Shocked by the crude unkindness of the story, Liz cast an eye round the table to see whether anyone else was thinking as she was. But they were all laughing with their host, though Greta had managed only a cold smile.
Brunovsky turned to say something to Monica, and Liz, seizing the moment, asked Harry Forbes quietly, “Who is this Morozov?”
“He’s from St. Petersburg. He made millions in industrial diamonds, then tried to move into oil. It didn’t work out, and he managed to fall out with the authorities about the same time Nikita did.”
“Do they know each other well?” she asked.
Harry shrugged. “They go way back, but I don’t know the ins and outs. You’d have to ask Nikita for the whole story. There’s some history there.”
As Brunovsky’s attention swung back towards them, Harry Forbes said to him, “Nikita, what I can’t understand is why it took so long for Blue Field to be found. You’d have thought someone would have spotted it during all those years.”
Brunovsky laughed. “Perhaps the old lady who owned it did not like it. Maybe she kept it in her attic.”
Greta spoke up. “Some people say that Blue Mountain may also be found one day.”
“You mean,” said Harry Forbes, “rumours of its death have been greatly exaggerated?” He laughed loudly, and Liz realised that she found the man irritating. His high spirits seemed fake.
Brunovsky shook his head. “It was destroyed. Mona O’Dwyer said so herself.”
“Yes,” said Greta. “So we are led to believe. But why don’t we ask the view of our Pashko expert?”
Liz wondered momentarily which expert Greta was referring to, then realised with a start that she meant her. As the waiter arrived at the table to clear the plates, she stalled for time, thinking furiously what to say. Even if she handled this question okay, Liz sensed there would be many more to come from Greta. The woman seemed bent on testing her, and Liz worried that sooner or later she was going to face an exam she couldn’t pass.
Rescue came from an unexpected quarter. “Honestly, Greta,” said Monica Hetherington, “give the girl a break. She’s only just got here.” She pointed at Liz. “I just love your dress, Jane. Where did you get it?”
23
Of course Jerry will take you home,” announced Brunovsky, as the party collected their coats at the end of the evening. “Where do you live?”
Liz had foreseen this problem and had insisted Brian Ackers authorise full operational backup, including a cover flat.
“Battersea,” she said airily.
“Good. He can take us to Eaton Square and then drop you off.”
The cover flat, in a mansion block just across Battersea Bridge, was something of an optical illusion. Though its exterior was comparatively smart, inside it was a typical MI5 safe house. Fondly known by the operational officers as “civilisation’s dead ends,” these houses were meant primarily for meetings with recruited sources, possibly for an operational officer to stay the odd night, when, like Liz tonight, they needed a cover address, but certainly not for entertaining visitors. The furnishings were sparse and usually ill-matched and had invariably seen better days in more elevated official surroundings.
Liz threw her coat on a chair, turned on the electric fire and sat down on a sagging sofa covered in faded chintz. At least this place has a view, she thought. The sitting-room window faced the Thames and through it, she could see the traffic on the Embankment on the other side. The glow of the street lights made the low line of eighteenth-century buildings on Cheyne Walk look like dolls’ houses.
She reflected on the events of the evening. Sceptical ever since Brian Ackers had given her this assignment, she was becoming increasingly convinced she was on a wild goose chase. It seemed like a training exercise to Liz rather than anything real, made more artificial by the surreal quality of the world she had now entered.
She was not unfamiliar with the rich—her father had worked for the owner of a country estate after all, and in Wiltshire where she’d grown up there were plenty of City moguls-turned-landowners. But she had never come across such conspicuous consumption. It wasn’t that Brunovsky boasted about it. It was just that he took for granted a style of life—chauffeured limousines, private jets, expensive restaurants, a Belgravia mansion and a country estate—which most people only encountered between the covers of a glossy magazine.
It wasn’t as if he’d been brought up to it. His wealth had been acquired suddenly and unexpectedly, by sharp practice in the economic confusion following the end of the Cold War. Another strange thing about Brunovsky, reflected Liz, was the sense of security he exuded. Was it real or was it just a cover? Because in fact he was far from secure, if Victor Adler’s information was correct. None of the oligarchs were.
Liz got up and, after a search in the kitchen cupboards, unearthed a packet of cocoa that was just in date, so she heated some milk on the old electric stove, then sat down again with her mug. It could be interesting, she supposed, to spend time with a man who literally could buy anything he desired, but she couldn’t say her heart was in it.
I could use some company, she thought, suddenly feeling very alone. Used to living by herself, she rarely felt lonely; loneliness was something she’d feared for her mother, not herself. But her mother didn’t seem to be lonely or indeed alone any more. That weekend when she’d visited London, she had astonished Liz by not coming back to the flat after the theatre on the Saturday. There had been a late-night phone call from some post-theatre restaurant, and a slightly giggled explanation to the effect that Liz should not stay up since “Edward” would be putting her up for the night. Liz had resisted the temptation to ask if Edward had a spare room. Who on earth was Edward anyway?
Oh well, she thought now, sipping her cocoa, it’s her business. Of course her mother should have a boyfriend if she wanted to. It was just—well, just that the idea took some getting used to. Her world had suddenly been turned upside down. Accustomed to looking after her mother, Liz found her sudden independence unsettling. She felt like a parent whose teenage child finally flies the nest.
