Nevertheless, he walked straight past the bin, noting with relief that the paper was there. He glanced at the café, taking stock of the customers and whether they were overtly interested in him.
There were two foreign girls with backpacks, two city gents earnestly involved in a discussion and an attractive girl reading one of those glossy magazines that girls read around the world. None looked at him so he casually stopped, turned and walked back. He selected a table at the café and ordered a cup of tea. He sat for ten minutes, pretending to read a novel, but keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings.
The young waiter came out and struck up a conversation with the girl on her own. Leonid appreciated a pretty girl, so his attention was naturally drawn to her.
The girl was laughing and flirting with the young man, who was responding. Leonid smiled; as this pair were doing what kids their ages were doing all over the world. As he was approaching fifty, he envied their youth and vitality. The girl had an openness in her smile that he yearned for in his own marriage. He shook his head, if only, he thought, if only things were different.
Wearily he stood up, checked the locality once more and then approached the bin, taking the paper with practised ease. He then sauntered down the street and around the corner.
There was no sound of pursuit, so he told himself to relax. He continued walking until he saw the Underground station. He stopped and looked at the traffic before crossing the road. As he glanced to the right, he noticed the girl from the café walking towards him.
She wasn’t looking at him, so he observed her, appreciating her trim figure and firm breasts. She glanced at him, noting his glance. He flushed and looked away, feeling embarrassed to be caught like that.
“Comrade Dvorkov, you should be ashamed of yourself,” the girl said as she passed.
He was ashamed, but it was only after she had walked past did he realise that she not only knew his name, but she had spoken in fluent Russian.
He turned and stared after her, but she was continuing to walk away, paying him no heed. Frowning, he followed, catching her up. He caught her arm, bringing her to a halt. She turned and looked into his eyes.
It was the last thing he remembered, those eyes the colour of amber.
Mark was terrified. The van journey had been long and had completely disorientated him. He had absolutely no idea where he was, as the black bag was over his head throughout. His arms and feet were bound, and he lay, helpless on the floor in the rear of the van.
No words were spoken to him, and his mind was now playing tricks on him.
Finally, the van came to a halt. He was dragged from the back and forced up some steps into a building. He stumbled along a corridor, down some stairs and left on the floor of a room. He’d heard the door close and the lock turned. He started to cry, as he’d wet himself whilst in the van.
Time was irrelevant, as he thought he was going to die. So it was with no relief that he heard the door open again. He was lifted off the floor and placed in a sitting position on a hard chair. The bag was removed.
He sat blinking as a bright light was shining in his face.
Two men were in the room with him. He had never seen either of them before.
“My name is Smith,” said the taller man. “I’m with British Intelligence. How long have you been working for the Russians?”
“Never! I mean, I’m not!”
“You left classified documents for a Soviet agent not one hour ago.” It was a statement, not a question.
“What? I never did!”
The door opened and two more people entered. One was someone he knew, it was Bradley Finson, the American who told him he was a CIA agent. The other was a pretty girl, but a complete stranger. She was about the same height as Amanda, but had much fairer hair and a more rounded face.
“Mr Finson, tell them,” Mark said.
He then noticed that Bradley had a glazed expression. He sat in another chair, staring, unblinking at the wall.
“This man is Leonid Dvorkov, he is a KGB Captain operating out of the Soviet Embassy. He was arrested in possession of articles which you removed from your office in the Admiralty,” the girl said.
“No, he’s American. He told me he was a CIA agent.”
The girl spoke a sentence in what Mark assumed was Russian.
The man he knew as Bradley replied in the same language. His voice was totally expressionless.
“No, he admits to being a Russian. Even so, you have still breached the Official Secrets Act.”
“No, he’s an ally.”
The girl turned to the Russian and spoke to him in Russian. The man started speaking in English.
“My name is Leonid Dvorkov. I am an officer in the KGB and my base of operations is London. I employed this man as an agent in order to obtain detailed inventories and manifests of the Royal Navy’s nuclear submarine fleet. He was easy to persuade by pretending to be American. I paid him the sum of five hundred pounds a month. He has given me seven deliveries, most of which have been low-level intelligence, ranging to medium on one occasion. He has been working for us for three months.”
Mark was shattered, slumping forward in his chair, releasing what little urine remained in his bladder through sheer terror.
The girl left the room with the Russian, only to return alone a few moments later. The man called Smith turned to her.
“Well?”
“He’s writing his confession,” she replied with a small smile.
“Do you need to be there?”
She shook her head.
Smith looked at Mark.
“Well, how does it feel to be a traitor?”
Mark couldn’t speak.
“How serious is the breach?” the other man asked. He was older, and although dressed in a suit, he looked like a military man.
The girl replied, still looking at Mark.
“Repairable. We’ve already notified the Admiralty and they’ve altered the patrol strategy.”
“Where’s Amanda?” Mark asked.
Smith chuckled, while the girl looked sharply at him.
“Amanda doesn’t exist anymore,” she said, approaching him. He cowered in fear, but she simply untied his bound hands.
“You will write your complete confession. An account of everything you’ve done, whom you met, what was said and why you betrayed your country. You have one hour.”
She handed him a pad of paper and a pencil before leaving the room, followed by the other two men. The door was locked again.
Mark started writing feverishly.
The Brigadier opened the drinks cabinet.
“Amber?”
“Not for me, thanks, sir.”
“Matthew?”
“A small whisky, please.”
The older man poured two measures of Scotch into two glasses and handed one to Major Rider.
“Well, I think that was a success, don’t you?”
“Completely. How are the Americans, sir?” asked Matthew.
The Brigadier chuckled into his whisky. “Spitting mad! They were tailing the bastard, so when Amber walked off with him, they were completely wrong-footed. I got a call twenty minutes after the team took him. Mind you, I don’t think MI5 are even aware we’ve got him yet. Remind me to send a memo,” he said, still laughing.
“They haven’t a leg to stand on, though, as he was caught red-handed with our goodies.”
“Quite so, Matthew. It was fortunate that Amber just happened to pass young Reynolds in that crowd.”
Amber smiled. She’d been shopping with Charlie in Oxford Street, when she’d passed someone who was thinking about the documents he was passing to a CIA agent. She’d honed in on Mark and once he’d been identified, the Brigadier was informed and set up the operation. It came as a shock to realise that the KGB were involved, but they now had achieved a major coup, right in the face of MI5 and the CIA.