A keen observer might have noticed that, after Stanway had removed his hand from the wall, a small chalk circle was visible on the stonework, which hadn’t been there before.
‘This is not a good time, Raya,’ said Major Yuri Abramov, looking across the desk at his deputy, who was standing respectfully at attention in front of him.
‘I appreciate that, Major,’ Raya said, ‘and I am also very aware that you will not be in the office every day next week. But my mother has not been in good health and, if my aunt Valentina is right, she may well be dying.’ Raya was very aware that she was addressing her superior officer and, though she’d spent some minutes in the toilet composing herself, she still couldn’t stop the tears. She turned away quickly and reached for a tissue.
Major Abramov wasn’t a hard man. Like Raya Kosov, he’d been recruited by the SVR for his computer-system management skills, not for any kind of old-style KGB toughness. He stood up, walked round his desk and put an arm around his subordinate, pulling her close to him. ‘Sit down, Raya,’ he murmured softly, and led her the few paces towards a chair.
In a couple of minutes, she felt able to speak, and to face him again. ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t know—’
‘Raya,’ Abramov interrupted, ‘please don’t distress yourself. Your feelings are entirely natural. Look, you’re owed a week’s leave and, frankly, I wouldn’t want you here working on the system in your present emotional state. Is there anything major that you have to get done this week?’
Raya shook her head. ‘Nothing that won’t wait, sir. I’ve a few basic housekeeping jobs to do, but I can get those out of the way by Friday.’
‘Right,’ Abramov said, ‘do whatever you feel you need to do by the end of work on Friday. If there’s anything you haven’t managed to finish, let me know and I’ll take care of it on Monday. You can sort out your travel arrangements tomorrow, and then fly to Minsk on Friday evening or Saturday morning. I’ll authorize an airline ticket for you. Don’t forget to check in at the local SVR office when you get there. I’ll call ahead to let them know you’ll be in the city.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ she murmured.
‘But what you must do, Raya, is get back here by Friday next week, because I will be away almost all of the following week, and I’ll need to do a full handover before I leave at the end of that day. If there’s even the slightest possibility of your being delayed, you must let me know immediately.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Raya said. ‘There’ll be no problem, I’ll make sure of that. And thank you so much.’
Three minutes later she closed Abramov’s door behind her and headed back to her own office, with a slight smile brightening her face despite the red-rimmed eyes. She had a lot to do and very little time to do it in.
Andrew Lomas had been born Alexei Lomosolov, in Kiev in 1963. After showing considerable promise at school, he had been recruited by the KGB before he was even twenty. He’d then attended language courses, and quickly became fluent in English.
His talents had led to him being selected to undertake lifestyle training at the KGB’s Balashikha special-operations school east of Moscow — where Yasser Arafat had been a pupil once, when the Russians had decided to groom him for future leadership of the PLO. Amongst other training included at Balashikha, the KGB provided facilities which precisely duplicated communities in various target countries. In the English facility, to which Lomosolov was sent, only English was ever spoken. Radio and television programmes were the genuine article, recorded and then re-broadcast over the local network; newspapers and books were English; the meals and drinks they were served were exactly what one would expect to find in an English home, pub or restaurant; and even the furniture and fittings had been purchased in London stores. It was the closest the KGB could get to providing an English environment without actually being in England itself.
Lomosolov had spent six months living and working there. The day he arrived the commanding officer had summoned him to his office and addressed him in English. On that occasion, he had explained the purpose of the facility, how it worked and what they expected from him. But he had finished with a warning: the only absolutely unbreakable rule there was that any student heard speaking a language other than English, for whatever reason and in any circumstance, would be instantly dismissed.
Lomosolov had been assessed as one of the top three students in his intake, and was advised by the commanding officer that he would be one of only two students selected to take the final examination. All the others would remain at the facility for a further two months, before being assessed again. When he’d asked what the examination consisted of, Lomosolov had simply been told to wait and see.
Late in May 1985, he was told to report to the facility’s English pub. Not knowing what to expect, he pushed open the door and walked in, hailing the barman cheerfully, as he always did, ordering a pint of bitter. Sitting in an armchair at a small round table near the bar was an elderly man, who was clearly frail and not in the best of health. He was nursing a whisky, and smiled as the young man approached him. His face was faintly familiar to Lomosolov and suddenly, with a jolt that was more shock than surprise, Lomosolov recognized him.
Harold Adrian Russell (‘Kim’) Philby was then seventy-three years old and not merely a major general in the KGB but a living legend whose name and exploits were spoken of in reverent whispers. Suddenly Lomosolov realized that this encounter had to be his final examination. Those thirty minutes or so spent talking to Philby, before the facility commanding officer arrived, had been the most difficult of Lomosolov’s short career, and when he was told to return to his quarters, he had no idea whether he had passed the test or failed.
Once Lomosolov departed, Philby had gestured for another Scotch and settled himself back into his seat as the commanding officer sat down opposite him.
‘Well, Comrade General?’
Philby had smiled. ‘The first student, Nabokov, is very good. He would pass as an Englishman in any circumstances I can imagine.’
‘And the second one, Lomosolov?’
Philby had smiled more broadly, before replying. ‘I’ve been coming here for, what, almost twenty years to assess your students, Colonel, and never before have you tried this stunt. I’m surprised at you.’
‘Tried what?’
‘You know perfectly well.’ Philby wagged a finger. ‘Where did you find him? What is he, some English student you’ve recruited? The son of an English defector? What I do know is that he’s not merely a Russian impersonating an Englishman. He is genuinely an Englishman.’
The commanding officer had shaken his head. ‘I’m afraid you’re wrong there, General, and there’s been no trickery. That young man was born Alexei Lomosolov in Kiev twenty-two years ago, the only son of two good Russian citizens named Andrei and Katerina Lomosolov.’
A little over eight months later, following an intensive six-month course in tradecraft and agent-handling, Alexei Lomosolov had arrived in London. He was carrying a genuine Canadian passport in the name of Andrew Lomas, and took out a lease on a small apartment in West London.