by Matthew Dunn
Will stood, held out his hand, and said in English, “We could have met somewhere else.”
Kryštof shook his hand. “Where’s the fun in that, David?”
David Becket. An MI6 officer whose profile deliberately approximated Kryštof’s: passed over for promotion, in debt, weary, cynical, failed marriages, and adolescent children who no longer wanted to know him. The only difference between them was that David’s fictitious older daughter was prospering in high school, whereas six months ago, Kryštof’s real daughter had been brutally gang-raped and strangled to death.
They sat just as the barman came to them and thumped a bottle of Becherovka liquor and two glasses onto the table. Kryštof unscrewed the cap and poured the spirit into the glasses until they were nearly full. Stubbing out his cigarette and lifting his glass to his lips, he muttered, “Your health” and downed the drink.
“Your health.” Will took a small sip and placed the glass down.
Kryštof refilled his glass to the top and gripped it while staring at Will. “You still in?”
Will shrugged. “I’m trying to last another ten years, until I can draw on my pension.”
Becket was forty-five; youthful looks were the only thing he had going for him. Kryštof didn’t even have that. Age, stress, and depression had been less kind to his once handsome face.
Kryštof drank some more and lit another cigarette. “I meant to thank you.”
“What for?”
“The flowers and the card.” He glanced away, his expression one of sadness and irritation. “Her mother wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.”
“I thought that might happen. That’s why I sent them to your house.”
Kryštof looked back at him. “She said that no doubt I was now happy that I had one less child to pay alimony for.” He emptied the contents of his glass and topped it up.
Will sympathized with Kryštof’s plight, though he worried that the man was losing his sanity. He twisted his glass on the table. “I have some work for you if you’d like it.”
Kryštof blew out smoke. “They’re still giving you tasks?”
“A few.”
Kryštof nodded. “It’s not a question of like, rather need.” He poured more drink down his throat. “What do you want?”
“Names.”
“Price?”
Will sighed. “The service wanted me to get you on the cheap.”
“Bastards.”
“Bastards indeed.” Will smiled. “It’s okay. I held my ground and got them to agree to normal rates.”
Kryštof would know what that meant: £5,000 up front, and a further £5,000 upon successful delivery.
Extinguishing his cigarette and lighting another, Kryštof asked, “Tell me.”
“Otto von Schiller. Heard of him?”
The former Czech intelligence officer rubbed his facial stubble. “Sounds familiar.” He narrowed his eyes. “Arms dealer?”
“Yes, lives in Berlin.”
Kryštof drained the contents of his glass and poured more Becherovka into it. “I remember, few years ago”—his words were beginning to slur—“when I was still in BIS . . . we tried unsuccessfully to disrupt one of his Czech deals.”
Will yawned in an attempt to make David look bored. “The service wants to find out about von Schiller’s associates. Particularly if any of them are British or American.”
Kryštof reached for the bottle, clearly forgetting that he’d already topped up his glass. “Sure. I’ll make some inquiries.”
Will handed the Czech a brown envelope containing the retainer and said, “Spend it on some food and new clothes”—he glanced at the bottle—“nothing else.”
The Czech investigator looked around the bunker. “She used to come here.” He smiled, but the look was bitter. “You’d have been shocked if you saw her. Pierced ears, nose . . . pierced everything. But I didn’t mind; she was always my girl.” Staring at the ceiling, he said through gritted teeth, “The men got her when she was walking home from here.” He looked at Will, his eyes moist. “I couldn’t come here on my own, but everyone I know stays away from me. When you asked to meet, I finally had the opportunity to come here to say my farewell to her.” He pushed the bottle away. “Was that wrong?”
Will stared at him with no thoughts of being David anymore. Even though he couldn’t tell Kryštof so, he knew exactly how he felt. And that was the curse of running agents like Kryštof. No matter how many layers of deceit there were, none of them could eradicate the real emotion in moments like this. Swallowing hard to control his voice, he placed his scarred hand over the Czech’s and replied, “It was the right thing to do.”
