Patriots
Page 35
Serov took the chair at which he waved a white hand. The estate agent’s bottom remained in mid-air until his own was safely grounded.
‘I want to buy a good London property. A home but also a good investment.’
The agent smiled. ‘Certainly, sir. Have you had a look at any of the properties we have on display?’
‘No.’
The smile was unshakable. ‘Did you wish to do so first, sir?’
‘No. I will tell you the kind of property I seek. You will recommend some that may suit. I know what I want.’
‘Of course, sir.’ A pad of forms had appeared beneath the white hand.
Serov adopted a look of concentration. ‘I do not mind which area, provided only that it is good. I understand from my English friends that places like St John’s Wood or Hampstead would be ideal. You have properties in those areas? Price is not a constraining factor – investment potential is at least as important. It is important that the property is secluded, with good grounds – a country house in town. It must be good for entertaining, it must have adequate guest and staff quarters and be capable of being equipped with excellent security systems. I am not interested in whatever systems any particular property may already have – I prefer to have one fitted to my own requirements …’
They spent five or six minutes on the specification; the white hand fairly flew across the pad. Serov gave his name as Lüeck, described himself as a West German ‘in electronics’, and assured the estate agent that sterling finance wasn’t a problem.
‘It may be worth mentioning,’ he concluded, ‘that my business is internationally based. I have financial arrangements in many foreign places –’
The young man was poker faced. ‘It would be against the law to make any payments overseas, sir, in respect of UK property sales. But I expect you know that. You were merely thinking that if the vendor were himself making an overseas move, as you have done to come here, your international contacts might be able to assist him.’
‘Precisely. I know how awkward foreign moves can be.’
They understood each other. Serov watched as the soft hands began to leaf through a stack of colourful property brochures, extracting some into a separate, smaller pile.
He lit a cigar and waited to look through them. The estate agent couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old. Serov watched the scrubbed fingers as they flicked over the pages. When they picked up a pen to jot a note, they held it with a poise that told him they’d practised until the most graceful writing attitude had been found. When the agent made a phone call to check some detail or other, the way he cradled the phone and his intonation had the same air of studied rehearsal. These were the instruments and routines of his work, and everything about him said that they were important; which meant that he was important too.
Serov thought about another young man of twenty-three. With no studied airs. And no importance. Not then, anyway. And he heard the voice of a dry old man in a dusty room talking down to him.
*
‘It’s just that the young people who attend this academy are … rather special, intellectually. I’d like my captain adjutant to be able to relate directly to them.’
‘I understand, comrade Major. I’ll make special efforts.’
‘You will. Good. Be seated.’ Kunaev peeled off the pebble glasses, one wire loop at a time, and peered across the desk at him. ‘Izmaylovo is one of only three top secret training facilities of its kind administered by the First Chief Directorate. You’re very honoured to be posted here, young man. You’ll understand that better if I tell you that we were set up by none other than comrade General Secretary Khrushchev himself. And our purpose, Captain? Our purpose is to train a very special type of sleeper agent. You’re familiar with the term “sleeper”?’
‘Yes, comrade Major. An agent who spends time under cover before he begins operating.’
‘Correct. His first priority is to build the credibility of his cover identity – his legend. When he finally becomes active, perhaps not until several months later, the legend is strong and believable.’ Kunaev rose from the desk and stood by the window to look out into the summer garden. ‘The sleepers we train here, however, are unique in certain ways – ways which are of overwhelming importance and on which we never compromise. First, our sleepers are always citizens by birth of the country in which they will operate. Thus, when they’re in position there’s never any question of their having to adopt a false identity, because after their training here they go back to being who they were, where they were. This minimises the risk of detection. Second, their only motivation is ideological; we reject the use of bribery or entrapment as techniques of recruitment because experience has shown that those methods are unreliable in the long term. And our whole purpose is long term. Our agents, whatever their land of birth, are true patriots of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics – as true as you and I. Mere citizenship or nationality, you see, is no more than an accident of birth; but patriotism is a choice – the noblest choice a person can make. Third, our sleepers are drawn without exception from the ranks of the brightest and most promising of their generation. Hence my anxiety about your own limited educational attainments. Fourth –’ He broke off abruptly and turned from the window. ‘Let me ask you something, Captain. If a few months can build a credible legend for a sleeper, what do you suppose fifteen or twenty years would achieve?’
The question took young Serov by surprise. ‘I don’t know. The best cover possible, I should think.’
‘The very best! A virtually impenetrable legend. Think about it – half a man’s working life spent building his persona. Friendships, a career, putting down roots, becoming a member of his local community. That agent would be almost unassailable, wouldn’t he?’
‘That’s what people are trained for here?’
Kunaev looked pleased with the effect his words were having. ‘We prepare such men. And some women too. There’ll be more women in years to come, as Western society catches up with ours. Where was I? Yes – time. The fourth fundamental principle of our work is that Izmaylovo-trained agents will not be activated for fifteen or perhaps even twenty years. I see you’re still having difficulty with this concept, Captain. You’ll grow used to it. As for the reason behind such a strategy – that brings us to the fifth feature that makes us unique.’
