponymous consultancy. Such companies tended to divide between the cerebral, specialising in “risk analysis,” and those at the sharper end, who provided protection—for multinational corporations worried about the kidnapping of their chief executives and sometimes for people rich enough to pay someone to create an illusion of risk.
From Peggy’s briefing to Liz, it was clear the Cartwright consultancy was in the heavy category, with most of its staff ex-military. Yet it managed to mask the muscular aspects of its business by having peers of the realm among its nonexecutive directors and by situating its headquarters in the smartest part of London.
On the sixth floor of the modern block at the south end of Berkeley Square, Walter Cartwright greeted Liz with a firm handshake and a slow smile. He looked younger than his fifty or so years. He was on the near side of six feet, and wore a suit of rumpled gabardine. Only the erect way he held himself gave any indication of his military past; that, and the square outline to his shoulders.
His office overlooked Berkeley Square, though at this height the view was obscured by the early leaves on the square’s perimeter trees. The sound of the traffic was dulled and the noise of birdsong came through the window, melodious and clear. “Lovely, isn’t it?” said Cartwright. “That’s a blackbird. Not many nightingales in Berkeley Square nowadays.”
Liz pointed to a pair of watercolours on the wall, each depicting a black Labrador retrieving pheasants at a shoot. “They’re rather fine,” she said.
Cartwright chuckled. “You’re either being very polite or you’ve been well briefed. I painted them myself.”
They sat down and Cartwright looked at her with friendly curiosity. “Miss Falconer, you said you’re from the Home Office?”
“I’m actually from the Security Service.”
“Ah. MI5. I thought so. I had some contact with you chaps when I was in Ireland. Is Michael Binding still around?”
“Absolutely,” she said, hoping the brigadier didn’t share Michael Binding’s opinion of women’s professional abilities.
“And there was another man.” The brigadier scratched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Ricky something. Nice fellow.”
“Ricky Perrins. I’m afraid he was killed in a car accident.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” said the brigadier with genuine regret, and Liz found herself warming to him. “I’d better not go on about Ireland,” he said, “or we’ll be here all day. You said you wanted to speak with me about one of our employees. Which one?”
Liz didn’t have the faintest idea of her quarry’s name, so she extracted a 10x8 black-and-white photograph from her briefcase, and handed it across the desk to the brigadier. It had been taken by A4 with a telephoto lens, enlarged and cropped to show only the mystery man on the bench.
Cartwright studied it carefully, while Liz wondered what she would do if he said he’d never seen the man before.
“Simmons,” said the brigadier, to Liz’s relief. “Jerry Simmons.”
“He works here?”
“Yes. Is this work-related?” His tone was slightly sharper.
“We don’t know yet,” admitted Liz. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Has he done something wrong?”
“We’re not sure. We had a surveillance operation on a foreign national and saw what looked like a covert meeting with Simmons.” She pointed to the photograph. “That was taken in a remote part of Hampstead Heath.”
“Is this a hostile foreign national?”
Liz spoke carefully. “Let’s just say his country used to be hostile; its present status is unclear. We’re concerned enough to be following this man, and curious as to why he’s meeting with your employee. Can you tell me something about Simmons?”
“Of course. I’ll get his file.” Cartwright walked over to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out a folder. “He’s from Lancashire. He left school and signed up—he was in the Paras for six years, then the SAS. Left five years ago. He seems to have made the transition to civilian life without any problems—and believe me, not all of them do. He used to be in security at the Dorchester Hotel. The people there weren’t very pleased when we lured him away, but they gave him a good reference. As far as we’re concerned, he’s worked out very well. He’s reliable, very competent.” He added, without malice, “If not precisely a mastermind.”
“What does he do for you?”
“He’s a driver and bodyguard.”
“For many different clients?”
“No,” said Cartwright with a quick shake of the head. “Our contracts are strictly long term. He’s working for a Russian named Nikita Brunovsky.”
“Why does Mr. Brunovsky need a bodyguard?”
Cartwright shrugged. “He’s one of the oligarchs. Having protection is part of their way of life. Brunovsky is comparatively restrained. Some of them have teams of people, but he relies mainly on Jerry Simmons. He doubles as chauffeur and protection.”
“Is there anything about Simmons that particularly stands out? Anything unusual?”
Cartwright reflected for a moment. “One’s always tempted to find something. Simmons has been married three times, but is that remarkable these days? I’m sure one of the reasons he left the Dorchester to come here was the money—it’s a lot better, and I had the feeling he needed it. But other than that, I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary about him.”
Then why, thought Liz, was he meeting a Russian diplomat in a remote corner of Hampstead Heath? It must have something to do with Brunovsky. “We’ll need to talk to him.”
Cartwright nodded and said, “During the day, of course, he’s usually with Brunovsky. There’s a house in Belgravia, and an estate in Sussex. But I’d rather you didn’t bother him on the job. I’ll give you Jerry’s home address and telephone. Perhaps you can take it from there.”
