He leaned back in the seat as they hurried through the quiet streets. He had grabbed an hour of fitful sleep on the flight, but that was all; his only rest since Friday had been his drunken stupor this morning, and he had an early start at the embassy today. It would just have to do.
The hotel was on Novinskiy Boulevard and was one of the best in Moscow. It was a large building that curved around a bend in the road, the neon sign on the roof burning bright against the slowly lightening sky. The desk was staffed twenty-four hours a day, and, after Milton had checked in, he was escorted to his room by a polite and attentive porter. The woman spoke excellent English, and asked Milton about his trip and what he hoped to do during his visit to the city. Milton suspected that her good nature was not entirely genuine, and that he was being probed for information that might be passed along to the FSB division that specialised in counter-intelligence and the monitoring of foreign visitors.
“I’m going to be working at the British Embassy,” he said.
They reached the second floor and the porter indicated that they should turn left to find room 261.
“We have many diplomats from the embassy,” the woman said.
Milton knew that, of course; it was the reason the room had been reserved for him here.
“Is it close?” he asked.
“You haven’t been before?”
“First time.”
“Yes, it is close. You can walk there in fifteen minutes.”
“Excellent,” Milton said.
They reached the door. “What will you be doing there, Mr. Smith?” she asked him.
“Working on a deal to buy more Russian oil and gas. Not particularly interesting, I’m afraid.”
Milton said that he was tired and how much he was looking forward to his bed. The porter shone a bright smile at him as she held a keycard to his door, said that she hoped that he would find the bed comfortable, and, after taking his tip, she left him alone in his room.
Milton checked his suite. There was a large marble bathroom and a similarly generous bedroom. He had no doubt at all that the room was bugged, but he made no effort to find the devices. That would be the behaviour of a spy, and John Smith was an economist. Milton didn’t mind that he was observed. He undressed and got straight into bed. It was just after five. The briefing was at seven. He had an hour; not nearly enough, but it would have to do. He closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.
47
Milton woke at six. He felt rough, with not nearly enough sleep in the bank, and had to stand under a cold shower for five minutes to wake himself up. He stood before the mirror and stared at his reflection. He looked tired. He needed a cigarette, but that would have to wait.
He dressed in the business suit that he had brought with him, pairing his white shirt with a blue tie. He polished his shoes with the kit he found in the cupboard and put his credentials, wallet and phone in his pockets. He looked down at the opened suitcase on the bed; he would leave it there. He knew that they would go through his things, but they would find nothing that contradicted his legend. He was an economist, posted to the embassy. He would leave his laptop, too. They would be able to crack the rudimentary password with ease, but all they would find would be a collection of spreadsheets and documents that related to the deal that he was here to work on. Milton did not anticipate needing the computer, but if he did, the encryption key that he carried in his wallet would enable him to use it without fear of his communications being eavesdropped upon.
He went down to the lobby, used his card to buy some roubles from the receptionist, and stepped outside. He purchased a packet of cigarettes from a vending machine he found on the street, tore off the cellophane wrapper, tapped out a cigarette and lit it. The embassy was to the west. He followed Novinskiy Boulevard, its eight lanes already thick with traffic, and then turned into the quieter Protochnyy Pereulok. It was obvious that he was being followed. He saw a man and a woman who appeared behind him as he made his way off from the hotel, and noticed a car with tinted windows that was parked near the junction of the main road. Milton made no effort to shake the surveillance. He made his way along the pavement, passing apartment blocks and cheaper hotels until he reached the broad highway that overlooked the river. There was suddenly a sense of open space; the water was wide here, with long bridges that crossed to the other side and the impressive buildings that made up the political district.
He arrived at the embassy and showed his pass at the front door. The guard looked down at it, checked that the photograph was correct, and asked him to confirm his name. Milton did. The guard wished him good morning and stepped aside. Milton removed his coat, watch, belt and shoes and passed through the scanner, collected his personal belongings and waited in the lobby for someone to meet him.
A middle-aged woman joined him after five minutes. “Mr. Smith,” she said, maintaining his legend in the event that the intelligence services were listening in this unsecured part of the building. “My name is Susannah Jones. How are you?”
“Very well,” Milton said. “Tired. I got in early this morning.”
“We have some very strong coffee brewing. Come this way, please.”
Jones led the way through an exterior courtyard and then up a set of marble steps to the attic. This was where the embassy held briefings when classified intelligence might be discussed. The stairs ended in a large metal door of the sort one might expect to find securing a bank vault. The door was open and, beyond it, there was the day door with the cipher lock, and then a wire gate that was opened by the entry of a code on the electric keypad that was fitted to the wall next to it.
Jones led Milton through all the layers of security until he was inside the briefing room. Pope was already there.
“Morning,” he said.
“Won’t be a moment,” Jones said. “Help yourself to coffee.”
She turned and made her way back outside. There was a tray on the table with a vacuum flask of coffee and half a dozen china mugs. Pope filled two of the mugs, gave one to Milton and then sat down next to him.
“How’s your hotel?” Milton asked.
“Almost certainly bugged. Yours?”
“Same. And I was followed here this morning.”
“Me too,” Pope said. “We’re going to have to be thorough when we’re ready to move.”
Milton nodded his agreement, and then looked around the room. It was bare, with just the table and chairs. There was a laptop on the table, fixed with a lockable seal that helped guard against unauthorised access; the machine would have been preloaded with a secure software suite at GCHQ and then pouched to the embassy to ensure that it was not tampered with. The room was lit by overhead fluorescent tubes that would also have been imported from London to remove the risk that units sourced from the domestic market might have been provided with bugs included. There was a line of small windows on either side that were guarded by bars, then steel shutters, and finally triple-glazed glass. The lack of natural light, combined with the harsh glow of the tubes overhead, made for an unpleasant space. The price of security, Milton thought.
“Who’s briefing us?” he asked.