This overkill, as Burt called it, was, he believed, running the risk of itself being spotted by the Russians. But it was justified at the CIA by the fact that the entire state intelligence community now needed Mikhail more than ever. It was firmly accepted that the first step in drawing Mikhail out into the open—if indeed he proved to be in America at all—was for Anna to present herself at the heart of the KGB’s presence.
The Russian agent the British had detected through their source in Moscow’s defence ministry was now given critical status. And finding Mikhail had become more important than ever.
As a piece of valuable bait, Anna discovered that those around her had become more courteous than ever. She was now a most prized piece of meat, the lure without which the endgame could not be reached, let alone won. And she accepted her role, not just because there was no choice, but also because in her mind she was personally curious to see if Mikhail would contact her. It would lift the burden of the previous months, of the two years since Finn’s death. Mikhail’s anticipated approach to her would be the real beginning of the end—a new life.
All of these preparations took weeks of grinding slowness to approach the moment of contact itself, and it was now just a few days before Christmas. Burt insisted they all take some time off—Anna to reunite with Little Finn, and Marcie to stay with her. They were all invited to Burt’s ranch for Christmas itself. It consisted of half a million acres of New Mexico wilderness, and Burt took Little Finn on tours to find the herds of bison and elk. They even spotted a mountain lion on the day after Christmas. “A cougar,” Burt proudly said, and smiled.
But for the three days of the vacation Anna was loaded with boxes of photographs of Vladimir and transcripts of conversations covertly obtained. Recordings of Vladimir’s voice were also included, as well as several lists of his favourite New York shops and cafés. She memorised them all, the cafés, bars, shops, parks—and anywhere else he liked to spend his free time.
Finally, details of the routes he habitually took to and from the Russian compound and the UN building were marked with refinements, detours, and inconsistencies, all updated daily.
Chapter 21
ON THE THIRD DAY after they returned to New York, Burt took a call from the leader of his team of watchers in the city. The Russians at the UN had celebrated their Russian New Year on the night before, in a Russian restaurant on Sixty-third Street. They were expected to return to their offices at the UN building in two days’ time.
On the morning of January 8, Burt, Anna, Marcie, and Logan, as well as four members of Burt’s company staff, listened to a running commentary from the spot teams on the ground.
That morning, as every morning on Vladimir’s working days, they picked him out leaving his apartment block on the west side of Central Park, which the Russian diplomatic mission had colonised in the previous ten years, and saw him step out into the cold, snow-driven street to a waiting car.
On some mornings, he took the subway downtown, out of choice, it was assumed, but this morning the weather clearly drove him into the ease and warmth of one of the pool cars the Russians used. It gave them less chance, Logan observed. If the weather didn’t improve, Vladimir would go straight back the same way without stopping at any of his usual haunts.
But the skies cleared at lunchtime, the snow disappearing to the north, and at 2:37 in the afternoon the team, alerted by other watchers inside the UN building, reported Vladimir now leaving on foot and turning towards midtown. He finally took a taxi on Fortieth Street.
Burt placed Anna in one of three yellow New York cabs that seemed to be part of his own inventory, and she and the stubbornly sullen driver waited for instructions.
A report came through that Vladimir had got out of the cab on Broadway near Washington Square and walked a few yards up the street into a Barnes and Noble bookstore. Anna’s taxi drove downtown for six streets and waited again, a block away from the store.
“He’s looking at books,” a watcher said unenthusiastically.
Then they heard that he had exited the store and was walking back two blocks towards a secondhand bookstore off Washington Square itself. Over the car’s speaker phone, she heard he had walked inside.
“He’s browsing,” another watcher announced over the car’s speaker phone. “He looks like he’ll be some time.”
Burt came on the line. “Could be the opportunity,” he said.
“He used to spend hours in bookstores in Moscow,” Anna agreed.
“Let’s go,” Burt said.
She could tell from his voice that he was nervous now that control was slipping from him to her.
She didn’t need to look at the map she had with her. Stepping out of the cab, she walked briskly for one block, until she saw the huge store on the corner of the square. She crossed the street and walked to the right, towards the entrance.
Inside, she tried to catch sight of where he was, but the store was too big. Racks of books stretched away into the back and spilled out over the sidewalk on a side street. She walked in with her head slightly lowered, but keeping it facing straight ahead. But she took in as much of the store as she could without breaking pace.
Stopping and browsing with unseeing eyes, she tried to cover the whole store without turning her head away from the racks. Above all, it was important not to catch his eye first.
Eventually she saw him and breathed a sigh of relief. He was right at the back. If she stayed near the front of the store, he would pass near her on his way towards the exit. She picked up one or two books, not letting her eyes leave him now.
At the apartment, Burt and Logan were silent, listening tensely to the commentary of the team.
“He’s picking up a book with a yellow cover,” one lookout who had followed Anna into the store reported.
“We think it’s The Interrogation by Le Clézio,” came through a moment later.
Burt sucked his teeth and temporarily switched off the speaker going out. “Training gone out of control,” he hissed at Logan. “They should be looking out for anyone tailing him, not at the damn book titles! Tell them.”
Logan sent out the order. Then he and Burt left the apartment for a waiting car.
At just after three thirty, the street team jabbered over the lines that Vladimir was heading towards the exit of the store. They fixed Anna’s position at a rack in the centre aisle of three, one of which he would have to take.
“He’s heading for the left-hand aisle,” a voice said. “He hasn’t seen anyone.”
“Nobody tailing him from their side,” another voice came through.
Anna saw him from the corner of her eye coming from the gloomy recesses at the back of the store into the better-lit front area and then stopping again at a rack about twenty yards away from her. He thumbed through several books, eventually picked a fourth, and, without looking inside the covers, turned to the left and headed for the pay counter.
There was a queue of three people in front of him, a man and two women. He waited in line. She watched him looking around as he waited. He didn’t look at the book. It was a book he knew he wanted. His gaze followed the counter up to the right, then left. Was he watching? she wondered. No, just bored, just filling time. She was too far behind him for his gaze to light on her without turning.
Finally, he reached the front of the queue, took out an old leather wallet, and paid the young assistant, who put the book in a brown bag, handed it back to him, and spoke some cheerfully perfunctory words. Then he turned and tried to fit the book into the pocket of his coat, but it wouldn’t quite go. He took some gloves from his pocket.