“Actually, I was wondering if it would be possible to meet him here. I don’t want to cause alarm before we speak to him. Or upset his family.”
“Not sure if he’s still got one,” said Cartwright, then looked again at Liz. “Would it help if I found a pretext to get him in here?”
“That would be ideal.”
“Right. Personnel can say there’s been a mix-up with his National Insurance. Something like that. Just tell me when.”
“It should be in the next few days.” Liz stood up to leave. “It will be one of my colleagues who talks to him. I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention my visit to anyone, especially Simmons.”
“Of course,” he said simply, and then as if to emphasise that her presence would be wiped from memory, exclaimed, “Listen to that!” Now there were two blackbirds singing, high up in the trees, creating a rich brocade of alternating song.
Let’s hope Simmons sings as well, thought Liz. She felt a sense of measured optimism, like someone starting out on an enormous jigsaw puzzle who makes unexpected progress early on, though it was only corner pieces of the puzzle that had come her way. She had no idea what the
larger picture would look like when it emerged. If it ever did.
15
This is a Fragonard,” declared Nikita Brunovsky, pointing delightedly at a beautiful young woman in a flower-filled garden.
“Marvellous,” said Henry Pennington of the FCO, in an unctuous voice which was beginning to grate on Liz.
Brunovsky had already shown them a small Cézanne, a Bonnard, a Picasso sketch from his Blue Period and a Rembrandt drawing. Liz felt she was back at university, paging through an illustrated textbook on art history. Only none of these were reproductions.
Now Brunovsky stopped in front of the marble fireplace and pointed to a large abstract in a gleaming steel frame above the mantelpiece. Dark purple waves of paint met ebony swirls in a circle of orange fire. “Who do you think painted this?” the Russian asked.
Liz wasn’t going to venture a guess.
“Howard Hodgkin?” asked Pennington.
The Russian laughed gleefully. He was a small man with tousled hair, a sharp nose and dark, dancing eyes. “It is the work of my sister,” he replied, and cackled again.
The grim-faced blonde woman who had escorted Liz and Henry Pennington upstairs had introduced them and disappeared. Brunovsky had greeted them enthusiastically without asking their business. Now, as Pennington tried to match Brunovsky in affability, Liz looked around her.
The previous year she had treated herself to membership of the National Trust and had become a keen visitor to stately homes. But this first-floor Belgravia drawing room was like nothing she had ever seen. The large high-ceilinged room had six long, elegant windows overlooking the square at the front and the garden at the rear. The delicate duck egg blue brocade on the walls served as a subtle backdrop for the art collection hanging there.
But what Liz found startling was the bewildering mixture of furniture crammed into the room. Eighteenth-century English pieces jostled with heavy, ornate Russian cabinets and sideboards. On a corner table there was a large glass model, half castle, half fort, with intricate onion minarets and towers reproduced in exquisite detail. It seemed oddly familiar, until Liz realised it was a replica of the Kremlin.
Above all this, two vast fountain chandeliers glittered like tinsel festooning a Christmas tree. Looking towards the windows, Liz recognised a Regency pier table with a marble top and ornate legs that was similar to the cherished family heirloom her mother kept in her cottage in Wiltshire. Then Liz noticed there were five of them, one between each window.
“Come,” Brunovsky said abruptly, and Liz and Pennington obediently followed the slight, wiry figure out of the room and down a passageway. His high spirits struck Liz as slightly artificial. He was presenting himself to his visitors as disarmingly impetuous, and slightly mischievous as well, like a charming small boy, Liz reflected. There was nothing boyish about his clothes, though: Brunovsky wore an elegant blue blazer with four gold buttons on each sleeve, a well-cut striped shirt, silk tie, flannel trousers and tan Gucci loafers.
Opening a door, he ushered them into a dining room, which had in its centre an elegant burred walnut table. The classical effect was spoiled by the set of chairs surrounding it—Russian monstrosities of oak, each built like a throne, upholstered in gaudy red plush. More paintings hung in clusters on the walls, though these were modern oil paintings.
“My Russian collection,” Brunovsky announced with an expansive sweep of his hand.
Liz noticed that on the far wall there was an empty space in the middle of a group of still lifes. Brunovsky smiled, “You see the missing one, no?”
“Is it on loan somewhere?” Given the quality of what she was being shown, Liz would not be surprised if museums were lining up to borrow Brunovsky’s holdings for their own exhibitions.
“No,” said Brunovsky, shaking his head. “It is not mine to loan,” he added playfully. He walked to a sideboard at one end of the room, and picked up a sale catalogue sitting on top of a stack. Flipping through its pages he stopped at one and handed the catalogue to Liz.
She looked at the page, which was dominated by a colour reproduction of an abstract, its mass of darkish blue broken by a slash of yellow paint. The guide price, she noticed, was £4 million.