He returned to the desk, resumed his seat and replaced the pebble glasses.
‘We will activate our agents only when they have ascended to the highest levels of whatever governmental, scientific, military, political or academic establishments they are targeted to penetrate. Then and only then will they begin active work for us. Depending on where we have seeded them and our requirements at the time, this might range from accessing specific intelligence that is available only at that level, to merely acting as agents of influence to foster pro-Soviet opinion.’ Now he beamed with satisfaction. ‘That is their ultimate purpose, Captain. It explains why we are prepared to wait so long before activating them. We mustn’t use them prematurely to deliver information that we can get by other means – such as the use of less elite agents. You see, there’s a rule with sleepers: the earlier they’re activated and the more active they become, the higher the risk of their being exposed. All sleeper agents are valuable. They’re difficult to insert, difficult to maintain, difficult to replace. Think how infinitely more irreplaceable the Izmaylovo agents will be – the very best, planned to rise to the highest echelons. So we must wait until they get there, Captain. If you look upon them as an investment for our future, then being prepared to wait patiently is how we protect that investment.’
‘How many agents does Izmaylovo train at any one time, Major?’
He’d thought it an innocent enough query. But Kunaev stared at him through the thick, round lenses as if he’d just asked the colour of the red flag.
‘One, of course, Captain. It’s not Red Army squaddies we’re training, you know.’
‘No, comrade Major. Of course.’
‘I’ll take you to meet our current trainee,’ he said to Serov. ‘He’s a young Englishman about your own age. Incidentally, our trainees always have code names. Use them at all times – never their real names. This Englishman’s code is Boyar. Can you remember that?’
‘I’ll make special efforts, comrade Major.’
*
‘I think you’ll find these meet your specification nicely, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
Serov stared blankly at the earnest young eyes for a moment, then jerked his thoughts back to the present.
‘Oh yes,’ he said crisply. ‘Very good.’ He looked down at the sheaf of brochures on the desk.
‘I’ve tried to select a cross section from a range of districts, sir – all of them first class, of course. But I thought you might find it helpful to compare the ambience of each. We like to say that London is really made up of a whole jumble of villages, each with its own atmosphere and character. Do you know London well, sir?’
‘Not very well.’
‘In that case, would you like to take advantage of our escorted viewing service? One of our senior associates would be delighted to oblige. At no cost – and with no commitment, of course.’
‘No, that will not be necessary.’
But the young man had been well trained in pampering the rich; he found it confusing to be fended off. All kinds of helpful things continued to tumble forth: maps, insurance, advice, details of their removals service, warnings not to delay before making an appointment to view. It took Serov fifteen minutes to escape to a coffee shop for peace to go through the brochures by himself.
From Berkeley Square he went to Kensington and turned down Young Street. At its far end was a car park; he drove up to the uncovered top floor and parked. The block had a lift and two stairways to ground level, but he ignored them and walked instead down the narrow kerb along the side of the vehicle ramp.
He was carrying the yellow lunch box.
On Level 2 he walked back and forth between the ranks of parked cars, jingling his keys and looking at the cars as if he’d forgotten where he’d parked. He was checking to see that all the cars were empty.
Half a floor down from him was Level 1, partially visible from where he was walking, and vice versa. He went down the ramp and checked it with the same thoroughness.
It was Saturday. There were no vacant spaces on Levels 1 or 2, and the cars that arrived as he was making his checks continued on up to the higher levels, leaving him undisturbed.
Two or three minutes later he returned to the top floor. He was now empty handed. He unlocked the Ferrari but didn’t get inside. Instead he turned the ignition key and wound down both front windows. Before closing the door he switched the telephone over from standby to receive.
He’d parked at the side of the floor that overlooked Young Street. Now he lit a cigar and rested his forearms comfortably on the rampart while he surveyed the view.
*
Knight made his call from a public call box in Exhibition Road that stank of urine.
Serov did most of the talking. His instructions were crisp and unambiguous, suggesting that he’d prepared them carefully and rehearsed them to himself in the proper way. He stated them just once. Knight tried to repeat them back to him but found that the line had gone dead.
Glad to be out in the air again after the stench of the phone box, Knight set off at a brisk pace west along Kensington Gore. By the time a bus appeared he’d got as far as the Royal Garden Hotel and the bus wasn’t worth boarding.
He found the car park without difficulty and took the stairs at the side of the block, as Serov had advised; the employees at the paybox in the vehicle entrance wouldn’t welcome a tramp.
When he pushed through the door on Level 2 he saw the rubbish bin a few yards away on his right and sauntered over to see if it was the correct one. It was: a cross had been marked on its lid in yellow chalk.
The fried chicken carton was near the top. Inside it, slightly slicked with grease, was a yellow plastic lunch box. His fingers closed on it and lifted it out.
