“This is a little delicate,” the major-general said.
Primakov opened his hands wide in a gesture he hoped would appear accommodating, and one that he hoped might mask the sense of foreboding he felt. “Please,” he said. “How can I help?”
“You have a source in MI6.”
It wasn’t a question.
“We do,” Primakov said.
“And this source—he or she is well placed?”
“Reasonably,” Primakov fenced. “What is it, Alexei—how can I help you?”
Nikolaevich rubbed his temples. “I have a problem, and I wondered whether you—your source—might be able to assist.”
Primakov felt a little twist of anxiety in his gut and took a sip of his tea to buy himself a moment. This had to be handled delicately. “Of course, but within reason. PROZHEKTOR is very valuable.”
“That’s the cryptonym?”
Primakov said that it was.
“Searchlight.” Nikolaevich gave an approving nod. “Shining a light onto MI6’s darkest secrets?”
The words sounded gauche when Nikolaevich said them, and Primakov felt a pulse of irritation. “Indeed,” he said. “They have been an effective source, and they promise more. But, because of that, I wouldn’t be able to agree to anything that might jeopardise their position.”
“Their position,” Nikolaevich mused. “Where is that?”
“You know I can’t say, Alexei. Please—what is your problem? I’ll help if I can.”
Nikolaevich slumped back in the chair. “Very well. I hope we can keep this between ourselves.” He waited for Primakov to indicate that he wouldn’t share whatever it was that Nikolaevich was about to tell him.
“Fine,” Primakov said.
“Thank you. Two British agents entered the country this morning. We picked them up at Sheremetyevo and we have surveillance on them, but I wondered if there was anything that PROZHEKTOR might be able to tell us about them. More specifically, what they are here to do.”
It was early, but Primakov glanced over at the decanter of vodka on the sideboard and yearned for one to steady his nerves. He couldn’t, of course; the last thing he wanted was for this cunning old fox to know that he was anxious.
“British agents come here all the time,” he said. “Why are these two any different?”
“I’m thinking about the operation with Aleksandrov. I have my own sources, of course, and the suggestion is that they are from Group Fifteen. And that makes me nervous.”
“I can’t speak to that,” Primakov said.
“I realise that. I suppose I’m a little embarrassed to know so little about them—ignorance will not be looked at kindly by the president if something were to happen.”
“What could happen?”
“There are several possibilities. Your agents, for example. The ones who carried out the operation. They are in Moscow?”
There was no point in pretending otherwise; it was common knowledge. “They are.”
“It crossed my mind that if the British knew who they were, they might try to take revenge. It would be the kind of thing that they would do. You are as familiar with Control’s file as I am, I’m sure—his vengeful streak is well known.”
“He wouldn’t be so foolish as to do something like that.”
“Why not? We killed one of theirs on their soil. It would be a quid pro quo.”
Primakov stood, eager to bring the conversation to an end. “Thank you for mentioning it, Alexei. I will review the security arrangements for my agents.”
Nikolaevich stayed seated. “And I will continue to watch the two of them. If, in the meantime, you felt able to ask your asset whether he or she knows anything about what they might be doing here, any information would be very gratefully received.”
Primakov had to resist the urge to reach down and pull Nikolaevich to his feet.
“What about our own mole hunt?”
Primakov fought back a sigh. Nikolaevich wasn’t finished. “Yes? What about it?”
“I had hoped that our colleagues in Line KR would have smoked out whoever it is by now.”
“But they haven’t. We must continue to be cautious.”
“Until they have been found, we must assume that they are providing intelligence to the British—intelligence like the location of your two sleepers. That’s why I am nervous about these two agents.”
“But that presumes that the leak is in my department. And I’m confident that it is not.”
Nikolaevich smiled and, finally, he stood. “It goes without saying that any help you can provide will be treated as a personal favour. It would be one that I would never forget; you would be able to call on it whenever you wanted and I would be honour bound to come to your aid.”
“Thank you, Alexei,” Primakov said. “I understand. I’ll see what I can do.”
London
49
Control was unhappy that his morning had been interrupted. He had received a call that he was urgently required to attend a meeting at headquarters at ten. It was inconvenient, to say the least. He had scheduled a call with Moscow Station to discuss the operation against the Russian sleepers, and now he would have to postpone it. He queried the request with Tanner, but, after checking, his adjutant had reported that there was no way he could absent himself. Control asked for clarification on what was to be discussed, but Tanner was rebuffed and reminded that this was classified Strap Two-Level Secret. Eyes only.
It was only a short walk between the Global Logistics building and the monstrosity that had been foisted upon the Secret Intelligence Service as its new base of operations. It was a pleasant morning, but the good weather did nothing to brighten Control’s mood. He made his way in through the main entrance, passing through the mundane ignominies of the security scanners, and made his way up to the executive floor. The meeting was being held in one of the bland conference rooms next to the offices of the senior staff. Control was evidently the last attendee to arrive and, after acknowledging the others around the table, he took his seat and looked around. It was a particularly high-powered meeting; perhaps it was important, after all.
There were eight others around the table. The government was represented by two ministers, together with their private secretaries. To his right was Harry Cousins, the defence secretary. Cousins was a stolid, reliable political operator, resilient enough to have enjoyed a long career under three different prime ministers and yet not devious or avaricious enough to progress beyond his current station. Next to Cousins was Christopher Younger, the foreign secretary. Younger was something of a media darling, derided by those in the intelligence community for his fondness for the limelight, his embarrassingly naked ambition and the occasional buffoonery that caused frequent embarrassment abroad.
Representing the intelligence agencies were Sir Benjamin Stone and Vivian Bloom. Stone was SIS Chief; he was in his mid-fifties, a reasonably large man with a middle-age spread that he seemed uninterested in arresting. Bloom was the most interesting of the other senior attendees. He acted as the permanent liaison between the Firm and the Government. His nickname within the building was the Reverend. This sobriquet was derived from a brief appointment as the sub-rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, and, perhaps, the unruly dress sense that put Control in mind of a bumbling rural vicar. His appearance was deceiving, though, and Control had seen many people make the mistake of underestimating him. He was in his late sixties and had worked in the intelligence business since the start of the Cold War. One did not manage that sort of tenure without ruthlessness. Bloom was well connected, unfailingly zealous and duplicitous to a fault.