by Matthew Dunn
Will looked at the only woman in the room.
Suzy Parks. CIA analyst. Like most of the men around her, she was wearing a thick sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. She was in her late thirties, had short black hair, was married to a rocket scientist who she’d met at a ballroom dancing class, and was four months pregnant with their first child. Patrick had talent-spotted her for the section from another Agency team one year before. He was drawn not only to her photographic memory and brilliant analytical brain, a brain that had been used on some of the Agency’s most complex cases during her thirteen years as a desk officer, but also to a peculiar talent: she could go without sleep for days while continuing to function at optimum levels.
Will looked at the last person listening to the briefing.
Peter Rhodes. An MI6 intelligence officer whose role was to provide risk assessments of the section’s operations, and to act as Alistair and Patrick’s aide de camp when they liaised with Capitol Hill and Whitehall. Though no longer operational, most of Peter’s career had been in the field. He’d spent four years in Shanghai as a NOC, operating under cover as an advisor to a wealthy and powerful Chinese mogul, before undergoing operational tours as a case officer within MI6’s Russia and China teams and postings to the U.K.’s embassies in Jakarta, Abu Dhabi, Tokyo, and Washington. In his early forties, Peter was slender and had a youthful appearance, a razor-sharp intellect, and a strong sense of humor. Alistair had identified him as a potential applicant for the section one month ago, and Will had backed the appointment because he not only admired Peter’s operational experience but also liked the man.
He turned his attention to the coheads of the section. Aside from the fact that Patrick’s hair was silver, Alistair’s blond, both men looked physically similar; they were in their mid-fifties but looked ten years younger. Alistair had always been Will’s Controller, but Will had worked with both men only on his last two missions, one to hunt down a senior Iranian general, the other to prevent war between Russia and the United States, and during that time he’d discovered that they had a deep and dark history of collaboration that started when they were junior field officers and had witnessed the capture of Will’s CIA officer father in Iran. It was only recently that Will had learned that both men had been secret benefactors to Will’s family. After his father had been tortured and executed, Alistair and Patrick had sent their own cash to Will’s mother. When she had been murdered by criminals in front of a teenage Will, they funded university scholarships for Will and his sister, Sarah. They were honorable men, very experienced operators, disliked by their peers within the CIA and MI6 because of their autonomy and power, fearless, and totally dedicated to the section, its members, and the extreme nature of its work. Will respected and trusted them wholeheartedly, even though they’d repeatedly made it clear to him that they thought he was impulsive, insubordinate, uncontrollable, and a danger to himself.
“Do we have your attention, Mr. Cochrane?” Patrick was staring at Will, his expression stern.
Will nodded at the CIA officer. “Partially.”
Roger laughed.
Patrick did not. “We’re here because of you. Some of us think this is a nonstarter.”
“But some of us think differently.” Peter winked at Will. “Mind you, searching the world for a single piece of paper is a bit of a tall order.”
Will moved until he was facing the team. “It is a tall order.”
“And that’s why we’re involved.” Laith grinned and said in his deep southern voice, “The best of the best of the best.” He held his fist to his mouth and mimicked the sound of a cavalry trumpet.
“Please stop that.” Alistair turned away from the American, his disapproving schoolmasterly expression changing to one of coldness as he locked his attention on Will. “We have no starting point for this operation.”
Will ignored the comment and looked at Suzy. “What have we got on the defector?”
The CIA analyst leaned forward, cupping her hands and placing her elbows on her thighs. “Lenka Yevtushenko. Fourteen years in the SVR but not on the fast track.”
“Remit?”
“For the most part, eastern Europe.”
“Postings?”
“One, to Belarus, returned six months ago.”
“Home address?”
“We don’t know.”
“Extracurricular activities on his Belarus posting?”
“No interests, no foibles. He was a quiet man.”
“Wife, kids?”
“None.”
Will frowned. “Lovers?”
Suzy smiled. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask. Yes, one woman. A Belarusian, based in her home country.”
“Poor?”
“Yes.”
“A looker?”
“Well above average.”
“Entrapment?”
“Unlikely. Belarusians really don’t do that, plus Yevtushenko wouldn’t have been worth the risk.”
“Did he give her cash?”
Suzy shrugged. “We don’t know.”
“Loved her?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did she carry his child?”
Suzy rubbed her stomach. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your source?”
“The Agency looked at Yevtushenko a couple of years ago. He was a potential target but was soon dropped because he was deemed as too low level. We have a file on him, but it’s as slim as the data you now have.”
“Do you have his lover’s name, address?”
“Of course.”
Will nodded. “Russian movement in Europe in the last three days?”
Suzy held Will’s gaze. “Take your pick. A First Secretary Political who’s been shunted in at short notice to France after the last incumbent was in danger of enjoying Parisian life too much; a Russian front consultancy company opening up in Belgrade; a defense attaché who’s moved to Berne to hill-walk in the Alps with his counterpart in the Iranian embassy. All of them SVR.”