She shook her head to get rid of the disturbing comparison and stood up, pausing for a moment to look out of the window at the north bank of the river. That is my turf, she thought, feeling rootless on this side of the Thames. Funny how London divided itself this way. She wondered if this was always true of cities with rivers running through their centre. Parisians thought of themselves as Right and Left Bank people; did the inhabitants of other major cities think that way too? What about Moscow, or St. Petersburg, she wondered, thinking briefly of Dimitri. Probably, though she doubted she’d ever get to know any other city well enough to find out. Foreign postings were not a common part of MI5 life, and she couldn’t see any other reason why she might live abroad.
Unless she met somebody, she supposed. Again she thought of Dimitri, wondering if he’d ring as he’d promised when they’d said goodbye in Cambridge. She hoped so, though she couldn’t see how any relationship with him had a future. He was going back to St. Petersburg at the end of this term, and she couldn’t envisage herself following him there. In any case he thought she was Jane Falconer, an art student. She smiled at the thought of being swept off her feet, impetuously resigning her job, explaining everything to Dimitri and going to live in Russia. What would her colleagues make of that? She tried to imagine herself wearing a beaver hat and muff during the icy winters, studying the language, learning to cook blinis and borscht, but she could not sustain the picture. It was not going to happen.
Her thoughts moved on, and she found herself wishing Charles were back. She wouldn’t have been seeing him very often as he wasn’t her boss any more—lunch in the canteen once in a while, maybe a chat in the lift when they coincided in the morning, the odd glimpse down a corridor. But it would be enough just to know he was there. Even if she wasn’t working for him, his presence in the office would somehow give her solid ground. As things were, she felt very much on her own in this cur
ious operation.
She had no confidence in Brian Ackers and from past experience she wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that Geoffrey Fane had involved her in some Byzantine scheme of his own. She wondered what Charles would think of it all. Not much, she guessed, and she imagined his expressionless gaze resting on her as she told him what she was doing. “Exactly what are we hoping to get out of this, Liz?” he would have said. “What’s the risk and what’s the likely gain?” I wish I could answer either question, she thought.
Bedtime, she said to herself, before I get even more maudlin. She detested self-pity, it was the one character trait she could be harsh about in other people. So she was ashamed to have indulged in it now. I chose this, she told herself. There’s no one to blame but me.
She turned off the sitting-room lights and put her mug by the tiny kitchen’s sink. Moving through to the small room in the back, with its single rather rickety bed, she flicked the light switch by the door. In the middle of the room, the ceiling bulb flared then popped. I’ll change it tomorrow, she thought wearily, and got undressed in the dark.
24
The woman sat at a table in the bar of a hotel just off the Strand, reading The Times. At eleven o’clock in the morning it was gloomily lit and almost deserted. She knew it would be. She left nothing to chance and she had already reconnoitred the bar. From her corner, she saw the man arrive before he saw her. Looks like a pimp, she thought, taking in his black Armani suit and white silk shirt. She had nothing but scorn for Italian men.
He looked around him, puzzled, and with a faint air of disgust. “Am I early? Why choose this place to meet? It won’t impress your client.”
“It’s convenient. Sit down,” she said, pointing to the Danish-style chairs grouped around the table in front of her.
He slid into one of the chairs and laughed. “We might as well have a drink while we wait,” he said, looking around for a waiter. There was no one in sight.
“Not a good idea,” she said.
“Is this a puritan you’re bringing to see me then?”
“I’m not bringing anyone to see you, Marco. It’s just the two of us.”
He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head in irritation. “You might have rung and spared me the taxi ride. I’ve come all the way from Kensington.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. She leant forward now, putting her hands on the table, with the fingers extended. Her bag was on the floor and she moved it closer with her foot until it edged against her leg. “There is plenty of business for us to conduct.”
“Oh.” Marco’s face lit up. “He’s authorised you to negotiate. He’s interested in the friezes?”
“No. He hasn’t,” she said, and watched as bafflement re-entered the Italian’s eyes. “And anyway, it’s other antiquities I want to discuss.”
“Meaning what exactly?” he demanded, in an assertive voice she sensed covered a sudden nervousness.
She reached down for her bag and extracted a slim folder. “Meaning this,” she said, sliding the folder across the table to him.
He looked at it for a moment with a show of distaste, then he sighed, reached for the folder and picked it up. He continued to gaze at the contents longer than was necessary to read the two typed pages. By the time he looked up, his swarthy face had gone several shades paler and perspiration stood out on his upper lip. He threw the file down on the table, leant back and held both hands open in a classic Italian gesture. “So,” he declared. “What are you trying to say? You can’t prove any of this.”
She shrugged, making it clear she wasn’t interested in arguing. “I don’t have to. Nikita can judge for himself.”
Marco blanched. “You’d show this to Brunovsky?”
“Of course,” she said. Her voice was matter-of-fact but now turned icy. “He would not like to think that those beautiful and rare objects you acquire for him might not be what they seem.”
