Illegal Action

by Stella Rimington

  Rodrigues shook his head. “No. But right now I wish it was.”

  57

  In the drawing room the air crackled with tension. Greta stood in front of the fireplace now, very much in charge. Liz saw that someone, presumably Dimitri, had carried in the Blue Mountain canvas on its easel and stood it up in a corner where the light from the windows fell obliquely on it. Brunovsky had brought Jerry Simmons in from the front of the house and now they were standing beside the picture like some kind of uneasy reception committee. The whole scene resembled a stage prepared for “curtain up.” Only the main character had not yet arrived.

  Like Brunovsky, Dimitri was avoiding meeting Liz’s eyes. She realised that he might genuinely be a gallery curator but he was no bystander here. From the assured way he was acting, he was obviously fully part of whatever was going on. That explained the small mysteries she’d found in the man: his excellent English (despite supposedly having been to the West only once before), his expensive lifestyle—the chic hotel, the expensive dinner. And, she remembered with a shiver, the sudden phone call that had sent her off home early to the waiting mugger.

  Liz glanced at Simmons. How much did he understand about what was happening? He had been outside with the car while Greta was pointing her gun at Liz. She didn’t know whether he was armed. Probably not. How would he act if events took an ugly turn or if she was threatened? His job was to look after Brunovsky. He’d interfere only if his principal was threatened—or in his own defence, and he was no quick thinker.

  Her reflections ended abruptly when the French windows to the garden burst open and a tall, lean figure came into the room. Liz recognised the taut, scarred face of Grigor Morozov. Of course, this was the last piece of the jigsaw. The final act had begun.

  Morozov wore a dark grey business suit and an open-necked shirt. Turning to face the room, he looked round, puzzled, his eyes moving from one figure to another, as he tried to understand the scene he had walked into. Then he saw Brunovsky standing by the sofa. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Where is the owner? Who are all these people?”

  “Upstairs,” said Brunovsky. He waved a hand airily. “But she has no objection to your looking at the picture.”

  “Forbes told me I would be alone,” Morozov said tensely. “Have you bribed him too? If you have bought the painting, just say so and I will go back to London. But do not play games—I have had enough of your games, Brunovsky.”

  Brunovsky said something in Russian in a sharp, harsh voice. The explosive anger Liz had seen before seemed close to surfacing, but she noticed Greta give him a cautioning look. He contrived a small, phoney smile.

  “The picture is there,” he said in English, pointing at the canvas in the corner. “Be my guest. It is a little rich for my blood.” And he chuckled knowingly.

  Mystified, Morozov hesitated, then turned and stared at the painting on its easel. He walked closer to examine it, and Liz noticed that Greta still had her hand in her shoulder bag. Dimitri had moved and was standing now between Morozov and the door to the hall.

  Morozov inspected the picture for a moment, then uttered a caustic laugh. He turned to face the room and his eyes fastened on Greta and Dimitri.

  “For this you have brought me to Ireland?” he said, gesturing at the painting. “For this?” he said again, only this time there was an edge to his voice.

  He turned and contemplated the picture calmly. Then suddenly he stepped forward and smashed the back of his hand into the canvas. There was a ripping, tearing sound, and a large piece of canvas flopped like a loose shirttail to the floor.

  In the brief ensuing silence, Liz could only think that if Blue Mountain were authentic, it had just lost most of its £20 million value. But of course, Morozov had done nothing more than destroy fifty pounds’ worth of recently bought paint and canvas. Who had painted it? Dimitri quite possibly.

  “Why have you brought me to Ireland to show me an obvious fake?” Morozov demanded, turning to glare angrily at Brunovsky. “You thought I was so stupid that I would fall for it?”

  “Well, you came!” Brunovsky replied. Some of his self-assurance had returned and his customary grin appeared on his face.

  “What is the point of this charade?” asked Morozov angrily, addressing the room in general. “You have taken great trouble and you have spent many thousands of pounds, to do what? Just to fool me? Well, in that you have failed. I am not fooled.”