Will shook his head. “None of them are right. What else have you got?”
The CIA analyst frowned. “That’s all I have on SVR movement.”
“Forget information we have on known SVR personnel. Think Russian military or police, past or present, business covers that would match a paramilitary IO.”
“We’ve had nearly a hundred standard Russia-related trace requests from foreign security services over the last seventy-two hours.”
“Have you seen them all?”
“I’ve made it my business to do so.”
“One of them could be our Russian team.”
Suzy was still, though her eyes were darting left and right, her mind racing.
The room was silent for ten minutes.
Then Suzy nodded. “Yesterday the BfV requested a trace on four Russian males who’d entered Frankfurt. They work for a company called Vitus.”
“Is the company legitimate?”
“Yes, it specializes in close protection and antikidnapping training programs for corporations and the media.”
“Employees listed on the website?”
“No.”
“That would be normal for this kind of firm. Why are they in Germany?”
“They’re attending a conference in Munich. A two-day event focusing on corporate risk within emerging markets.”
“Why did the German security service request the trace on them?”
“Because they bought tickets for the event two days ago.”
“That’s all?”
Suzy shook her head. “They’ve checked into the Grand Hyatt in Berlin. Seems they’ve no desire to head south.”
“Odd, but not necessarily suspicious. They might have used the conference as a pretext to enter Germany but are instead having a meeting with a client whos
e details they’d rather not share with the border police. Ages?”
“All in their thirties.”
“Have the traces been done?”
“Yes. We can’t find anything on them.”
“Nothing?”
Suzy shook her head. “We could put their names out to some of our Russian sources, see what they say.”
“No. We don’t have the time to do that—plus, if they’re the team, we’ve got to say nothing to anyone about them. Anything else in the German report?”
Suzy rubbed her temples, clearly trying to mentally wade through the vast amount of data she’d read yesterday. “Something that stood out . . . but not anything that would prick up our ears . . .” She paused. “Yes, one of the men went through customs with goods to declare. He’s epileptic and has a license to carry Clonazepam.”
“Epileptic?”
“The paperwork all checked out and the dosage he was carrying was correct for the duration of his stay in Germany. There was nothing else in the report.”
“Has any reply been supplied to the BfV?”
“Not yet. The request was marked Routine.”
“Okay. Make sure we tell the Germans that we’ve got nothing on the men and don’t believe them to be suspicious.” He looked at Alistair and Patrick. “I could be wrong, but there are too many coincidences here. A four-man Russian group enters Europe so quickly after the Gdansk incident, most likely military backgrounds given their alleged employer, no obvious intention of doing business, no history to their identities. Plus they’re the right age to be experienced operators.”
Patrick said, “Possibly, but one of them needs his pills to stop him from going into a seizure. Doesn’t sound like an operative to me.”
Will shook his head. “The Clonazepam can be taken in higher doses to sedate. It’s possible the team’s brought it into Germany to drug Yevtushenko after they capture him. They must have a different route out of the country and they’re going to use that route to get Yevtushenko back into Russia while he’s unconscious.” He looked at Roger. “You, Laith, Mark, and Adam need to be all over those men.” He turned to face Patrick and Alistair. “If I’m right, the Russian men are SVR. They’ve been deployed to Germany under business cover to link up with and support the big Russian who survived the Gdansk fight. The Russians know considerably more about the paper and possibly where it’s gone than we do. If we stick to them, we’ll be close to the paper. Meanwhile, I need to work this from the other end of the spectrum, and that means understanding Yevtushenko’s role in the theft of the paper. Miss Belarus might be able to help me with that. If I can get her to talk, I might be on a path to establishing the identity of Yevtushenko’s master.” He smiled. “That gives us two starting points to this operation.”
Eight
Will stood at the end of the long residential street and analyzed everything on it. A few people were on foot, walking as quickly as they could through the thick snow, all of them dressed in thick overcoats and hats. Stationary vehicles, caked in ice and snow, lined the street. Adjacent to them were streetlamps that were starting to come on as dusk descended on the Belarusian capital of Minsk. The 1980s Soviet-designed buildings that straddled the road looked functional and drab, a combination of row houses and apartment blocks. One of them would contain the woman.
He waited, his hands deep inside the pockets of his stylish overcoat, his leather shoes offering little protection from the cold ground. The pedestrians kept moving, some coming toward him, others going in the opposite direction. None of them looked suspicious. They had the appearance and postures of people who just wanted to get to the shelter of their homes before nightfall. Turning his attention to the vehicles, he methodically moved his gaze from one to the next. Those nearest to him were certainly unoccupied and in darkness, but the street was over three hundred yards long and he couldn’t be certain that at least one of the cars farther down the road wasn’t occupied by a local security service or Russian SVR surveillance team.
