There was a kind of admiration on Ivanov's face. "Of course, Colonel."
"I'll give you an hour, then I'll present myself in the cell block and start her interrogation. So get on with it."
Ivanov went away, almost running, and the old tea woman came back along the walkway. She paused, "Another tea, Colonel, you look stressed. What's wrong?"
"It's the acting, babushka, it always takes it out of me playing somebody I'm not," Lermov told her.
"What you need is another glass of tea."
"I don't think so." He smiled. "But you can give me one of those cigarettes, if you like."
The house overlooking the river was definitely tsarist in origin, as Ivanov had expected. The Bikov apartment was on the top floor and served by an ancient lift with a metal lattice door. Before going up, Ivanov gave his two forbidding-looking women police sergeants instructions.
"I doubt if you will ever handle a matter of greater importance than this." He produced the Putin letter, opened it, and held it before them. "We are here at our Prime Minister's bidding to arrest a serving officer of the GRU who needs to answer grave charges, one Greta Bikov."
Neither woman showed any emotion, not a flicker on the face. The senior said, "How do we handle the matter, Captain?"
"No need to get too physical, Sergeant Stransky. Let's just frighten the hell out of her, put her in the right frame of mind for her interrogation."
The bell sounded like a distant echo from another time, but the maid who answered it was young, dressed in jeans and a smock, rubber gloves on her hands, obviously engaged in cleaning. A look of dismay appeared on her face.
Sergeant Stransky barked with infinite menace, "Lieutenant Greta Bikov." She moved straight past the girl and led the way along a short corridor. Which opened into an arched entrance with drapes on either side and, beyond, a large sitting room.
There was a piano, a fine carpet, too much old-fashioned furniture, and wingback chairs. Having studied Greta Bikov's service record, Ivanov knew that the woman in the wheelchair beside the fire was the mother, crippled with rheumatoid arthritis in spite of being only fifty years of age. Greta was sitting opposite her, wearing a bathrobe and what looked like pajama bottoms. She'd been holding a cup in both hands and, in scrambling to her feet, spilled some of its contents. Her face was wild with fear.
Her mother cried out, "Who are you? What do you want?"
Peter Ivanov saluted with infinite courtesy. "You must excuse the intrusion, madam, but your daughter must return to duty."
"This is nonsense," Mrs. Bikov told him. "She is ill."
To Greta, confronted by Ivanov in that magnificent uniform with all the medals, it was as if the Devil himself had come to fetch her.
She said desperately, "I'm on indefinite sick leave."
"Terminated on the orders of Colonel Josef Lermov, now Head of Station for the GRU in London."
"No, surely it cannot be?" she said faintly.
Ivanov took out the Putin letter, unfolded it, and held it up in front of her. "The Prime Minister himself requests your presence."
She seemed to stagger, clutching at the back of her chair. Ivanov nodded to Stransky and her partner, who came forward and took an arm each. "Don't be alarmed. These women are simply here to assist you to dress. You must make your appearance in uniform. Go with them now."
They took her away to her bedroom. Her mother had started to weep, holding a handkerchief to her mouth. She said brokenly, "But what has she done?"
"That is not for me to say, madam, it is what a military inquiry will decide."
She buried her face in her hands, crying even more, but he ignored her. There were various bottles and glasses on the sideboard. He selected a bottle of vodka and poured one, drank it, then beckoned to the maid.
"Does she drink?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Do you live in?"
"Yes, I have a room upstairs."
"Excellent. Make sure you keep the vodka flowing and look after her. See to her now. I'm going to make a call."
He went into the kitchen, closed the door, called Lermov on his mobile, and described what had happened. "So what's your opinion of her state of mind?" Lermov asked.
"Very fragile and frightened to death. There's something worrying her, I'm sure of that, it just needs the right shove."
"Well, let's see if we can't give it to her. I'll see you soon." Ivanov noticed another bottle of vodka on the side by the sink, obviously the maid's, and poured another, thinking about Greta. It wouldn't be necessary to get physical with her. From what he'd seen, she would break very quickly.
There was a knock on the door, and Stransky looked in. "We're ready for you."
"Excellent," Ivanov told her, and went out.
6
What Lermov found when he went downstairs to the cell block was pure theater. The two female police sergeants were supremely menacing as they stood on each side of the door, Ivanov had a look of the SS about him, and Greta Bikov seemed terrified as he walked in.
Ivanov saluted. "Reporting as ordered, Colonel," he barked. "With Lieutenant Greta Bikov." He turned to her. "On your feet."
She managed to stand, trembling with fear, pretty enough, with tightly bound blond hair, undeniably attractive in uniform. One could understand her appeal to most men. Luzhkov had probably found her irresistible. Her face told it all, a touch of the Slav to it.
She sat there, shaking a little, confronted by this highly unusual man, someone with the gravitas of a scholar, a university professor perhaps, the world-weary face of a man who had seen most things that life had to offer and had long since ceased to be amazed.
She took a deep breath, which seemed to steady her a little. My God, she's assessing him, Ivanov thought, trying to make sense of what kind of man he is, but it's his rank that's giving her pause for thought. Full colonel. Then the medals, including the one for bravery under fire when he volunteered for that Spetsnaz job in Iraq. Nothing comes higher than that. She tried a shy smile, and Ivanov felt like smiling, too, his thoughts confirmed. Silly girl, this one isn't another Luzhkov to be charmed by you crossing one silk knee over the other and allowing your skirt to slide a little.
Lermov sat opposite her, Ivanov leaned against the wall to the left side, arms folded. Lermov started, "Lieutenant Bikov, there is no specific charge against you, but I am under orders from Prime Minister Putin to investigate the disappearance of Colonel Boris Luzhkov and his second-in-command, Major Yuri Bounine. Captain Ivanov has shown you the warrant signed by the Prime Minister, indicating that I operate with his full authority?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"To business. You were posted to London nine months ago, which was when you first met Colonel Luzhkov?"
"Yes, Colonel."
There was a kind of impatience in her voice. Lermov made eye contact with Ivanov, who moved in. "And Major Bounine, what about him?"
"He only appeared a few weeks ago, a posting from Dublin." Her impatience broke through, obviously fueled by anxiety. "I've been asked these questions before, Colonel, by Major Chelek. He was very thorough and appeared perfectly satisfied that I had no idea what happened to either of them."
Ivanov, playing the bad guy to the hilt, homed in on her harshly. "If you think that Major Chelek is perfectly satisfied with you, you're very much mistaken, not when he discovered that most of your colleagues were of the opinion that you were having an affair with Colonel Luzhkov."
Her face became very pale. She hammered on the table with a clenched fist, but it was unconvincing, and her voice was weak when she said, "I protest, Colonel. Malicious lies and rumors put about by those who envied my friendship with Colonel Luzhkov. He was the kindest of men."
"Leaving all that to one side, let's have a look at one of your dealings with Colonel Luzhkov. Now, your main duties were as an intelligence assistant in the code room where your expertise was necessary to handle transcripts, encrypted material, and so on."