by Mark Dawson
Mikhail had been in these situations before and trusted his judgment. He could tell when someone was lying; a gun pointed at the head had the useful consequence of eliciting the truth, and, when it did not, there were other ways. He watched Aleksandrov’s performance now—pitiful, begging—and doubted that he was lying. They had intercepted the emails. They had monitored his phone calls. There was nothing to suggest that he was holding anything back, but he had to ask the questions. Now, though—now that he had the answers, and believed them—there was nowhere left to go.
“You should have said no,” he said, standing. “You should have told her to hand herself in. It would have made things much easier for you both.”
He raised the pistol, aimed it, and fired a single round. The suppressor muffled the report, the shot punching into Aleksandrov’s head flush between the eyes. He jerked back and then fell to the side, his face pointed up at the ceiling, one leg on the floor, one arm draped over the side of the settee. Blood pulsed out of the hole and dripped down onto the carpet.
Mikhail raised his arm so that he could look at his watch. He had been inside the house for five minutes. He set the timer for an additional five minutes and then, without sparing a second look at the dead man on the settee, he started to search the house.
9
They passed over Buss Creek, through Blackwater and then across the fields, the wide-open spaces, flat for as far as Nataliya could see. She was in the middle of the three seats behind the two seats in the front. She had lowered the pistol, reaching ahead so that she could press it into Geggel’s ribs. The old spy drove carefully, a steady fifty, both hands on the wheel just as Nataliya had instructed.
“Who are you?” he asked, looking back in the mirror. Nataliya saw the fear in his eyes. He was an agent runner, not an agent. He might never have had a gun pointed at him before; he might never have seen a gun.
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” she said.
His voice was tight with tension. “So what is this to do with?”
“Why did you come here, Mr. Geggel?”
He glanced back again. He could have tried to deflect, to say that he had visited for the sea air, but, to his credit, he didn’t. He must have known who she was and who she represented. It wouldn’t be difficult to join the dots from there.
“To see my friend,” he said. “It’s about him, isn’t it? Aleksandrov?”
“We know why he wanted to see you, Mr. Geggel. We’ve been watching him for several days. We heard his telephone call to you. We’ve been reading his emails.”
“So what do you need me to say?”
“Did he tell you about his daughter?”
“He did.”
“And?”
“He said she wanted to defect.”
“In return for what?”
“She has schematics for a new Sukhoi fighter that she said she was prepared to sell in exchange for our help. He wanted me to speak to Vauxhall Cross.”
“And you said?”
“I said that I would.” He looked up at her in the mirror. “But I don’t have to do that.”
“Do you have the schematic?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Give it to me.”
She gave the pistol a little shove to remind him that it was there and waited as he took his left hand from the wheel so that he could reach into his jacket. He took out a piece of paper and held it up so that Nataliya could take it. She kept the gun where it was and took the paper in her left hand, unfolding it and taking a quick glimpse. She didn’t know anything about aviation, but she recognised that it was a cross-section of a piece of aeronautical equipment.
Geggel put his hand back on the wheel. They had reached the junction. He indicated, turned right and then joined the A12.
“What did he say about his daughter?”
“Not much.” He left it at that until she poked him with the gun again. “She used to love Russia and hate her father. Now she hates Russia and hopes he might be able to save her. He said something about her husband being murdered. Sounds like your people fucked up.”
The attitude was unexpected, and she saw that he was watching in the mirror as he delivered it. She didn’t know what he hoped it might achieve.
“You want to know where she is?” he suggested, still watching in the mirror.
“Did he say?”
“He did. What do I get if I tell you?”
“Perhaps you don’t get shot—”
Geggel took his left hand off the wheel and stabbed down for the gun. Nataliya had been distracted for a moment by the suggestion that Geggel might offer Anastasiya Romanova’s location, and what she could offer him to divulge it, and wasn’t able to move the gun away before he was able to grab her wrist. The gun jerked down, the sudden movement forcing her finger back on the trigger, and the weapon discharged. The Citroën swerved right and then left, narrowly missing oncoming traffic. There was a lay-by next to the road, a barbed wire fence marking its boundary along the lip of a slope that descended into the field below. The Citroën raced over the lay-by, crashed through the fence, continued over the lip and then bounced down the slope. Nataliya wasn’t wearing a belt, and braced herself against the seat, all thoughts of covering Geggel with the gun temporarily suspended. She caught a glimpse of the land ahead of them: a wide margin of scrubland, a fringe of trees and then an expanse of mudflats.
The car was still moving fast. It reached the bottom of the slope and now it was racing through a gap in the trees. It continued on, bumping and bouncing over the uneven ground until it reached the mudflats. Nataliya braced for a sudden stop. The back end jerked up as the bonnet plunged into the mud. Nataliya was thrown forward, her head cracking into Geggel’s headrest.