“You like it?” demanded Brunovsky.
“It’s very interesting,” said Liz diplomatically.
“Lovely,” said Pennington, peering at the catalogue over Liz’s shoulder. “When are you selling it?”
“Selling it?” asked Brunovsky. “I am not selling it, I am buying it. I would never sell a Pashko.” There was genuine outrage to his voice.
“Of course, of course,” Pennington said soothingly.
Liz pointed to the space on the wall, and said, “To go there?”
“Yes!” declared Brunovsky, pleased to see she understood. “It will be the crown of my collection. To me, Pashko is a god. The Russian Picasso. Now let’s go downstairs.”
This time he led them to his study at the back of the house. Motioning them to a sofa in one corner, Brunovsky sat down on a leather chair on casters, on which he began to roll around gently like a restless schoolboy. “So,” he said and grinned, though Liz noticed his eyes darted nervously, “what is it I can do for you?”
Liz let Pennington make the running. After all it was at his instigation that they were there. As soon as Brian Ackers had been told of Victor Adler’s information, true to form, he had decided that something must be done. Much against Pennington’s wishes, Special Branch had been brought in. They were to warn each of the oligarchs of a heightened risk to them from Russia, though without any specific mention of the Adler information.
Pennington, who regarded the police as chronic leakers, had sulkily predicted that as soon as they were involved the whole thing would be on the front page of the Evening Standard within twenty-four hours. When he heard that Rykov had recruited a source in Brunovsky’s household, he had leapt to the conclusion that the plot was already under way and had insisted on visiting Brunovsky himself, to warn him to avoid any public criticism of Moscow. Brian Ackers, whose opinion of Pennington matched Geoffrey Fane’s, had asked Liz to go too, to report back on what was said. After a show of reluctance, Pennington had agreed to her accompanying him, though when he discovered that Liz would be using the alias of Jane Falconer, he had huffed about spooks and their unnecessarily secretive ways.
As Pennington delivered what seemed to Liz an especially longwinded warning, her eyes moved discreetly round the room. It was the only room in the house that didn’t look like a museum. Here in his study, she thought, Brunovsky was for once not showing off.
Their host had stopped sliding his chair around and was listening intently. When Pennington had finished, he nodded, still taking it in.
“Tak,” he declared at last, his expression now serious, his lips taut. “And you think it is me the Kremlin plans to move against?”
“We can’t be certain,” said Liz, “but you’re an obvious candidate.”
He nodded again and leant back in his chair, then shrugged. “I am not surprised. All of us living here know our government keeps an eye on us. What do you want me to do?”
Pennington adopted a thoughtful expression. “Your views about the present Russian government are well known. It occurred to us that perhaps for a little while you might want to curtail your public pronouncements about President Putin. Just until the alarm is over.”
“Curtail?” Brunovsky raised an eyebrow. “You mean you want me to shut up.” He laughed but his eyes were steely.
“We thought,” said Pennington, moving on hastily, “that you might want to take extra security measures, or have us take them for you.”
“I have a bodyguard already. From one of your country’s most reputable firms. I don’t need another one.”
Liz looked at Pennington, as if to say, now what? He was looking at Brunovsky, with the sympathetic expression of a parent counselling a wayward child. “I can certainly understand that,” he said carefully. “But perhaps there’s an alterna
tive.”
Like what? thought Liz, suddenly alert.
“Perhaps we could assign someone to…,” Pennington paused, searching for the right phrase, “be around. Someone who wouldn’t get in the way, but who would keep an eye open on your behalf, be able to recognise if there was anything to be concerned about and be in a position to…respond if you needed any kind of help.”
Brunovsky looked puzzled. “Would this person be armed?”
“No,” said Liz quickly, wondering what the hell Pennington was talking about. He now also shook his head, but rather more slowly.
“What are we talking about then?” asked the Russian, sounding puzzled.
Don’t ask me, thought Liz, still mystified. She was going to have to speak to Brian Ackers right away, she decided.
Pennington spoke more slowly, almost ponderously, as if this would somehow give greater weight to his words, “Let’s just say it would be someone very experienced in recognising and handling potentially threatening situations.”
“Aha,” Brunovsky said with sudden enlightenment. “Someone from your famous intelligence agencies.” When Pennington didn’t react, the Russian scratched his head and seemed to think about this. Suddenly he gave a sharp nod of assent. “I like that. I like that very much.”
“Why don’t you think it over?” said Liz, infuriated by what was happening and trying to leave space for the withdrawal of Pennington’s impulsive offer.
“Okay,” said Brunovsky, but before Liz could relax he pointed at Pennington. “I will telephone you tomorrow.”
As they said their goodbyes Liz just managed to contain her anger but when the door closed behind them and they descended to the pavement, she rounded fiercely on the Foreign Office official. “What on earth was that about?” she demanded.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Pennington. He refused to meet her stare, making a show of looking around for a taxi.
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