The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  It was only a short walk between the Global Logistics building and the monstrosity that had been foisted upon the Secret Intelligence Service as its new base of operations. It was a pleasant morning, but the good weather did nothing to brighten Control’s mood. He made his way in through the main entrance, passing through the mundane ignominies of the security scanners, and made his way up to the executive floor. The meeting was being held in one of the bland conference rooms next to the offices of the senior staff. Control was evidently the last attendee to arrive and, after acknowledging the others around the table, he took his seat and looked around. It was a particularly high-powered meeting; perhaps it was important, after all.

  There were eight others around the table. The government was represented by two ministers, together with their private secretaries. To his right was Harry Cousins, the defence secretary. Cousins was a stolid, reliable political operator, resilient enough to have enjoyed a long career under three different prime ministers and yet not devious or avaricious enough to progress beyond his current station. Next to Cousins was Christopher Younger, the foreign secretary. Younger was something of a media darling, derided by those in the intelligence community for his fondness for the limelight, his embarrassingly naked ambition and the occasional buffoonery that caused frequent embarrassment abroad.

  Representing the intelligence agencies were Sir Benjamin Stone and Vivian Bloom. Stone was SIS Chief; he was in his mid-fifties, a reasonably large man with a middle-age spread that he seemed uninterested in arresting. Bloom was the most interesting of the other senior attendees. He acted as the permanent liaison between the Firm and the Government. His nickname within the building was the Reverend. This sobriquet was derived from a brief appointment as the sub-rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, and, perhaps, the unruly dress sense that put Control in mind of a bumbling rural vicar. His appearance was deceiving, though, and Control had seen many people make the mistake of underestimating him. He was in his late sixties and had worked in the intelligence business since the start of the Cold War. One did not manage that sort of tenure without ruthlessness. Bloom was well connected, unfailingly zealous and duplicitous to a fault.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” Stone said. “Particularly on such short notice. Shall we start?” Stone continued without waiting for an answer. “How much do you know about the Sukhoi-58?”

  “The aircraft?” Cousins said. “Don’t you mean the Su-57? The one the Russians are building with the Indians?”

  “Were building,” Stone corrected. “The Indians pulled out and the Russians mothballed it—officially, at least.”

  “But the 58?”

  “Sukhoi has been working on two fighters. The Su-57 is the one that has been publicly acknowledged. Knowledge of the Su-58 has been restricted. We’ve only heard rumours up until now.” Stone turned to the others. “I’m assuming no one else knows anything about it?”

  “Nothing at all,” the foreign secretary said. Control thought that ignorance was always a safe assumption where Younger was concerned.

  “I can give you a short summary, Foreign Secretary,” Stone said diplomatically. “The aircraft has been given the NATO designation ‘Factor.’ The Russians have known for years that they’ve got nothing in the skies that can get close to the Americans’ fifth-generation fighters. It appears that Putin has decided that that state of affairs must be reversed, and has authorised a multi-billion-rouble design program that is much, much farther along than we thought it was. Our understanding from previous intelligence is that the Factor is a single-seat, twin-engine multirole fighter designed exclusively for air superiority and attack operations. The aircraft is stealth equipped with best-in-class front, side and rear radar. Thrust vectoring control, a top speed exceeding Mach 2.5 and advanced supermanoeuvrability. It will carry an extensive payload including air-to-air, air-to-surface and anti-ship missiles.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, sir, that it will immediately be the most advanced fighter in the world. It will be more than a match for the F-22 and F-35. The assessment has always been that if the rumours were correct, the jump from the F-35 to the Su-58 would be about the same as the jump from the Tornado to the Lightning. Night and day.”

  Cousins shook his head. “Why didn’t we know more about this?”

  “No one knew,” Stone said. “They’ve played it very cleverly. The focus was on the Su-57. They let us gloat when they pulled the plug on it, but it was just misdirection. The real work was in Komsomolsk. We knew they’d built two new factories in the Russian Far East. We thought they were to handle the mass production of the Su-57. We were wrong.”

  The foreign secretary knocked his knuckles against the table in a show of annoyance. “Might have been helpful to have had a little more intelligence before we paid the Americans £2.5 billion for fifty Lightnings, together with spending another half a billion at Marham so that we can fly the bloody things.”

  “Yes,” Stone said. “That would have been wonderful, but I’m afraid they played us. Credit where credit is due. It’s been an impressive counter-intelligence operation.”

  The atmosphere in the room had chilled. Control knew why: this kind of revelation would cause problems in lots of different departments and agencies, and the attendees were already working out how to deflect the blame and whom to scapegoat.

  “What does this have to do with us?” Control said.

  Stone steepled his fingers. “The Russians have been flawless so far, but we may have enjoyed a stroke of good fortune. We came into possession of this document on Sunday evening.”

  Control, Younger, Cousins and Bloom leaned forward as the chief took a manila envelope from a sealed plastic document pouch. Stone slid his fingers inside and drew out two pieces of paper, which he placed on the table. The others stood up and leaned in so that they could see them. Control looked down at the documents: the first was an email and the second was a photograph of a schematic. It looked like part of a military jet.