  Greta spoke, her voice calm and steely. “The picture was not the point of the exercise.”

  “What is the point then?” he demanded angrily.

  “You are the point, Comrade Morozov.”

  “I am no comrade of yours, whoever you are. I have a British passport.”

  “An officer of the KGB does not cease to be a Russian simply because he leaves the Service. He has his oath, his duty.”

  “What do you mean? Who are you?” demanded Morozov, his voice rising. For the first time Liz saw fear in his eyes.

  “You know very well what I mean. Predatel!” She spat out the word.

  “I am not a traitor,” Morozov protested.

  “What—are you saying now that you are a German? No true Russian would work for German masters as you did, Grigor Morozov. That is treason. Article 64 of the Soviet Code prescribes the death penalty for such a crime.”

  Morozov swallowed, seemingly struggling to keep his nerve. “I had no choice. The Germans paid for my son’s treatment. Do you know what that costs? How much it meant to me, who was paid as the Soviet state paid its servants?”

  Finding no sympathy in Greta’s eyes, he changed tack and addressed the room as though it were a business meeting. “There is now no such thing as the Soviet Union. It is history. You have no right to pursue a private citizen. I have a British passport. I am leaving now.”

  But he did not move. Greta also remained motionless. She said, “What you have done will not go away, Morozov. Treachery is not a crime which expires within seven years, like some others.”

  Morozov paled suddenly. He asked, “What are you going to do? Kill me?”

  “No,” Greta said, her voice calm and chilling. “We shall not kill you. We shall put you before a Russian judge. You will have your day in court, as your British friends say. But you know the sentence. The story of your treason will be known to all.”

  “You are taking me to Moscow?” asked Morozov with disbelief. “How are you going to get me there? You expect me to smile and bow at passport control?”

  “No,” said Greta. She gestured with her hand and Dimitri moved forward, producing out of nowhere two sets of plastic handcuffs.

  At the sight of them Morozov flinched, reflexively holding his arms straight out to his sides. Greta removed the pistol from her bag and pointed it straight at him, saying curtly, “Put your hands down.”

  He complied reluctantly, and Dimitri cuffed his wrists. Then he roughly pushed Morozov’s legs together and, kneeling down, snapped the second set around his ankles. He pushed the helpless Morozov on to a sofa and walked out of the room. Brunovsky stared uneasily out the window, scratching his jaw. No one spoke.

  After a minute or two Dimitri returned with Svetlana, who was carrying a syringe and a small bottle containing a clear liquid. She filled the syringe with the fluid. Morozov, on the sofa, moaned and squirmed. Svetlana lifted the syringe and inspected it admiringly. Then she moved towards Morozov.

  The Russian flinched and tried to struggle to his feet, twisting his body towards Jerry Simmons. “Help me,” he shouted, then seemed to grasp that nothing could or would be done. With an assertive push of one hand, Dimitri shoved him back on to the sofa and, seizing the lapels of Morozov’s jacket, opened them out until the jacket’s shoulders had slid halfway down his prisoner’s arms, encasing him in a home-made straitjacket. Simultaneously, Svetlana leant forward and with one deft move plunged the syringe into the Russian’s biceps, piercing the skin through his shirt. Morozov gave a short hoarse cry, and when Svetlana extracted
the syringe, a tiny circle of blood appeared on his shirt, spreading like an ink stain.

  “What have you done to me?” he demanded, wincing from the jab.

  “Don’t worry,” said Greta. She had relaxed, now that Morozov had been secured. “You won’t even go to sleep.”

  Rohypnol, thought Liz. The date-rape drug. Ten times stronger than Valium. They could walk Morozov through passport control, rather than having to carry him, explaining away his stupor as a vodka-fuelled binge. He wouldn’t be able to say much of anything—he’d just nod and smile dozily and before he knew it, he’d be flying at 35,000 feet towards Moscow.

  What would happen to him there? A trial, it seemed, though probably little better than a show trial. This one would be designed to show the prying Western media that the Russian state did things the right way. No assassinations, no radiation poisonings, but the punishment meted out would be the same. Death.

