“Station Chief,” Pope said. “Just waiting for a fourth person.”
“He say who that is?”
“Station Chief is a she, actually,” Pope said. “And, no, she didn’t.”
They had been given very little in the way of information, save that they should report to the embassy for an operational briefing. Milton didn’t like to be unprepared, but he knew that the planning and execution of the operation would be left to him and Pope. Control had made it clear that speed was important, but Milton would balance it, so far as was possible, with careful organisation.
“Gentlemen,” said a voice from the doorway behind them.
Milton turned around. A middle-aged woman in a black skirt and jacket was standing just inside the wire gate.
“I’m Elizabeth McCartney,” she said, stepping inside and offering her hand. “I’m the chief here.”
Milton shook her hand but, before he could respond, he saw a second person ascending the stairs.
It was a second woman. She paused at the doorway and her mouth fell open.
“You?” she exclaimed.
He shook his head in wry amusement.
Jessie Ross.
“Hello,” he said.
“What the fuck?”
“Do you two know each other?” McCartney asked.
“We met on Sunday,” Ross said. “Smith was assigned to the Southwold investigation. Military liaison.”
“That’s right,” Milton said.
“What is it today? Still the same?”
Milton turned to indicate Pope. “We work for a government agency. I can’t tell you what that is, but I can say that we’ve been sent here to find the agents who are responsible for the assassinations in Southwold.”
“What government agency?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s classified.”
Milton watched her face as he spoke. She looked from him to Pope and back again. Her eyes sparked with irritation, and there was blood in her cheeks.
“This is nuts,” she said, throwing up her hands. “‘Find the agents responsible?’ What does that mean? Are you going to give them a good talking to? Tell them not to do it again?”
“No,” Milton said.
“So I’m being partnered with a killer, then. A murderer. Yes?” She glanced over at Pope and corrected herself. “Excuse me. Two murderers.”
“Is this going to be a problem?” McCartney said.
“I’m sorry,” Ross responded, “but why am I here? I don’t understand. Why do you even need me?”
“You agreed to come,” McCartney said evenly. “You volunteered, I believe.”
“Yes,” she said. “Before I knew…” She threw up her hands. “Before I knew this.”
“Raj Shah agreed with you because it made sense,” McCartney said. “You’re fairly new to the Russian desk. It’s possible they”—she pointed to the one uncovered window, and the buildings that crowded the far shore of the Moskva—“won’t even know who you are. And if they don’t have anything on you, you’ll find that movement is a little easier. Believe me—that’s a benefit here, and it doesn’t usually last long.”
“So I’m new and they don’t know who I am. That’s it?”
“And you’ve been here before,” McCartney added patiently. “You studied here. Your Russian is flawless.”
The compliments mollified Ross a little. She turned to Milton and Pope. “And them? What do they do?”
“You’re right,” McCartney said. “We can’t ask the Russians to put the bad guys on the first BA flight back to London. We need to draw a line. They’re going to draw it.”
48
Primakov took the executive elevator to the fourth floor. He folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, glancing up at the shield of the SVR, the Star and Globe, that had been fixed to the wall of the car. The doors opened and he emerged into the gloom and silence of the corridor that led down the centre of the floor. The carpet was thick, muffling the sound of the footsteps of the men and women who worked here. No one spoke, the silence disturbed only by the clacking of keyboards in the typists’ pool. Primakov looked left at the portraits of previous directors of the KGB, each man glaring down at him as he passed, as if disapproving of his illicit use of agency resources to further his own goals. The opposite wall was hung with the portraits of the directors of the ‘reformed’ SVR; a sick joke, he thought, knowing from personal experience that the current incarnation of the agency was at least the equal of its murderous forerunner.
Primakov went through into his office and sat down behind the grand desk, a slab of oak finished with a leather top. He swivelled his chair so that he could reach the credenza and picked up one of the telephones, buzzing his secretary to ask her whether Nikolaevich had arrived for the meeting yet. The woman said that he hadn’t, and would he like her to contact the deputy director’s office to see where he was? Primakov looked at the clock on the wall. Nikolaevich was already thirty minutes late, and it was he who had asked for the meeting. He knew this was one of his old comrade’s favoured tricks, a not-so-subtle gesture designed to remind him that Nikolaevich was the more senior man. It irritated Primakov, and he would not normally have stood for it, but he knew that he might need Nikolaevich’s help if his plan did not succeed, and so he decided to make a show of just how patient he could be. He told his secretary that there was no need; he would wait.
Primakov turned to look at the deep fringe of forest that encircled the building. He always found the view peaceful, and a little tranquillity was precisely what he needed now. Patience was one thing, but that didn’t mean that Nikolaevich’s game playing had no effect on Primakov’s mood. Primakov hated having to rely on others at the best of times, especially when it came to a rival. The two men had known each other for twenty years, ever since they had met at the Academy, and their careers had mirrored one another. Primakov had been an agent in Madrid. Nikolaevich had served in Bruges. Primakov had been made the rezident in Caracas. Nikolaevich had been made the rezident in Rio. They had returned to the Center within three months of one another and had both been promoted: Primakov was placed at the head of Directorate S while Nikolaevich was made First Deputy Director of the FSB. Both knew that the other coveted the directorships of their respective agencies. Those were the very top rungs of the ladder, with the only report being to the president himself. Primakov had had designs on his advancement right from the start, and although Nikolaevich was less obvious in his covetousness, he wasn’t fooling anyone; he most certainly wasn’t fooling Primakov.
“Nikolai.”
Primakov saw the reflection in the window and turned. Nikolaevich was standing in the doorway.
“Alexei,” Primakov said. “I told my secretary to—”
“I told her I’d go straight in,” Nikolaevich said. “I’m already late enough as it is. My apologies. The president wanted a report on a Chechen cell we’ve been keeping an eye on. The meeting lasted longer than I had expected.” There it was: a casual reference to a meeting with the president. It was classic Nikolaevich. He loved to present an impression of humbleness, but it was a show; he wanted Primakov to know that he had been to the Kremlin, that he had the president’s ear.
“You wanted to see me,” Primakov said. “What can I do for you?”
Nikolaevich took a seat. Primakov went to the sideboard. He had asked Catering to prepare tea for them both, and they had delivered a silver salver with two antique tea-glass holders. He gave one to Nikolaevich.