Kryštof looked at the table; a tear fell into his glass. “The name you need—is it going to make a difference to anything?”
Will leaned forward and said quietly, “Look after yourself, my friend. What you’re doing for me is vital. The name is crucial to my plan. If you get it, you’ll have helped stopped the potential slaughter of millions.”
Chapter Twelve
Sentinel weighed his cell phone in one hand and stared at it. His face looked fatigued. “Borzaya’s got something for me. But this time I can’t afford to take the risk of meeting him without you present.”
Borzaya was the code name of the FSB officer Sentinel had met in Hungary three days before. He was one of the MI6 officer’s tier-1 agents.
Will nodded. Now that he was back in Odessa, there was nothing he could do until Kryštof reported back. “Sure. I’m free for the next day or so.”
“How very gracious of you.”
Will frowned. “The chances of Razin being there are extremely remote. God knows what the odds are that he’ll make an attempt on his life during your meeting with him.”
Sentinel looked at Will and repeated, “I can’t afford to take any risks.”
“I understand.”
“I’m delighted that you do!” Sentinel strode quickly across the room, pulled open the fridge, grabbed a fruit juice carton, and tore it open. After taking a swig of the drink, his expression softened. Speaking quietly he said, “I’m sorry. I’m not used to working with other MI6 officers. Ignore my tone.”
The apology surprised Will. “For that matter, I normally work alone, too.”
Sentinel asked, “How’s it been for you—the nine years?”
Exhausting, dangerous, exhilarating, frustrating, and heartbreaking. But that wasn’t the answer Sentinel was looking for.
Instead, Will said, “You know the worst of it.”
The constant worry that one day he’d accept his isolated existence.
Sentinel understood. When he spoke, his voice held compassion. “That won’t happen.”
“It happened to you.”
Sentinel frowned. “It . . . it may seem like that to you, but I can assure you that the reverse is true. When they finally pull me out of the field . . .” His voice trailed off. “Well, I guess I dream about having the same things that all normal people want.” Sadness was now on his face. He nodded and seemed to speak to himself. “Yes, I want those things. Maybe more than most.”
“You can leave.”
Sentinel stared at him, shaking his head. “I volunteered to come back here after my imprisonment. I have to see this through.”
Will felt a moment of anger. “The service knows that’s how you think. It’s exploiting your sense of duty.”
“Of course.” He smiled, then his expression turned serious. “There’s a 1605 hours Malév flight to Budapest today, and we’re going to be on it.”
The Gresham Palace royal suite was one of the most luxurious in Budapest and overlooked the Danube, the Chain Bridge, the Royal Castle, and the Buda Hills. The suite’s Art Deco lounge area contained two large sofas facing each other. Will and Sentinel were sitting on one, Borzaya was on the other. Between them was a glass coffee table, with mugs and a flask on it.
Will’s presence in the hotel room clearly unsettled the FSB officer.
The chubby operative was sitting with his legs crossed. Immaculately groomed, he wore a charcoal gray suit, double-cuff shirt, and a silk tie bound in a Windsor knot. His hair was slicked back, and, judging by the scent emanating from him, he’d obviously applied a generous quantity of expensive eau de toilette to his smooth face.
He seemed reluctant to speak as he stared at Will. Then, “You know my language?”
Will answered in Russian, “Yes.”
Borzaya glanced sharply at Sentinel. “One hundred percent sure that he’s trustworthy?”
Sentinel leaned forward. “He wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.”
Borzaya’s expression remained hostile. Looking back at Will, he asked, “Name?”
“Richard Bancroft.”
“Real name?”
“No.”
“The name you used to travel into Hungary?”
“No.”
Borzaya nodded. “Good.” He withdrew a slim silver cigarette case, flicked it open with one hand, withdrew a cigarette, and lit it with a gold lighter. “But you’ve still not explained why you’re here.”