  Morozov’s eyes were growing glassy; already the drug was working. He said something in Russian and shook his head, fighting against the effects of the injection. Then he tried to say something else, but no sound came out.

  Greta turned to Dimitri and gave an order. He and Brunovsky lifted Morozov to his feet and shuffled him out between them. They were going to put him in the car. She turned to Liz and Simmons, silent spectators of the whole drama. “I’m going to put you two in the cellar, along with that old man who answers the door.” Then she added with an unpleasant smirk, “Perhaps later on, Miss Cottingham will let you out.”

  58

  A dead squirrel lay flattened on the gravel at the top of the drive, still bleeding. “There’s been a car along here recently,” said Rodrigues, looking in the mirror at Michael in the back seat.

  They were approaching the house that loomed at the end of the double row of lime trees, and a tense silence filled the car. Decay in all around I see, thought Michael as they neared, for though the building was an architectural jewel, it was a damaged one—he noted the missing tiles on the roof and the nest which rooks had made on top of one chimney. There was something spooky about the untended beauty of the place.

  Michael broke the silence. “Stop here,” he said abruptly, well short of the terminating semicircle of gravel, where they could see two large black limousines parked. Rodrigues grunted and pulled over. As they got out of the car, both he and Maloney unbuttoned the holsters of their side arms.

  The day was unseasonably cold, but the wind had died and a stillness hung like mist in the air. No birds sang, no cars hummed in the distance. They walked silently on the grass at the edge of the gravel drive, aware that the lime-tree avenue gave them little cover as they approached the house. Michael was very conscious of being in charge. This was his operation. But what was the best way to proceed? Ring the doorbell and ask for Miss Falconer? Find their own way in? There must be an open window somewhere.

  The answer came when the large front door creaked open and a short dark man came out, moving lithely, almost cockily down the steps. Michael recognised Brunovsky at once. He felt relief—if Brunovsky were still here, then Liz must be as well. And there was no sign that the oligarch was in any danger. Far from it—he was waiting for someone, and a moment later a tall, powerfully built figure in a leather jacket came out, supporting an older man, who looked ill.

  What’s going on? wondered Michael. Who was this sick man and why was he being helped to the car? Where the hell was Jerry Simmons?

  He knew they had to make a move. “Don’t let them drive away,” he instructed Rodrigues. It was then that they were spotted: as the tall man bundled the invalid into the Mercedes, he straightened up and pointed towards them, speaking urgently to Brunovsky.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Michael, and Maloney and Rodrigues began to run. By the car, the man in the leather jacket hesitated. For a moment Michael thought he would run for it.

  “Garda!” shouted Maloney. Then “Police!”

  The man turned to face them and raised his hands in surrender. It was Brunovsky who kept moving, sprinting towards the side of the house.

  “Stop,” shouted Maloney, but the Russian kept running. You idiot, thought Michael; didn’t he understand it was the Garda? Michael was also running now, only a few yards behind the Irish policemen, and as he reached the car he decided to leave Brunovsky to it; he would be easy to find in the grounds later on. Right now his priority was Liz, and he stopped and turned to Maloney. “Leave him,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the fleeing Russian. “Come with me.”

  They ran up the steps and into the house, where they stopped in the cavernous entrance hall and listened. Silence. Then, very faintly, they heard a slow thumping noise towards the rear of the building. Michael turned to Maloney and put a finger to his lips. “Wait here,” he whispered, “and don’t let anyone leave the house.”

  Michael moved cautiously along the corridor until he reached an open door. He peered into a sumptuous but faded drawing room, with a view of gardens and, in the distance, a large oval lake. There was a woman in the corner, struggling with one of the French windows. She was trying to open it, he realised, and when she saw him standing in the doorway, she turned back and pushed hard against the lock.

  “Where is Jane Falconer?” he demanded, just as the lock gave way and the French window flew open. Instinctively, Michael stepped forward into the room. “Wait,” he said, fearing the woman was about to run outside. “Don’t move.”