10
Mikhail returned to the house across the street, unlocked the front door of the house that they had been using and went inside. There was a mirror over the occasional table, and he turned to look into it. The disguise was one that he had used before: the unruly beard, wild hair and thin metal-framed spectacles had always reminded him of Molodtsov, the garrulous teacher who had taught both him and Nataliya English at the KGB Academy in Michurinsky Prospekt. The likeness was so similar that Mikhail referred to the disguise as ‘The Professor,’ and it had become something of a standing joke between him and his wife. The Professor had always been reliable, and it was with some regret that he had decided that he would have to retire him from now on.
He went into the downstairs bathroom and stood in front of the mirror above the sink. He reached up to behind his ear and found a loose edge where the beard had not adhered perfectly to his skin. He slid his fingers beneath the backing and pulled until the beard came away. He dropped it into the bin, removed the pins that held the wig in place and then put them and the wig into the bin, too. He took off the glasses and rinsed his face in the cold water, removing all traces of the adhesive. He took the bag out of the bin and carried it back to the kitchen. There was an open refuse sack on the counter; Nataliya had already emptied the fridge. He put the bag inside the sack, knotted it, and took it to the front door. They would take their rubbish with them.
He looked at his watch and set another timer, this one for ten minutes. He needed to move fast. He went into the front room and disconnected the cameras and computers. He unplugged the hard drives and slid them into a sports bag so that they were ready to be removed. He collected all the paper that he could find, dumped it in the grate and lit it. He hurried upstairs. They had unpacked only what they needed, and so he stuffed the used clothes back into the bags, bagged up and added their toiletries, zipped the bags up and slid them down the stairs. He checked each room, one by one, moving quickly but methodically, and satisfied himself that they were leaving nothing behind that might compromise them. He made his way back downstairs and, after checking that the road was quiet, he transferred all the bags into the back of his car. He locked up, got into the car, and checked his watch.
Eight minutes.
Nataliya touched her fingers to her forehead and looked at them: they were stained with blood. She must have cut herself on the edge of the headrest when she banged into it. Her neck felt sore and her back was stiff. She wiped the blood away and looked around: the car had come to rest at the edge of the estuary, left at an angle as the front had ploughed into the start of the mudflats. The back end was off the ground and the wheels were still spinning. The road was behind them, elevated above the flats, but it looked as if the car would be partially hidden by the line of trees.
She took out her phone and called Mikhail.
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
She heard the sound of a car. “On my way,” he said. “Are you all right? You sound—”
“He crashed the car,” she said. The words were slurred, as if they were too large for her mouth.
“Are you hurt?”
“Banged my head.”
“I’ll come back. Where are you?”
“Just after the turn-off to the town.”
“I’ve got you,” he said. Nataliya knew that he would be able to find her with the GPS tracker on her phone. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Nataliya put the phone in her pocket and pushed herself upright. A bolt of pain radiated out from her neck. Whiplash. She found the piece of paper that Geggel had given her and stuffed it into her pocket. She slid across the cabin, opened the door and lowered herself down. The ground was boggy, her feet squelching as she went ahead and opened the passenger door. She climbed back inside and looked at Geggel. He was slumped against the deflating airbags, his breath wheezing in and out, shallow and faint. There was blood on his thigh; she pulled his jacket back and saw a wide patch of blood on his shirt. The shot that Nataliya had fired had hit him below the ribs and behind his belly, in the area of his left kidney. He was bleeding out.
“Help me.”
Geggel’s voice was weak, barely audible. He had turned his head to look at her; he mouthed the words again.
She reached down for his leg and yanked it, dragging his foot off the accelerator so that the engine’s hopeless whining ended. She reached inside his jacket pocket and found his wallet and phone, put them on the dash and, covering her fingers with her sleeve, opened the glovebox. It was full of junk: a box from an old satnav, a collection of phone charging cables, and the litter of crumpled-up receipts and empty crisp packets. She filtered through the mess but found nothing of interest.
She took the pistol and pressed the muzzle of the suppressor against his head.
“Where is Anastasiya Romanova?”
He tried to speak, but all she could hear was the wheezing of his breath.
Her head pounded and she felt blood running down into her brow. “Where is Anastasiya Romanova?”
“I…”
She shoved the pistol, bending Geggel’s neck away, forcing his head over onto his shoulder. “Where is she?”
“I… don’t… know.”
Nataliya pushed the door open with her foot and stepped out again. Geggel turned his head, resting it against the wheel. He looked back at her with desperation in his eyes; it looked as if he didn’t have the strength to speak again.
Nataliya aimed into the cabin and shot him again. The report, although muffled by the suppressor, still rang out over the estuary; a flock of black-headed gulls clattered out of the reeds and took to the air. Geggel’s head jerked to the side, jerked back again and finally slumped forward against the wheel.
Nataliya followed the track that the car had left through the damp ground and clambered up the slope. Purchase was difficult and she was unsteady on her feet; she drove the heels of her boots into the scree to stop herself from slipping back down again. She reached the top. A car sped away to the north. It didn’t stop; there was no reason why it would. Even if the driver had noticed her as she struggled over the lip of the slope, he or she would have concluded that she had just been caught short and had gone to relieve herself.