Marco looked increasingly agitated. For a brief moment, she thought he might snap. Would he attack her? She hoped he wouldn’t be so stupid. Not because she had the slightest concern he could hurt her, but because it would derail her plan. She lowered one hand towards the bag under the table.
If that had been his plan, he seemed to think better of it. “What do you want from me?” he finally asked, his voice weak and shaky.
“To do as you’re told,” she said menacingly. “You won’t find it difficult.” Just more lies, she thought, the kind that got you into such a mess before.
25
Let’s go through it one more time.”
It was evening on Hampstead Heath and a few dog walkers were taking advantage of the lengthening days. The sun was dipping below a ridge of trees to the west of them, casting long shadows over the bench where Jerry Simmons and Rykov sat.
Jerry sighed. He was tired after an early start that morning. He had taken Brunovsky’s girlfriend, Monica, to Heathrow at the crack of dawn—she was meeting a friend in Paris for a two-day shopping expedition. “I’ve told you. There’s his assistant, Tamara, there’s Mrs. Grimby, Mrs. Warburton—that’s the housekeeper—and a maid. And most nights, Monica. There was a temp as well, but she’s gone now. Lately his decorator’s been around—his name’s Tutti. Italian bloke. Poof too.”
“Poof?” asked the Russian. Jerry flapped his hand exaggeratedly and he nodded. “And that is all?”
“I told you about the American, Forbes. He comes around a couple of times a week.”
“Other visitors?”
“Lots of them. But nobody regular. Only some student interested in Brunovsky’s Russian paintings.”
“Student? You said nothing about a student.”
“I don’t think she’ll be there for long,” Jerry said.
“Who is this girl?”
“Jane somebody. And she’s not a girl—she must be at least thirty. I drove her home one night. She’s one of those mature students.” Seeing the puzzled look on the Russian’s face, he explained, “Somebody older who’s gone back to college.” He looked at Rykov sourly. “We do that sometimes, you know.”
Vladimir ignored him. “I want to know more about this Jane. Let’s begin with what she looks like. And then where she lives.”
26
Ah, look at this mouse the cat has brought in.” The voice was distinctly Italian, and belonged to a slim man who appeared in the doorway of the formal downstairs dining room. Here Liz had set up shop, since for now Blue Field was sitting in a bank vault in the City of London. The delay had been caused by the insurers, who were insisting on yet more security. Only then would the Pashko be allowed to hang in the smaller dining room upstairs.
“I am Marco,” declared the man, walking into the room. He was about Liz’s age, with a slim build, dark complexion and sharp-featured face. He wore his hair short, and had a small neatly trimmed goatee. His clothes were stylish and a touch flamboyant—a canary yellow polo neck, pressed white linen trousers and brown ankle boots. “Marco Tutti,” he said, extending a hand.
“Nice to meet you,” said Liz from her seat. “I’m Jane.” She gestured at the papers on the long mahogany table, which could seat twenty-four with all its leaves in. Each morning the young maid waxed and polished it until its surface shone like glossy chocolate. “I’m doing some research for Mr. Brunovsky.”
“On Pashko, I see,” said Tutti, peering inquisitively over her shoulder. “Blue Field is a very beautiful painting,” he said approvingly, then gave a small titter. “But expensive. Personally I would consider putting the painting here.” He pointed to the wall above the room’s marble fireplace, where a gilt mirror hung. “But Nicky insists it go upstairs.” He sighed to suggest the unreasonableness of the Russian.
There were footsteps in the hall, and Brunovsky himself came in. He was dressed casually—a cashmere sweater and thick corduroys—very obviously just back from the country. “Marco,” said Brunovsky briskly, “you are on time. How remarkable. You have met Jane?”
Tutt
i nodded, and Brunovsky turned and walked over to the windows. He reached out and roughly grabbed a handful of curtain. They were made of heavy cream-coloured damask, bordered with antique gold braid and with thick red silk tie-backs. Looking at Tutti, Brunovsky asked, “What is it she wants to replace these with?”
The Italian shrugged. “I am still showing her samples. Something more colourful.”
“More colour,” said Brunovsky dubiously. He looked now at Liz. “Do you like these?” he asked.
“They’re lovely,” said Liz sincerely. She’d noticed them at once.
“Monica doesn’t think so,” said Brunovsky, letting go of the material and shaking his head. He pointed at Liz. “She likes them,” he said aggressively to Tutti.
“It doesn’t really matter what I think,” Liz protested, and Tutti nodded, intent on his commission.
“But you are English,” Brunovsky said sharply, as if this were an infallible guarantee of good taste. “It is English style I want in this room.”
“Monica is English too,” Tutti insisted.
I’m not getting in the middle of this one, thought Liz, as Brunovsky pursed his lips. “She is back today,” he announced. “I will talk with her this afternoon.” He looked again at Liz, who made a point of staring at her computer screen. She was using a new laptop supplied by Technical Ted, the head computer boffin at Thames House. Password-protected, it was loaded with so much additional security that the keenest hacker would have trouble even logging on. As an extra precaution, Ted had made sure that the machine stored nothing to indicate it was anything but the working tool of an amateur student of art.
Illegal Action Page 11
