Spy Out the Land

by Jeremy Duns

  Harmigan closed his eyes to think. If it had been anyone else making the argument, he’d have agreed at once – she was right. He needed a back-up option: someone who could debrief Manning if necessary and who had all the background on Dark at their fingertips. She was the best person for the job, but if there were any chance she might run into Dark . . . He realised even as the thought formed that resisting the idea was futile. This was no time for sentimentality – there were far greater issues at stake. There was an element of risk, yes, but he hadn’t become Chief without a fair amount of gambling and, besides, she wanted to be in the field again. She was practically begging him to give her the chance.

  ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘Go. Drive to Northolt now and I’ll ring and tell them to get you in the air as soon as you arrive.’ He added, almost as an afterthought, ‘But please, be bloody careful.’

  She adjusted her bag and he escorted her out – the meeting room door was now firmly shut, she noticed – and they said goodbye soberly and without any emotion, as though Celia were watching them. Perhaps she was, Rachel thought.

  She walked across the street and unlocked her car. As she squeezed in behind the wheel a picture emerged in her mind, as though released by her having left the house. It floated in her consciousness like a three-dimensional tableau: Tom Gadlow’s body splayed out at the bottom of the garden in Kuala Lumpur, his eyes rolled up into his head.

  Chapter 44

  Saturday, 23 August 1975, Moscow

  Colonel Sasha Proshin of the GRU’s Second Chief Directorate sat with his hands on his lap, staring at the small tear in the corner of the baize-topped desk. It was shaped, he thought with sudden clarity, precisely like a miniature sea-horse – he could even make out the serrated shape of a mouth in the far north of the tear before it joined the cloth. He remembered the real sea-horse he’d found on the beach at Sukhumi that summer with his father when he was – how old? He must have been eleven.

  Proshin had never been in this room before, but was unsurprised that it was decorated in the usual over-the-top manner, with a crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, dark red wallpaper and a massive baize-covered desk in the centre of the room. The chair he was seated in was preposterously ornate, with veneer marquetry spiralling across its back and armrests plated in red leather and canted with shiny gold tacks. But despite the room’s stagy grandiosity it had very poor ventilation, and his nostrils were filled with the tang of the sweat of the two other men in the room, unsuccessfully masked by the smell of cologne. The scent seemed rather more delicate than the usual foul stuff one found at GUM, so he guessed someone had been on a trip to the West and brought back presents as blat for the big guns. He wondered who, and where they had been – Paris? How he missed Paris.

  Directly opposite him was seated General Ivashutin, the head of the GRU, barrel-chested, staring glassily ahead. To Ivashutin’s left sat Borzunov, head of the agency’s foreign counter-intelligence directorate, a small-shouldered man with a deceptively gentle demeanour. Although it was being presented as an informal meeting, complete with a large samovar on the table and painted porcelain cups, Proshin was anxious. Ivashutin and Borzunov’s expressions were inscrutable, but something about the setup reminded him of a tribunal and he knew that at any moment he might find himself fighting for his career, or his life.

  That was, if it hadn’t already been decided. A few years ago he had been severely reprimanded when old Victor Kotov, the security chief of his directorate, had been discovered passing documents to the British, some of which he confessed to having stolen from the safe in Proshin’s office. Proshin himself had eventually been cleared of any involvement, but it had been a very unpleasant few months and he knew that the black mark would forever remain on his file. As for being made a general, well, it had been made plain to him that that was out of the question.