He wished he could have dressed in attire that matched the few poorly paid workers who were heading home. That way he could have walked the full length of the street and made an assessment as to whether the woman’s house was being watched. But the suit he was wearing was necessary for what he needed to achieve. He needed her to know who he really was.
He glanced at the building opposite hers. It was in darkness. He wondered if the people who owned the place were still at work, were perhaps out for dinner, or whether the place was instead occupied by men and women with binoculars, military communications systems, and night-vision equipment. If he’d had Roger’s team and more time, he could have ensured that a full reconnaissance was made of the area around him. Having the luxury of neither, he was going to have to take a risk.
He moved forward, his hands in his pockets, his head still, his eyes flickering left and right to look for sudden movement. After seventy yards, he stopped at an apartment block, made no attempt to look around, and quickly pressed one of the buzzers adjacent to the door. A woman’s voice spoke in the intercom. Will said in Russian, the second language of Belarus, “I need to speak to Miss Alina Petrova.”
The woman hesitated before answering in the same tongue, “Da, that’s me.”
“Can you let me in? This is official business.”
The intercom was silent for ten seconds. Then, “What business?”
“Business that concerns you. Please, let me in.”
“Are you police?”
“No.”
“A government man?”
“No.”
“Then there is no official business to be conducted.”
Will stamped his feet and silently cursed. “This matter concerns someone you know. He’s done something stupid and is in trouble. You might be able to help him. But I can’t talk to you over the intercom.”
He didn’t know what else to say, couldn’t stay out here for more than a few seconds longer, and decided that if she didn’t let him in he’d have to come back in the morning and approach her as she was going to work.
But the door buzzed and its lock was released.
He entered the building, allowing the door to swing shut behind him and automatically relock. Ahead of him was a flight of stairs and adjacent to it a graffiti-covered, dilapidated elevator. Taking the stairs, he walked quickly up six flights to Alina’s apartment. He knocked on the door, heard a bolt being snapped open, and watched the entrance open a few inches until a security chain went taught. A young, dark-haired woman was partially visible in the crack between the door and its frame.
“Alina?”
She stared at him, her expression suspicious. “Who are you?”
“Someone who’s here to help.”
“You could be here to hurt me.”
Will shook his head. “If that were true, the door would be off its hinges by now.”
Her suspicion remained. “Can I see your ID?”
“I don’t have any that’s relevant to this meeting.”
Alina looked taken aback. “And yet you seriously expect me to let you in?”
“I’m here about Yevtushenko.”
“Who?”
“Oh, come on Miss. Petrova. You were his lover, maybe still are.”
“It’s not illegal to love someone.”
“Legalities don’t matter to me. I need to know if he’s been in touch with you during the last few days.”
From somewhere within the apartment, a baby started crying. Alina glanced over her shoulder, looked back at Will, and seemed uncertain what to do.
Will repeated, “I’m not here to hurt you.”
The baby’s crying grew louder.
“Nor am I here to give you any trouble. I just want to talk. Then I’ll go.”
Alina asked, “Who do you work for?”
“Myself.”
&n
bsp; “Nationality?”
“British.”
Alina’s eyes narrowed. The baby’s cries were now echoing down the stairwell. Quickly, she released the chain, opened the door, turned, and hurried off toward the sound of the baby. Will entered the apartment, shut the door, and followed her into a small bedroom containing a cot. Alina lifted the baby, placed a hand underneath the swaddling and patted it against the girl’s diapers, then rocked the baby until her sobbing began to recede. “Men’s voices upset her. Probably she heard you.”
Will nodded and withdrew into a tiny living room containing a worn sofa, one dining chair, a side table, an old television set, and a carpet that was threadbare in places but immaculately clean. He sat on the chair and waited.
A few minutes later Alina reappeared alone. The baby was still crying. “I can only hope she sleeps soon.” She looked at him. “Would you like a hot drink?”
Will shook his head and said quietly, “That’s very kind, but I’m not staying long.”
Keeping her eyes on him, she moved to the sofa and sat. “What’s your interest in Lenka?”
“I’m a private investigator and have been instructed by a client to check on the welfare of Mr. Yevtushenko. My client’s concerned that he’s done something stupid and is in danger. He’s run away from his work and Russia.”
“Who’s your client?”
“I’m not allowed to say. It’s sensitive.”
“A British private investigator in Minsk, looking for a Russian diplomat, and with a client who can’t be named?” Alina smiled. “I’m not stupid.”
“I’m sure you’re not and will therefore realize that some things are best left unsaid.”
Alina shook her head. “Perhaps, but I have no reason to help you or the people you represent.”
Will studied her. Suzy was right. Alina certainly had above-average looks. She was tall for a woman and wore delicately applied makeup, beige cords, and an elegant V-neck sweater that looked nothing like the dowdy clothing he’d expected her to be in. “You and your child live here alone?”