  “What is this?” Younger said.

  “We retrieved it from the email account of Leonard Geggel. The schematic is the aft deck heating contour map of the Su-58. We believe that Pyotr Aleksandrov gave it to Geggel in Southwold before he was murdered. Geggel photographed it and sent it to himself—it’s standard redundancy, in case anything happened to the original. Turns out he was very sensible. The original wasn’t found on his body or in his car.”

  “Why did Aleksandrov give it to him?” Younger asked.

  “We had no idea until this morning, when we received this.”

  Stone took out a third piece of paper. It was a copy of a handwritten note. He tapped his finger against it. “This was delivered to the front desk of the British Consulate in Vladivostok. A courier brought it in and left it. Nothing else. Control,” Stone said, “would you do the honours?”

  The document contained a paragraph of handwritten Russian text. Control’s Russian was decent from the time he had worked at Moscow Station during the Cold War. He read it out loud.

  ‘My name is Anastasiya Romanova. I am the daughter of Pyotr Ilyich Aleksandrov, who was murdered by the Russian state in England two days ago. I am an aerospace engineer responsible for the development of the Sukhoi-58 aircraft. My father was attempting to arrange the terms of my defection to the United Kingdom when he was killed. I still wish to defect. I have extensive data relating to the Su-58 and I am prepared to give it to British intelligence in return for safe passage, protection for me once I arrive there and ten million pounds sterling. These terms are non-negotiable. If you are interested, I will be at the railway station at Komsomolsk-on-Amur at midday on Friday. Your agent should carry a copy of the Komsomolskaia Pravda. I will introduce myself to them if I am satisfied that it is safe to do so. If I am not satisfied, I will return the next day. In the meantime, please find enclosed a further schematic from the Su-58 to demonstrate my good faith.’

  Stone held up a fourth piece of paper with another cutaway diagr
am. “This is the hard-point for a new air-to-air missile. We don’t have a NATO designation for it. We didn’t even know it existed.”

  “Is this all legitimate?” Younger asked.

  “It’s been checked,” Stone said. “It’s the real deal. You recall that we have a source within the Center?”

  BLUEBIRD. They wouldn’t reveal the cryptonym to civilians who couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut.

  “Yes,” Younger said. “I remember.”

  “We spoke with them,” Stone went on. “Goes without saying that this is eyes-only classified.” Stone took a sip from his cup and eyed them all for confirmation that they understood. They each nodded that they did, and he continued. “Pyotr Aleksandrov contacted Leonard Geggel and arranged the meeting in Southwold, after which they were both killed. What we didn’t know was why Aleksandrov wanted to meet, and why they were murdered. Our source indicated that Nikolai Primakov, the deputy director of Directorate S, led the Kremlin to believe that Aleksandrov was trying to sell a list of active SVR agents to us, and had to be killed because of it. But that looks to have been a lie. It was the Su-58 on the table, not their agents.”

  Control knew of Primakov. They were of similar age and had been on opposing sides for years. “Why would Primakov lie about something like that? If Putin found out he’d been misled…”

  “Quite,” Stone said. “We don’t know, but we are looking into it. For now, though, it would appear”—he tapped his finger against the letter—“that Aleksandrov was trying to sell the secrets his daughter has stolen.”

  “What do we know about her?” Younger asked.

  “A good question, Foreign Secretary,” Bloom said, taking over. “We’ve been busy investigating her, as you might imagine. We’re still building the picture, but it appears that she works for Sukhoi, and has done ever since she graduated from AFA State Technical University in Moscow. She’s thirty-nine and brilliant—she was given the Russian Federation Presidential Certificate of Honour for contributions to science. Our understanding was that there was a rift between father and daughter when he defected. Aleksandrov’s file was full of it—he said that both Anastasiya and his wife were patriots, and that they disowned him after he was convicted of spying for us. It would appear that she has had a change of heart.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “Our source reports that Anastasiya’s husband was arrested and imprisoned a year ago. We believe he died in the gulag. Some disagreement with an oligarch who is close to the Kremlin—the usual. It seems likely that his death changed her view on the motherland. But it doesn’t really matter. The schematic is authentic and Romanova checks out. There’s more than enough here for us to take it seriously.”

  “Before you ask,” Stone took over, “we are aware that this could be a trap. It’s difficult to get any certainty out of Russia and we’re being forced to move fast—that means there’s a risk. On the other hand, our source thinks that this is legitimate. On balance, we think it’s something we have to move on. The benefits are significant.”

  Younger gave an overly dramatic nod, his bouffant hair bouncing. “Assuming we give this the green light, what comes next?”

  “That’s what we need to decide. The operation against the two Russian assassins is ready to go ahead. Control?”

  Control pursed his lips as he weighed it all up; he knew that he was about to be asked to change his plans. “I have two assets in theatre, and the intelligence on Kuznetsov and Timoshev has been passed to a cut-out. The cut-out will meet with my agents in”—he checked his watch—“two and a half hours. Assuming that everything is acceptable, the plan is to go ahead tonight.”