  He was now, he knew, never more than a step away from being disgraced. He had a surveillance team of three tracking his movements, and a listening post was stationed above his flat. His greatest fear was of being slipped a dose of the new psychotropic drug that had been developed by the scientific directorate. While it wasn’t quite the ‘truth serum’ beloved of late-night spy films, it came alarmingly close, transforming you into an eager-to-please blabbermouth within minutes. It had no taste, colour or odour and, terrifyingly, subjects were left with little or even no recollection of having been under its influence. Proshin had come across it a few months earlier in the case file of a dangle they’d sent to French intelligence who, after a decent interval, had been ‘kidnapped’ back to Moscow. On arrival at headquarters, the agent had been debriefed about everything he had learned in Paris, then taken to a safe house to be awarded a medal in secret. After a sombre ceremony, his colleagues had toasted him with a bottle of Kubanskaya. The freshly minted hero had eagerly drunk up, not realising that his glass alone had been prepared in advance. An hour later he had been sprawled out on one of the armchairs in the living room of the safe house talking about how the French had persuaded him to confess he was a plant and turned him. He had been executed a few days later.

  For Proshin, this incident was more horrifying than all the stories of rats being piped into cells in the Lubyanka. For one, he knew it to be true, having read the transcript of what the agent had said under the influence of the drug. But it was also the idea of it, the principle. Like all GRU officers, he had become used to living under constant surveillance, watching his every move and utterance. The sole surviving area of freedom was his mind, and the knowledge that this could also be breached, and without his ever even being aware it had happened until it was too late, chilled him to his core.

  ‘Alexander Stepanovich,’ said Borzunov, and Proshin looked up with a guilty start. ‘We’ve asked you here to clear up some discrepancies in the record of one of your agents.’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘I will of course do my utmost to assist in any way, comrades.’

  Borzunov nodded, somehow contriving to make even that tiny gesture seem sarcastic. ‘We would like to talk to you about INDEPENDENT. I’ve just been reviewing your handling of his case, for reasons that will soon become clear.’

  Proshin stiffened. So he hadn’t been imagining it – his apprehension was wholly justified. Try as he might, he could think of no good reason why they would summon him to discuss Paul Dark on a Saturday evening.

  The samovar was singing, a long note that to Proshin’s ears sounded like a cry of despair, and Borzunov poured three cups and passed them round. Proshin dutifully took a sip and for a moment forgot himself in the richness of the flavour, a mix of wood-smoke and pine cones. It was one thing he had never understood in all his years in London – how the English could possibly think the weak concoction they drank deserved the name of tea.

  Borzunov also took a sip, then glanced down at the bulky dossier open in front of him.

  ‘Between June 1954 and March 1969, you operated as the case officer for this agent. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, comrade.’

  ‘And how frequently did you meet with him?’

  Proshin was sure there was a trap secreted somewhere in the question, but he answered it honestly.

  ‘Usually once a month, but there were some unscheduled contact breaks.’

  Borzunov replaced his cup on the desk. ‘So that would make – allowing for such breaks – well over a hundred and fifty meetings with him. Would you say you grew to know him well during that time?’

  What a question, thought Proshin. Yes, he’d come to know Paul Dark. He had been his confessor, his chess partner, his taskmaster – and, finally, his executioner. But the question wasn’t a sincere one, and he’d be a fool to treat it as such. He was now certain he was being led into an ambush. If he denied he had known Dark well, he would be admitting he had been an incompetent case officer who hadn’t managed to get close to his agent despite running him for nearly fifteen years. But if he claimed he had got to know him well, Borzunov might just as
easily accuse him of being incompetent for having failed to foresee Dark’s subsequent actions. He thought for a moment before settling on a line that might sidestep both pitfalls.

  ‘I think I got to know him as well as one can with such a man.’

  Almost as if he were a cuckoo clock stirring into motion at the top of the hour, Ivashutin abruptly cocked his head and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked brusquely. The two of them were playing off against each other, Proshin thought – it was straight out of the interrogation manual.

  ‘I mean, sir, that there was a detachment to him – a certain coldness, shall we say. I never felt that he fully confided in me, but we had some form of understanding.’

  Borzunov picked up an ugly bronze paperweight in the shape of Sputnik from the table, turning it in his hands. ‘Did that understanding extend’ – his voice was now a soft purr – ‘to your collaborating in falsifying his death?’