Sentinel interjected. “Richard’s from headquarters. Whatever you’ve found out, he can take back to London.”
“London?” Borzaya clicked his tongue. “That would be a very bad mistake.”
Will was about to speak, but Sentinel motioned for him to stay quiet.
Borzaya puffed on his cigarette for a while, his eyes flicking between the two MI6 officers. “I’m not cleared to know the whereabouts of Taras Khmelnytsky. I tried, but all I could find out was that he was on a top secret training exercise.”
Sentinel slapped his hands on his legs. “Damn it!”
“The restriction on knowledge about his whereabouts is only temporary while the training exercise lasts. Once it’s over, I’ll be able to track him for you.” Borzaya paused. “Unless . . . that’s too late.”
Sentinel shook his head. “Much too late.”
The FSB officer carefully extinguished his cigarette and seemed deep in thought. Fixing his gaze directly on Sentinel, he said, “Not all is lost.”
“You found something in the archives?”
Borzaya nodded. “Something very bad.” He looked at Will. “If you intend to take what I say back to London, you need to leave this room right now.”
Will shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until Khmelnytsky’s stopped.”
“Stopped from doing what?” Borzaya glanced at Sentinel. “I know you want to find him, but you’ve not told me why.”
Sentinel responded, “For your own safety.”
Borzaya laughed, clearly not buying Sentinel’s explanation as to why he was seeking Razin.
“What did you find in the archives?”
Borzaya darted a look at Will. “Leave or stay?”
Will held his gaze. “I’ll stay.”
“I hope it’s the right decision.” Borzaya lit another cigarette and gazed toward one of the hotel room windows. “There are tens of thousands of KGB files in the FSB and SVR archives. It would take years to read them all.”
Sentinel snapped, “But you didn’t need to read them all. I gave you a very specific task.”
“You did.” Borzaya looked mischievous. “ ‘Find me evidence of an MI6 security breach.’ Still, I was lucky.”
“Why?”
The FSB officer shrugged. “The files you asked me to read are still highly classified. I’d have needed to explain what my interest was in them to get permission to read them.”
“Why were you lucky?” Sentinel repeated.
Borzaya smiled. “One of the files was missing. I thought that was curious, so I checked the registers to see who’d last read the file.” He blew out smoke. “You remember that idiot Filip Chulkov?”
“I do.”
Will glanced at Sentinel. “Chulkov? Was he one of ours?”
Sentinel shook his head. “No. He was an FSB officer. Murdered two years ago. Case unsolved.” He looked back at Borzaya. “His name was in the register?”
Borzaya nodded. “The man was a moron, but he did have clearance to read the files.” He chuckled. “Senior management probably gave that clearance to him because they thought he was too stupid to understand anything he read.” His expression changed. “I spent the last two days checking lesser classified files to see if any of them cross-referenced to the missing file. Finally I found one. It contained a brief KGB report, dated 1987, saying that a young Moscow-based MI6 officer might be worth approaching. That report showed the MI6 officer’s name in full.”
Sentinel looked totally focused.
Borzaya eased back in his chair. “I looked into Chulkov’s death. The reports included a list of the officer’s cell phone records on the days preceding his death. All of the numbers dialed looked normal—calls made to FSB, SVR, and GRU colleagues, to senior military men, and certain politicians.” He smiled. “I can see why none of them were considered suspects.”
Will’s mind raced. “One of the calls was to Taras Khmelnytsky.”
“Correct, Mr. Bancroft.”
“And who was the junior MI6 officer?”
Borzaya looked at Sentinel. When he spoke, his words were measured and tense. “Everything must be kept in this room.”
“It will be.”
Borzaya looked away again, deep in thought. After twenty seconds, he nodded slightly and said, “In the late eighties he was undercover as second secretary in the British Embassy in Moscow. The KGB found out that he was having an illicit affair with a Soviet diplomat, something that was completely forbidden in those days.”