  She cast a look back at him, openly scornful, and he took two quick steps towards her. This must be Greta. He still expected her to run for it, and was taken by surprise when she suddenly reached into her bag. The next thing he knew she was holding a gun. She said, with the precision of a foreign speaker, “Do not get involved.”

  She’s going to get away, was his initial reaction before he had time to be afraid. “Put it down,” he said self-consciously, wondering where the line had come from. A movie? A thriller? He was amazed how calm he felt. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Maloney!” he suddenly shouted. And as he took another step towards her, watching for her to drop the gun, he wondered quite irrationally what Anna would think of him now.

  It was the last thought he ever had. Greta fired twice, though only the first shot was needed—it hit Michael two inches above his left eye, and killed him instantly.

  Maloney recognised the noise from the practice range, though he wanted it to be something else—a car backfiring, a balloon popped by a child; anything other than a gunshot. He was halfway down the hall when he heard it. Lord Jesus, he thought, then said it to himself, like a mantra, “Lord Jesus.”

  He was reaching for his holster as he approached the doorway and he stopped momentarily to be sure he had his gun in his hand before he went into the room. He had never, in thirty-seven years on the force, drawn a weapon in anger, and he was relieved to see that his hand was steady. Still, he felt slightly foolish, as his initial panic gave way to doubt—probably he would find nothing more than some people embarrassed by the accidental bang they’d caused.

  As he crossed the threshold of the room, his mind registered the body on the floor, crumpled and lying on its back. He realised it was the young lad from London, his eyes staring vacantly towards the high ceiling, a small black hole above one brow. But Maloney took this in only fleetingly, for in the background there was another figure, a woman, dressed smartly.

  He would not normally have seen a female as a threat, but he saw the expression on this woman’s face, an expression neither of panic nor shock but of determination. She was holding a pistol by her side and something—he was never able to say what—told him in unequivocal terms that she was going to shoot him dead. He held his arm out to its full length, and just as he saw her weapon start to swing up, he squeezed the trigger of his own gun.

  The noise and kick of the explosion surprised him, so much that he almost fell backwards. Recovering, he saw the woman drop the pistol, and his eyes watched with perverse fascination as it landed on its metal butt, bo
unced on the large Oriental rug, freakishly bounced again, then was suddenly smothered by the body of the woman as she collapsed on to the floor.

  The first thought that came into his head—though he was to tell no one this, not even his wife—was: that wasn’t so hard. But then he fell to his knees, literally knocked down by the realisation of what he had done. Lord Jesus.

  59

  I vow to thee my country—all earthly things above—

  Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love…

  The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,

  The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

  As they sang the hymn Liz noticed the brown-haired girl in the second row of pews. She was crying silently, tears streaming down her face. A university friend of Michael Fane’s? Perhaps even a girlfriend. More likely an ex-girlfriend, since she wasn’t sitting with members of the family—Geoffrey Fane, his former wife and an elderly woman Liz assumed must be a grandmother—in the front pew. The new French husband of the former Mrs. Fane had thought it politic not to make an appearance. So, less forgivably, had Brian Ackers.

  They were in the Chapel of the Order of St. Michael and St. George, located inconspicuously off the long nave of St. Paul’s Cathedral, separated by beautiful brass and iron grill doors. It was a small haven in a vast public space, though occasionally noise drifted through from the cathedral, which even on a weekday morning was streaming with tourists.

  The chapel seemed to Liz a strange choice for a service for someone as young as Michael. A choice made presumably by Geoffrey Fane, whose CMG, given to him fairly recently for his counter-terrorist work, would have entitled him to have his son’s memorial service there. “Call Me God” as the award was known frivolously, given for significant service to the state in the foreign arena. Both the honour and the chapel represented an Establishment Michael Fane would never make his mark on. Liz felt uneasy at the unstated implication that they were mourning the death of a future English leader, when she knew all too well that Michael Fane had not been making the grade. Maybe if he’d lived he would have done well. Certainly his last act had been brave, though also headstrong.