  Proshin felt a little queasy.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean, comrade.’

  Borzunov placed the paperweight back on the baize and gave a broad smile. His teeth were small, sharp and yellowing. He rummaged in the dossier and took out a slim black-banded file. He held it up with two fingers, as though it were contaminated.

  ‘This is the report on Operation ROOK you wrote at the time, in which you claimed that you shot him and left his body in the Finnish archipelago.’ He placed the file on the table, flipped it open, and started to read aloud. ‘. . . When it became clear INDEPENDENT was determined to fight to the bitter end, I shot him in the stomach and he fell to the ground. My radio operator, Lieutenant Cherneyev, took his pulse and determined he was dead, after which we carried my father’s body to the helicopter and left the area. We crossed the border at 0300 hours.’

  He glanced up at Proshin.

  ‘But he is evidently not dead.’ There was a brief, loaded, silence. Then he took a sheet of paper from beneath the folder and spun it round with his hand. It was a photograph of a middle-aged man with long hair and a beard.

  Proshin recognised him at once. He felt a crawling sensation in the crown of his head, like a tumour suddenly blooming in his brain, and for a moment he thought he might black out. He looked up to see Borzunov speaking into the intercom device on the table, and he heard the doors behind him swing open and the sound of heavy footsteps thudding against the hardwood floor, then softer as they reached the thick carpet. A fair-haired man in camouflage fatigues came into view. He walked up to the table and saluted.

  Proshin did his utmost not to show his distress, but the blood was drumming in his ears and he could feel his heart jolting madly beneath his shirt. It was Cherneyev. He had been in his early twenties at the time of the operation, but in the years since his face had taken on a harder look: his cheekbones were now more pronounced and his blueish-grey eyes seemed deeper set and more penetrating. From the uniform, it seemed he was now a member of the KGB’s Directorate A, the counter-terrorism spetsnaz group Andropov had set up the previous summer. It looked like they’d lifted him straight off the parade ground at Kirovograd.

  Borzunov smiled at the newcomer.

  ‘Thank you for coming here at such short notice, Dmitri Ivanovich. We would like to ask you a few questions about Operation ROOK in Finland. Do you remember it?’

  Cherneyev nodded. ‘Yes, Major.’

  Borzunov smiled. ‘No need to stand on ceremony, Cherneyev – “comrade” will do here. We’re just having a friendly discussion.’ He looked back down at the file. ‘According to this report, the British agent was shot in the stomach, and you then checked him for signs of life.’

  ‘Yes, comrade. I felt no pulse at all.’

  ‘How strange.’ He indicated the photograph of Dark. ‘So this is someone else, then, do you think? An identical twin, perhaps. Or does the man have supernatural powers, to rise from the dead like this? What is your explanation?’

  Cherneyev looked at the photograph, but didn’t flinch. ‘I was clearly mistaken. I remember that he had no pulse at that moment, but perhaps if I had tried again some seconds later it would have returned.’

  ‘And why did you not do just that?’

  ‘I was following orders, sir. I asked Comrade Proshin if I should dispose of the body, meaning I should throw it into the water, and he told me to leave the man there for the birds to feed off. So I did, and we left immediately after.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant-Colonel.’

  Ivashutin trained his eyes on Proshin.

  ‘Well, comrade? Do you dispute this account?’

  ‘No, but you heard what he said – he felt no pulse. What would anyone think in such a situation other than that the man was dead?’

  ‘Did you not think to simply wait a few moments and check again? It was rather unprofessionally done, surely.’

  He considered lying, suggesting that he had made Cherneyev carry out a further test, but decided it was too risky – it was his word against the other man’s but these men weren’t fools, and if they didn’t believe him things might become very difficult for him indeed. Better not to risk angering them further and simply play as contrite as possible.