“Well, they obviously recruited him, or why would they have such a classified file on him?”
“Maybe.”
“You have doubts?”
Borzaya shook his head. “I think the KGB got something out of him. But I found out the officer short-posted. Why would he run back to London midway through his posting if he was a KGB agent? They would have encouraged him to stay in Moscow for a full tour so that they could get everything out of him.”
Sentinel said, “He ran away from them.”
“I agree.”
Sentinel lowered his head. “It’s a shame we don’t know what he told the KGB.”
“We do know. It was clear in the file I read. The officer was deemed of interest because the KGB thought he could tell them the location of the various MI6 safe houses in Moscow.”
“Safe houses?”
“Safe houses.”
Safe houses, like the one where Sentinel was caught before he was put in the Lubyanka for six years.
Sentinel stood and walked to the window. With his back to Will and Borzaya, he said, “I’d always thought it was an agent who’d betrayed me to the Soviets, not a serving MI6 officer.” He slowly turned and looked directly at Borzaya. “Who is he?”
Borzaya tapped his hand three times on his knee. “He’s—”
Tap, tap.
“Nothing must go to London. You’ve given me your word.”
Tap.
“I’m in enough danger without you using my name as part of an investigation.”
He lifted his hand up again but held it in midair.
“The traitor is the current MI6 Head of Moscow Station.”
Chapter Thirteen
Borzaya had left the hotel room fifteen minutes before. Will and Sentinel were sitting in a different part of the suite facing each other, mugs of black coffee on the floor between them.
“Let’s think through the possibilities.” Sentinel took a swig of the drink; his expression remained one of anger but also of focus. “The MI6 officer gets approached by the KGB and is told that they’ll reveal his affair to British authorities unless he cooperates. He should have told them to go to hell, but he’s young and scared.”
“So he gives them the location of the houses and then flees to London before they get their hooks further into him.”
“Normally”—Sentinel placed his mug down—“the KGB wou
ld’ve pursued him and tried to run him out of London, but—”
“The Soviet Union collapses, the Russian element of the KGB is transformed into the SVR, agendas change, and somewhere during that process the MI6 officer falls through the cracks.”
Sentinel nodded. “Or a decision is made that he’s of no further use to the revamped Russia—too junior, too out of reach.”
“Either way, they went after you and got you at one of your safe houses.” Will tried to picture that moment. Even for a veteran like Sentinel, it would have been a terrifying experience.
Sentinel looked away for a moment; his next words were quiet. “I heard them come into the building, looked out the windows, saw that I was completely surrounded, and knew that all was lost. So I put—” He sighed.
“You put your handgun to your head but couldn’t pull the trigger.”
Sentinel kept staring at nothing. “To this day, I still can’t decide which of the two was the more cowardly.”
Will leaned forward. “You can’t think that way. It was an uncertain situation.” He had no idea what he’d have done in similar circumstances.
“The situation was very certain. I had too many secrets and the knowledge of too many Russian MI6 agents who would have been executed if I’d buckled under torture.”
“But you kept your mouth shut.”
“I knew that if I told them what they wanted to know, I’d be walked out into a courtyard and executed by firing squad.” Sentinel gripped his hands together. “The only reason I managed to keep my mouth shut was that I steadfastly refused to let the Russians do to me what I couldn’t do to myself.” He looked at Will; his demeanor changed. “Back to work. Let’s fast-forward to two years ago. Razin was now one of my agents and had decided that he must know the identity of my other agents.”
“Though he knew he’d never get that information from you, so he wondered if it was possible to get it from another MI6 officer.”
“A person who at some point in his career had betrayed secrets to the USSR or Russia.”
“He discreetly tasked his contacts in Russian intelligence to try to find out if such a person existed.”
Sentinel agreed. “One of those contacts was an FSB officer named Filip Chulkov. He had clearance to read the closed, top secret MI6 double-agent files.”