A car approached from the south. Nataliya recognised it, and as it drew nearer, she saw Mikhail. He went by, braked, indicated right, and then used the Southwold turning to loop around. He drew up in the lay-by and reached across to open the passenger door. Nataliya dropped inside.
“Your head,” he said.
Her thoughts were cloudy. “Banged it. Might be concussed.”
“Geggel?” he asked her.
“Dead.”
“Anything?”
“He doesn’t know,” she said.
Mikhail put the car into first, checked the mirror, and pulled out onto the road. Nataliya opened the glovebox and took out a bottle of painkillers. She shook out two, put them in her mouth and then washed them down with water from the bottle that Mikhail had left in the cupholder. If it was a concussion, it was a mild one, but it wouldn’t have made a difference; a doctor was out of the question. She reclined the seat and leaned back against it. She knew the drill: Mikhail would conduct a careful dry-cleaning run to shake out any tails. She had a few hours to relax before they got home.
Mikhail took out his phone and made a call to Vincent to report the outcome of their afternoon’s work. Nataliya closed her eyes and let the sound of the tyres on the rough tarmac lull her to sleep.
London
11
Vincent Beck had a flat on the twelfth floor of the Lannoy Point tower block in Fulham. He had lived here for fifteen years, ever since his wife had passed away. He had made it his own in that time: it was comfortably furnished, nothing too expensive, with his one extravagance being his Rega turntable. He loved classical music, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than to put a record on, sit at his small dining table and look out and enjoy the view over west London.
The flat was pleasant and there was a strong sense of community in the building, but neither of those benefits had influenced Beck’s decision to purchase it. His one requirement, when he had been looking at the sixties tower blocks that dominated this part of the city, had been that the flat that he settled on be on the top floor. The reason was simple: his burst transmitter had a clear line of sight to the satellite right out of the windows.
He went into his bedroom and dropped down to his hands and knees. He kept his encoder hidden in the false bottom of a suitcase that was, in turn, hidden away beneath his bed. He opened the case, prised back the panel, and took out the encoder. It was the DKM-S model; twenty years old, but it had always been reliable and—even though he generally had no time for superstition—Beck was loath to ask for a replacement. The DKM-S was a compact device that was about the size of a small paperback book, its electronics housed within a lightweight grey Hammerite aluminium case. There was a sixteen-button keypad on the front panel; Beck composed his classified zapiska and checked the output via the LED display. The burst transmission allowed for only a limited amount of characters, and so he had to be brief.
Both neutralised. House closed down. Assets left area safely. Meeting assets tonight. Will report.
The encoder would compress the message and then broadcast it at a high data signalling rate, reducing the chances of it being intercepted. He pressed the button to send the message, waited until it had gone and then imagined Nikolai Primakov’s reaction. The message would be translated and delivered to him at his desk in his expansive office overlooking the forest at Yasenevo. Beck knew that Primakov would be pleased. This assignment, more than any of the others that he had overseen for the deputy director, had clearly been weighing on his mind. Its flawless execution would be a relief.
Beck switched off the encoder and replaced it in its hiding place. He stood up, stretching out the kinks in his back, and went through to the sitting room. He had a journey to make later tonight, and he needed to start the preparations.
12
John Milton sat on a wooden bench
in the gardens outside the hospital building. He was too afraid to go inside. It was more than just fear, though: there was guilt and shame, too. The numbing hangover didn’t help, either.
Milton had taken the Tube to Mile End station, and then walked the rest of the way. It was just before seven on a sunny Sunday evening, and the Mile End Road had been quieter than would have been the case during the rest of the week. Milton had followed the details he had written down on the back of his hand, turning onto Bancroft Road and then making his way through the grounds of the hospital to the Burdett Centre. It was a new building, single storey and surrounded by a pleasant and well-tended garden. There was a lawn and a fountain and a row of tall elms that swayed in the gentle breeze. Milton had found the bench and sat down; it offered a vantage point to watch the other men and women as they arrived and made their way inside. He had counted a dozen, three of whom had returned outside to smoke. He didn’t know how many people would attend a meeting. He had never been to one before, and, save what he had been able to read on the internet that morning, he had no idea what to expect.
Milton wanted to join them. He had made his way here because he knew now, beyond any doubt, that he needed help. But that was all well and good; knowing that something was wrong was one thing, but admitting to himself that he was out of control and helpless to his compulsion was something else entirely. He didn’t know if he would be able to do that.
There was another reason for his reticence. Control would not look kindly on him if he knew that he was here. It would speak of weakness, for one thing, a feebleness that would have him suspended and fast-tracked to an appointment with the Group psychiatrists who would prod and poke him until they had diagnosed the cause of his mental ailment. More than that, Control would know—as Milton knew—that the meetings that Milton was considering encouraged a frank and open sharing of the reasons why the attendees resorted to the bottle. Milton’s particular profession required the utmost discretion, and even a hint of negligence in that regard would have him placed under house arrest, at best.
