53
Pope was driven out of the embassy at five o’clock that afternoon. The sun was still shining down onto the city, and it was pleasantly warm. The driver had taken a route that followed the Moskva River before looping around and crossing it on Smolenskaya Ulitsa. He had waited until the last moment to leave it, hanging a sharp right that pointed them toward the park at Lesya Ukrainka. He turned right again and then, almost immediately, left onto the narrow street that skirted the park. The driver turned again onto another quiet side street and, holding up three fingers, started a countdown as he slowed the car. Pope opened the door and bailed out, throwing himself down behind a parked van as the driver sped up again. The unmarked FSB tail followed just behind, maintaining a discreet distance that had allowed Pope—so far as he could tell—to get out without being seen.
He stayed where he was, waiting for another minute to confirm that there was not a second car, and then, satisfied that there was not, he set off toward the tall, dilapidated apartment block that loomed over the park like a sentinel. He took a cap out of his pocket and pulled it down so that the brim was tight around his forehead, and then put on a pair of dark glasses.
He walked north, caught a bus on Raduzhnaya Street and rode it for fifteen minutes before getting off at Otradnoye station and riding the Metro back in the opposite direction. He continued the game for four hours, covering miles of the city until his feet were aching and sore. By the time he finally reached out his arm to flag down a taxi he was as confident as he could be that he was black.
The taxi was an old Lada that had seen better days. The driver leaned across to wind down the window and asked him where he wanted to go. Pope told him the Annino Metro station; the driver grunted his approval and indicated with a jerk of his head that Pope should get into the back. He did, settling into a musty-smelling leather seat that was held together with strips of duct tape. He yanked the seatbelt across his chest and pushed it home. He had been driven in taxis all around the world, but he remembered his previous experiences on the streets of Moscow as being particularly concerning. This driver looked very much like the others that he remembered: surly, aggressive and, judging by the smell of alcohol that permeated the cabin of the car, quite possibly drunk. The car didn’t look as if it would offer much by way of protection if they were to be involved in an accident, and so he resorted to crossing his fingers as the driver bullied his way out into the traffic and set out toward Pope’s destination.
54
The warehouse district was open, with wide roads and lots of space within which the buildings had been constructed. Pope stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver the two thousand roubles he demanded, and then looked around in an attempt to gain his bearings. The streets around the station were broad, with three lanes of traffic passing in each direction. The sky looked especially large here, with clouds idling overhead on a gentle breeze.
Pope walked away from the Metro. He had been shown the route he would need to take before leaving the embassy, and he found it simple enough to match the landmarks around him with the images he had seen on Google Street View. He reached the warehouse that had been arranged as the location for the meet. The warehouse was a legitimate business, offering wholesale budget groceries to the city’s traders. He passed through the open door and made his way along rows of well-stocked shelving. The interior was functional at best, the lighting provided by ugly strip lights that swung from the ceiling on old metal chains. Pope reached the rear of the warehouse and the plain door that he had been told opened into the office. He went inside, passing between two lines of racking before he reached a second door. He rapped his knuckles against it.
There was a pause. Pope looked up at the camera that had been fixed above the door and knew that he was being scrutinised.
“Come in,” said a voice in heavily accented English.
Pope pushed the door open and stepped into the compact room beyond. It was evidently used as the office for the business. There was a desk with an old computer positioned on it, two green metal filing cabinets that had been dented and scuffed over the years, and a second screen that displayed the feeds from a number of security cameras that had been placed both inside and outside the property. There was a single window, little more than a slit in the wall, that offered an unglamorous view of the yard outside where industrial bins were stored in readiness for collection. The room was lit by an unmasked bulb that cast a harsh light on the man who was sitting on the chair behind the desk.
“Aleksey?” Pope said.
“Yes,” he said. The man’s name was Aleksey Varlamov. He was in his early sixties. The lines on his careworn face were deep, testament to the cold Russian winter and a life that was more than unusually full of stress. “I take it you have been careful?”
“I’ve been going around in circles for hours,” Pope said. “My feet ache. If they’re still on me, they’re better at this than I am.”
“Thank you,” he said. “They have been more vigilant than ever in these last few months. The president is building up the security apparatus to beyond where it was during the Cold War. It is tiring.”
The BBC’s twenty-four-hour news channel was showing on the monitor. The anchor handed over to an outside broadcast and the footage changed to a shot of the house in Kings Worthy where the Ryans had lived. The camera was positioned so that it could shoot up the drive. The house was invisible, but there were police officers in protective gear gathered around a plain white van. It was momentarily disorientating: Pope had been inside the house just thirty-six hours earlier.
Varlamov noticed that Pope’s attention was on the news. “It is quite a story,” he said.
Footage of Putin at a meeting in the Kremlin appeared on the screen. The old man waved a hand at the images. “Vova is making a point,” he said, using the president’s nickname. “It doesn’t matter where you hide and who is protecting you. He has a long arm and a longer memory.”
Varlamov leaned over, clicked a mouse and closed the window down.
“Shall we begin?” he suggested. “You are interested in Kuznetsov and Timoshev.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Our mutual friend has provided me with information,” Varlamov said. “He says that they were debriefed this morning and that the sessions are expected to last for the rest of today and then tomorrow. The Center has a lot to ask them, no doubt.”
“And now?”
“The source tells me that they are staying in the Four Seasons hotel. They are being presented to senior members of the Center at a reception this evening, and then, I assume, they will return to the hotel to rest.”
“Where is it?”
“Ulitsa Okhotnyy Ryad.”
“How easy is it to get in?”
“Simple enough. They are not being given special security. Why would they need it? We are in the heart of Moscow. The British would not be so foolish as to make an attempt on them here.” Varlamov glanced over at Pope and smiled. “That you would be so foolhardy is what will give you your advantage. The Center has grown too arrogant. Perhaps you will teach them some humility.”
“Afterwards,” Pope said. “I’d prefer them to stay arrogant until I’m out of the country.”
“Of course,” Varlamov said.
“How do I get in?”
“We have taken measures to make that as easy as possible.”