  “I propose a variation,” Bloom said. “Benjamin and I have spoken and we believe there might be a way that this could be done. Does the operation against the Russians need two agents?”

  “Ideally, yes,” Control said.

  “You have half a day—could you get another agent over there?”

  “Possibly.” Control looked at his watch; it was half-ten. He sighed. “Probably.”

  “Then that’s what we should do. Split your agents up. Send one to Komsomolsk to meet Aleksandrov’s daughter. The other one can stay in Moscow and do what needs to be done. It’ll draw the Center’s attention inward. Might be a distraction.”

  Control didn’t object; he knew there was no point. The decision had already been made.

  “Foreign Secretary?”

  “Happy to defer to you chaps,” he said.

  Stone turned to Cousins. “Secretary of Defence?”

  “This is your area. I’ll go along with your recommendation.”

  “And the PM?”

  “Yes,” Cousins said. “We should mention it to her, yes. But I doubt she will have a problem.”

  “That’s settled, then. Control—can I leave the arrangements with you?”

  “What about local liaison?” Control said. “Moscow is one thing. We have support there. But Komsomolsk is something else altogether.”

  “Doesn’t SIS have an agent runner with your assets? I don’t remember her name.”

  “Her name is Ross,” Stone said. “Raj Shah vouched for her. Says she’s good. Excellent Russian, a cleanskin as far as the FSB is concerned—I’ve no objections with you borrowing her. She can go with whoever you choose to send.”

  Bloom looked across the table at Control. “You’ll get onto it?”

  Control stood. “I will.”

  “If you need anything—”

  “Thank you,” Control cut over him. “It’s in hand. I’ll report later, when it’s done, but I need to get back to the office. I have a telephone call to make.”

  50

  Control stood at the wide office window that overlooked the Thames and tamped down tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. He clenched the stem between his teeth and puffed down as he held a match to the bowl. His mouth filled with the taste of the smoke and he held it there for a moment before angling his head and emitting it in a long, languid stream that would hang in the room for hours. It was midday, and the sun was directly over the buildings on the other side of the water. He looked down and saw the familiar swell of traffic on the road that followed the river. He stood there for a moment and watched, allowing his thoughts to settle.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Control said.

  Tanner opened the door. “Callan is outside, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  Tanner stepped aside and, after a short pause, a new man stepped into the office. Christopher Callan was in his mid-thirties. He was tall and thin and elegantly dressed: he wore a dark grey suit with a faint herringbone pattern, his trousers neatly creased and his shoes polished to a high sheen. He undid the button of his jacket as he came inside and, as it fell open, Control saw two things: an understated lilac-coloured lining and the glint of a pistol holstered just beneath his left armpit. Callan would have been considered handsome by most people, but there was something a little alien in his appearance that Control found unsettling. His head was smaller than usual, crowned by a nest of tight curls that reminded him of the statues of da Vinci. His skin, too, was as alabaster-white as those statues.

  “Sit,” Control said, gesturing to the comfortable chairs before the table.

  Callan sat. Control watched him. His lips were thin and pale. His eyes were pale, too, almost limpid. There was a natural cruelty in his face. Control had been alerted to the man’s potential and, after studying his record, had decided that he was worthy of further investigation. He had served with distinction in the Special Boat Service until very recently. His father’s business had collapsed and Callan had passed the naval scholarship examination to pay for his school fees. He had served in the SBS company in the Middle East and had commanded a Marine company in Afghanistan. He had been in Kabul when a Taliban suicide squad had commandeered a tower block overlooking the embassy district and started firing grenades and automatic weaponry. Callan had commanded
the SBS team who cleared the building. None of the jihadis had walked out of that building alive.

  Control took the teapot and poured out two cups, handing one to Callan.

  “Congratulations are in order, Mr. Callan,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “One of my agents was killed in action yesterday morning. That means a vacancy has arisen. I’d like you to fill it—if you’re still interested in working for me, of course.”

  “Yes, sir,” Callan said quickly. His enthusiasm was obvious.

  Callan had been subjected to the usual barrage of tests that awaited any potential recruit to the Group. He had been taken to the Group’s facility at Trafalgar Place in Wiltshire where he had performed well. His recordable metrics were first rate, and he had returned an excellent score in the final assessment in the Brecon Beacons. He had been subjected to two days of brutal interrogation and his background had been given a forensic examination. There was nothing to cause concern: he was single, possibly homosexual, no close friends; his parents were dead; no obvious foibles or weaknesses that could be used against him; he lived for his work. In short, nothing had been uncovered that had warranted concern.

  His physical scores were excellent and so, too, was his psychological report. The Group psychiatrists had reported a natural callousness and lack of empathy, together with a lack of concern for the feelings of others. They had suggested a possible inability to feel emotions deeply, together with an inability to acknowledge fear in others. There was an extremely high threshold for disgust, as demonstrated when Callan was shown pictures of battlefield fatalities. Control could diagnose that easily enough: these were all symptomatic of psychopathy. It did not concern Control at all. It was just a label, and, indeed, the qualities of a person whom society might deem psychopathic were useful in an agent, up to a point.