“Do we know why?”
“Our source reports that Anastasiya’s husband was arrested and imprisoned a year ago. We believe he died in the gulag. Some disagreement with an oligarch who is close to the Kremlin—the usual. It seems likely that his death changed her view on the motherland. But it doesn’t really matter. The schematic is authentic and Romanova checks out. There’s more than enough here for us to take it seriously.”
“Before you ask,” Stone took over, “we are aware that this could be a trap. It’s difficult to get any certainty out of Russia and we’re being forced to move fast—that means there’s a risk. On the other hand, our source thinks that this is legitimate. On balance, we think it’s something we have to move on. The benefits are significant.”
Younger gave an overly dramatic nod, his bouffant hair bouncing. “Assuming we give this the green light, what comes next?”
“That’s what we need to decide. The operation against the two Russian assassins is ready to go ahead. Control?”
Control pursed his lips as he weighed it all up; he knew that he was about to be asked to change his plans. “I have two assets in theatre, and the intelligence on Kuznetsov and Timoshev has been passed to a cut-out. The cut-out will meet with my agents in”—he checked his watch—“two and a half hours. Assuming that everything is acceptable, the plan is to go ahead tonight.”
“I propose a variation,” Bloom said. “Benjamin and I have spoken and we believe there might be a way that this could be done. Does the operation against the Russians need two agents?”
“Ideally, yes,” Control said.
“You have half a day—could you get another agent over there?”
“Possibly.” Control looked at his watch; it was half-ten. He sighed. “Probably.”
“Then that’s what we should do. Split your agents up. Send one to Komsomolsk to meet Aleksandrov’s daughter. The other one can stay in Moscow and do what needs to be done. It’ll draw the Center’s attention inward. Might be a distraction.”
Control didn’t object; he knew there was no point. The decision had already been made.
“Foreign Secretary?”
“Happy to defer to you chaps,” he said.
Stone turned to Cousins. “Secretary of Defence?”
“This is your area. I’ll go along with your recommendation.”
“And the PM?”
“Yes,” Cousins said. “We should mention it to her, yes. But I doubt she will have a problem.”
“That’s settled, then. Control—can I leave the arrangements with you?”
“What about local liaison?” Control said. “Moscow is one thing. We have support there. But Komsomolsk is something else altogether.”
“Doesn’t SIS have an agent runner with your assets? I don’t remember her name.”
“Her name is Ross,” Stone said. “Raj Shah vouched for her. Says she’s good. Excellent Russian, a cleanskin as far as the FSB is concerned—I’ve no objections with you borrowing her. She can go with whoever you choose to send.”
Bloom looked across the table at Control. “You’ll get onto it?”
Control stood. “I will.”
“If you need anything—”
“Thank you,” Control cut over him. “It’s in hand. I’ll report later, when it’s done, but I need to get back to the office. I have a telephone call to make.”
50
Control stood at the wide office window that overlooked the Thames and tamped down tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. He clenched the stem between his teeth and puffed down as he held a match to the bowl. His mouth filled with the taste of the smoke and he held it there for a moment before angling his head and emitting it in a long, languid stream that would hang in the room for hours. It was midday, and the sun was directly over the buildings on the other side of the water. He looked down and saw the familiar swell of traffic on the road that followed the river. He stood there for a moment and watched, allowing his thoughts to settle.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Control said.
Tanner opened the door. “Callan is outside, sir.”
“Send him in.”
Tanner stepped aside and, after a short pause, a new man stepped into the office. Christopher Callan was in his mid-thirties. He was tall and thin and elegantly dressed: he wore a dark grey suit with a faint herringbone pattern, his trousers neatly creased and his shoes polished to a high sheen. He undid the button of his jacket as he came inside and, as it fell open, Control saw two things: an understated lilac-coloured lining and the glint of a pistol holstered just beneath his left armpit. Callan would have been considered handsome by most people, but there was something a little alien in his appearance that Control found unsettling. His head was smaller than usual, crowned by a nest of tight curls that reminded him of the statues of da Vinci. His skin, too, was as alabaster-white as those statues.
“Sit,” Control said, gesturing to the comfortable chairs before the table.
Callan sat. Control watched him. His lips were thin and pale. His eyes were pale, too, almost limpid. There was a natural cruelty in his face. Control had been alerted to the man’s potential and, after studying his record, had decided that he was worthy of further investigation. He had served with distinction in the Special Boat Service until very recently. His father’s business had collapsed and Callan had passed the naval scholarship examination to pay for his school fees. He had served in the SBS company in the Middle East and had commanded a Marine company in Afghanistan. He had been in Kabul when a Taliban suicide squad had commandeered a tower block overlooking the embassy district and started firing grenades and automatic weaponry. Callan had commanded the SBS team who cleared the building. None of the jihadis had walked out of that building alive.
Control took the teapot and poured out two cups, handing one to Callan.
“Congratulations are in order, Mr. Callan,” he said.
“Sir?”
“One of my agents was killed in action yesterday morning. That means a vacancy has arisen. I’d like you to fill it—if you’re still interested in working for me, of course.”
“Yes, sir,” Callan said quickly. His enthusiasm was obvious.
Callan had been subjected to the usual barrage of tests that awaited any potential recruit to the Group. He had been taken to the Group’s facility at Trafalgar Place in Wiltshire where he had performed well. His recordable metrics were first rate, and he had returned an excellent score in the final assessment in the Brecon Beacons. He had been subjected to two days of brutal interrogation and his background had been given a forensic examination. There was nothing to cause concern: he was single, possibly homosexual, no close friends; his parents were dead; no obvious foibles or weaknesses that could be used against him; he lived for his work. In short, nothing had been uncovered that had warranted concern.
His physical scores were excellent and so, too, was his psychological report. The Group psychiatrists had reported a natural callousness and lack of empathy, together with a lack of concern for the feelings of others. They had suggested a possible inability to feel emotions deeply, together with an inability to acknowledge fear in others. There was an extremely high threshold for disgust, as demonstrated when Callan was shown pictures of battlefield fatalities. Control could diagnose that easily enough: these were all symptomatic of psychopathy. It did not concern Control at all. It was just a label, and, indeed, the qualities of a person whom society might deem psychopathic were useful in an agent, up to a point.