*
There was by now a small mound of cigar butts by Serov’s toe, in the gutter behind the parapet. He let another one fall from his fingertips onto the pile and stepped on it just at the moment that Knight reappeared on the street below. The mackintosh flapped open as he hurried off towards Kensington High Street, and obscured the article that he was carrying under one arm. But not before Serov had caught a glimpse of yellow and knew that the drop had been made.
He returned to the Ferrari and, with the help of the A–Z, began making his journey plan for the rest of the afternoon; he had some desirable properties to view.
42
Twenty years before, there had been another journey. One that Boyar and he had made together.
They came in from Izmaylovo on Motor Route 17, under a sky tinted pink by the slow dusk at the end of a Moscow high summer day. Boyar said little on the half-hour journey but Serov sensed the excitement that lay beneath his deliberate calm. For a month now, the same suppressed excitement had been there; Serov was certain that it was more than the tension of simple lust.
When they reached Inner Ring Road B, Serov turned north and entered the grimy tangle of streets at whose hub lay the Leningrad, Kazan and Yaroslavl stations. The heart of the city now lay to their left, the domes of the Kremlin palaces almost hidden by the ragged silhouette of office and apartment blocks that were starting to spring up all over the city.
What other traffic there was in those days comprised mostly buses and black taxicabs. Up to half the passenger cars would belong to the security forces, the military, or other branches of the government. The majority of the rest would be carrying senior party personnel, either owned personally by them or allocated with their posts.
As if he’d been pondering this himself, Boyar uttered one of his few remarks since they’d set off from the academy.
‘This is good of you, comrade Captain,’ he said slowly. In those days his Russian was still uncertain. He patted the dashboard and added, ‘Your car.’
Serov decided to probe a little.
‘This is my job,’ he said, then paused. ‘There is one thing, though, Boyar. Remember the rules. The FCD is an understanding mistress but an unforgiving one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The academy sees to the physical needs of trainees like you because it knows that a three-month programme is a long time to be in a foreign country and without a woman. But don’t get confused.’
‘In what way?’
‘Just because no money changes hands, don’t forget what these girls are. They’re whores. You don’t pay them, but they get paid nonetheless. It’s only a business transaction.’
‘I still don’t understand.’ But Serov heard the anxiety in his voice.
‘It’s simple. You’ve seen a lot of this girl over the last few weeks. Maybe too much. Maybe you’re misinterpreting her feelings towards you. Or letting yours about her run away with you. But you’re just roubles and kopeks to her, comrade. Get that straight. Remember the rules about non-involvement with Soviet citizens. They’re FCD rules, don’t break them.’
Boyar stared straight ahead; and that was the end of the conversation.
Serov took them through the sooty and now-familiar backstreets abutting the railway line. They came to rest outside a smut-stained tenement block seven or eight storeys tall.
‘Be out by midnight, Boyar.’
He watched as the Englishman hurried into the block. The stairwell ran up the street wall, with windows at each landing. He saw him pass the first two, then the angle was too steep to see any more. He shifted his gaze to the right, counted up six storeys, and began studying the window immediately beside the stairs. This he knew to be the whore’s sitting room. Although it was difficult to be sure
, he thought he saw the curtain twitching, as if someone was watching the street. Then, just around the time Boyar would have arrived on the floor, the light behind the curtain went on. A moment later a softer light came on in the adjacent window: the bedroom. After a few minutes it was extinguished. But the sitting-room light had remained on throughout that time; and still did.
It wasn’t proof of anything, of course. Electricity was free; plenty of people were careless about switching lights off.
He got out his transistor radio, a rare import, and propped it on the dashboard. A female voice was reciting the increases that were being achieved in domestic sewing-machine production. He slid down in his seat and let the words and statistics wash over him.
It was a lively street. As the night wore on, the various brothels caused a steady flow of foot traffic, all men, to and from the buildings. Hookers prowled up and down the pavements. Occasionally they knocked on his window. He either shook his head or pretended to be asleep. Now and then taxis disgorged men in twos and threes, never singly because of the cost. The clatter of heels, the laughter and catcalls were drowned from time to time by the rumble of trains passing in the cutting behind the tenements.
*
There was nothing out of the ordinary about the man who came rolling along the street at eleven o’clock, a little the worse for wear. He was thickly built, his black hair gleamed with cheap oil, and his nose, over a heavy moustache in those days, was flattened like a boxer’s. Gramin sang cheerfully, in grating tones but not so loud as to draw himself more than a passing glance, and halted every few steps to top up from a bottle, swaying when he did so. As he progressed he peered at the house numbers. He paid no heed to Serov or his car but grinned with satisfaction when he read the numbers of the tenement next to it. Then he threw the building’s doors open and stumbled inside.
At the sixth floor he thumped clumsily on the door to the right of the stairs.
‘Sweetheart!’ he bawled when the door opened. He lunged at the woman who stood there, forcing her to sidestep, and more or less fell past her into the room.