The agents of Group Fifteen were referred to as ‘cleaners’ or ‘headhunters.’ Pope, as Number Five, was one of its most senior operatives. Pope was emplaced in the event that a decision was taken to interdict PAPERCLIP, or anyone else that he might meet. Control was rotating his agents to keep them fresh; this was the second day that Pope had been on the team, and tomorrow he would be rotated off in favour of Number Six.
“This is Alpha, handing off.”
“This is Bravo. Picking up. PAPERCLIP is heading toward the bridge.”
The team was extensive. There were ten agents assigned, with none of them staying with him for longer than necessary. Beck was good, and they were assuming that he had been operational for the entirety of the ten years that he had been in the country. He had never been caught, and that suggested a certain expertise. The sophistication of the surveillance had been ratcheted up in accordance with that.
“This is Bravo. He’s going over the bridge. Handing off.” There was surprise in the agent’s voice.
“This is Foxtrot. Picking up.”
“Is that unusual?” Pope asked the female agent driving the car.
“Yes,” she said, putting the car into gear and pulling out. “First time over the river since we’ve been on him. We need to change position.”
They drove down Fulham High Street and swung onto Putney Bridge. Pope looked out to the left as they started across the river. Beck was walking on his own, passing beneath one of the outsized lanterns that threw out its warm glow over the water below. He was a big man, solid and healthy despite his years, and he walked with purpose. He was wearing a light jacket and pulling a wheeled suitcase along behind him. There were a handful of other people on the bridge. Pope had no idea which of them were engaged in the operation, but guessed there would be at least three, with one going in the opposite direction in the event that Beck reversed course in an attempt to reveal possible surveillants.
“This is Blackjack. We’ve checked the origin of the call. There’s no call centre. It was a flare. Assume he’s running.”
The car reached the other side and swung off onto Waterman’s Green. The driver continued around the curve until they were out of sight of the bridge and then performed a U-turn, bringing the car to a halt next to a bus shelter.
“This is Foxtrot. He’s heading straight on. Handing off.”
“This is Golf. Picking up.”
Pope had conferred with Control an hour previously and had been brought up to speed on the events in Southwold. The death of the dissident Russian was being attributed to Russian actors, and, as a suspected agent runner, Beck had become of even greater interest. The hope was that Beck’s agents might be responsible and that he might inadvertently betray them. And now, on the evening of the murder, Beck was on the move. He had received a warning and he was acting on it. Pope found it hard to believe that that could be a coincidence.
They waited next to the shelter, listening to the chatter over the radio as Beck changed course in what was an obvious attempt to smoke out surveillance. They had enough assets to adapt the coverage so that he didn’t see the same follower more than once. Pope listened as Beck was reported as returning onto the main road and continuing to the south.
“This is Golf. I think he’s going to the station.”
The driver put the car into gear and rolled away from the kerb.
“This is Blackjack to Number Five. Get to the station, please.”
“On our way,” the driver reported, bullying her way into the traffic and then waiting for the lights opposite the medieval church to change.
Pope felt the tingle of adrenaline. This was not the sort of operation where it was possible to furnish him with clean rules of engagement. There had been no need for him, or any of the other Group Fifteen agents who had been involved in the surveillance, to do anything other than wait for an order to move. But PAPERCLIP’s uncharacteristic activity this evening, especially given what had happened on the Suffolk coast, suggested that the operation was approaching a climax. Pope reached down to the service pistol that he had holstered beneath his left shoulder. His fingertips brushed the stippled grip of the Sig and then slid away from it, zipping up his jacket to obscure the weapon.
“This is Foxtrot. He’s crossing for the station. Handing off.”
“This is Golf, picking up. He’s buying a ticket.”
“This is Blackjack to Five. You’re up. Get after him.”
The driver pulled over on the opposite side of the road to the station entrance.
“Go,” the driver urged.
Pope got out, waited for a chance to cross and then jogged out between two slow-moving buses.
“Golf to Five. Paperclip is on platform one. Repeat, platform one.”
Pope pressed his pre-paid card on the reader, passed through the barriers and made his way to the platform. He saw Beck at once. The old man was sitting on one of the benches, looking up and down the platform. Pope walked on without giving him a second glance. His earpiece was tiny and in the opposite ear; Beck wouldn’t be able to see it. He checked the departures board; the first train, due into the station in a minute, was going to Winchester.
Pope was five paces beyond Beck when he heard the rumble of the approaching engine. He kept walking, all the way down to the front of the platform, and waited for the train to arrive. He turned back to see Beck board the third carriage of five. Pope helped a mother to wheel her pram down from the carriage and onto the platform and then boarded himself. The doors closed and the train pulled out.
Moscow
21
Primakov told his driver to take him to the Fourth District. He had him pull up half a mile short of his ultimate destination, told him to take the night off and then waited for him to merge into the traffic and drive away. He walked the rest of the way himself, following the Moskva River through a pleasant park that was lit with reproduction antique lanterns that cast a warm glow out over the water.
They had chosen the usual location for their tryst, the Directorate S safe house that was occasionally occupied by agents who were returning to Moscow from abroad. It was almost always empty; Primakov had confirmed that that was the case today, and that they would have privacy for as long as they wanted it. The apartment was in one of the new blocks that had been constructed here during the last twenty years, funded by ambitious developers who took advantage of the more relaxed rules on the movement of capital to invest in accommodation for the city’s burgeoning middle class. These buildings were alike, each thirty stories tall and sleeker than the Soviet-era architecture that blighted so much of the rest of the city.
Primakov opened the door to the lobby, walked past the reception desk without acknowledging the porter, and took the lift up to the fourteenth floor. He knocked on the door and waited until he heard the sound of bare feet slapping against the wood of the hall. The door opened and his lover greeted him with a smile.
“I thought you would never get here,” she said.
“The council meeting ran a little late,” he said, happy to mention that he had been to the Kremlin because he knew that she would be impressed.
“And?” she said, her eyes wide.