  But his professional pride needled at him. Why had he left Dark there and not simply kicked him into the sea? Or, better still, simply leaned down and shot him through the forehead? It hadn’t crossed his mind. Cherneyev had told him he couldn’t feel a pulse, so he had presumed he was dead. He had been fatigued, freezing cold, and he had just witnessed the devastation of his father’s death, and he had wanted to leave the place as soon as he could.

  But it was unforgivable nonetheless – he accepted that. You never leave a loose thread. He wondered if he had perhaps subconsciously wanted to leave Dark alive. But no, that was absurd: he had most definitely wanted him dead. He had wanted him dead for some time.

  Ivashutin spoke. ‘I won’t waste words, Alexander Stepanovich – this operation gives a very poor impression. You were this man’s case officer, and yet he escaped from London without you even alerting anyone at our Station there of that fact. He then escaped from you in Italy, and once again here in Moscow. Finally, you tracked him down to Finland, where you claim you killed him. And yet he is still alive. So the question troubling us both is whether you were merely incompetent – or if you made sure this man could escape? Perhaps you are not working for us at all, but another intelligence service.’

  ‘Comrades, what can I say to prove my innocence? I’ve served this agency all my adult life, as did my father before me.’

  Borzunov frowned in mock-disappointment. ‘Please, Alexander Stepanovich, save us the impassioned pleas. You spent a great deal of time in the West. You speak fluent English, you attended the opera in Covent Garden, you even had a suit made for you in Savile Row.’

  ‘That is a lie! I bought a suit during my first year in London, yes, but it was not made for me, and it was at the request of the ambassador!’ The two men looked down at him, their eyes devoid of any sympathy. Proshin thought rapidly – the key to surviving any interrogation was to change its focus. An idea flashed through his mind. He gestured at the photograph of Dark on the table. ‘Where is the photograph from?’

  Borzunov sneered. ‘You think to challenge its authenticity? There can be no doubt it is him. This is from an intercepted Interpol alert.’

  ‘No, it is clearly genuine. But why has Interpol placed an alert on him now – he must have done something.’

  Borzunov glanced at Ivashutin, who nodded. ‘This is not of your concern, comrade, but it appears that since you “killed” him, the Englishman has been living in Stockholm, and he has a girlfriend and young son. They were kidnapped yesterday by a group of black nationalists. The girlfriend is African.’

  Proshin took this in, thinking. He wondered who the Interpol source was in Stockholm for them to have such detail – he didn’t know of any such agent, but then it would be compartmentalised, probably something for the Fifteenth Department.
More significant was the African connection.

  ‘How has it been established that she’s African?’ he said. He was gratified to see a look of puzzlement cross Borzunov’s face – Ivashutin’s expression remained unchanged.

  ‘She has a Zambian passport, although it appears to be forged. Do you have intelligence relating to this woman, Proshin? If so, I advise you to speak up now.’

  He had used his surname. This was a good sign, as it meant he was interested enough to have forgotten they were all meant to be having a little tea party together.

  ‘I don’t know anything about her,’ he said. ‘But as you’ve just read the dossier on INDEPENDENT, perhaps you remember that he confirmed our earlier intelligence about a conspiracy within the British Service.’

  Now Ivashutin’s eyes glittered, and he leaned forward. ‘You are referring to the faction at the top?’

  Proshin nodded. ‘What if that group is involved now?’ he said. ‘Could they not have arranged for the kidnapping of the girlfriend and son in order to draw INDEPENDENT out of hiding? By using a team made of Africans, or at any rate blacks, that would provide them with cover.’

  He knew at once he’d hit his mark. He could almost see the two of their minds turning over his suggestion – they had forgotten all about his supposed failings. He remembered a favourite expression of his father’s: ‘To an officer, fresh intelligence is like a drug. We will chase it to the ends of the earth, even if it is false.’ He hadn’t provided fresh intelligence so much as a sketch of a theory built on the foundations of old intelligence, but the drug was taking hold nevertheless.