Never before had he entered the office with such a profound sense of foreboding.
The two men who’d escorted him closed the door behind Lenilko and he was left alone with Rokva. His Georgian boss was a small man, his head bald and smooth except for the tonsure that was as neatly trimmed as his goatee and his moustache. His suit was new but, as ever, modest.
Rokva came out from behind his desk, his smile warm.
‘Semyon Vladimirovich. Sorry about the welcoming committee.’
He didn’t suggest that Lenilko take off his overcoat, but instead nodded at the pair of armchairs over to one side. Lenilko sank into one of them opposite the director. It wasn’t a welcoming committee, he thought. They came to fetch me.
‘I won’t keep you,’ said Rokva. ‘If you’re here at this hour on a weekend you must be busy. Though you look like you were about to go out. How’s it going, by the way?’
Did he mean life, generally? Or the specific project that was the reason for Lenilko’s being at the office today? Lenilko thought he must be referring to the second.
‘Very well, thank you, sir. A couple of surprising developments. I’m still trying to figure out what they mean.’
An FSB officer of Lenilko’s seniority was permitted to carry out his own investigations without formal approval from the director. As a rule, Rokva didn’t interfere, knowing that his officers would apprise him of the details as and when needed.
Rokva watched Lenilko over fingers steepled beneath his chin. After a pause he said, ‘Yarkovsky Station.’
So he knew. Despite himself, Lenilko felt perversely annoyed. ‘Yes, sir.’
Another pause.
Rokva said, ‘What I’m about to tell you, I wouldn’t say it unless it were absolutely necessary. I’ve no desire to interfere in your investigation.’
The apprehension tightened in Lenilko’s gut. He waited.
‘There’s a journalist at the station.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘John Farmer.’
‘Correct.’
Rokva said: ‘He’s not to be harmed.’
The silence hung between the two men.
‘Sir?’ Lenilko didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
‘Your asset there. The Englishman, Wyatt. You need to tell him to hold off on the journalist.’
Lenilko struggled for an appropriate response. ‘Sir, I’ve given Wyatt no instructions to harm —’
‘You know what I mean.’ The director’s voice was patient. ‘If this Farmer was thought to have information relevant to the investigation, Wyatt would use whatever means necessary to make him divulge it. I’m telling you to order him to keep away. There’s to be no coercion of the journalist.’
‘But if the interests of the State —’
‘No coercion.’ The softening in Rokva’s tone was a dangerous sign. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’ The annoyance flared again, and, feeling reckless, Lenilko went on: ‘Might I ask who John Farmer is?’
‘Yes, you well might. And in other circumstances, I’d tell you that was privileged information, need-to-know only, and you’d have to accept that.’ Rokva shrugged. ‘But in this case you’re owed an explanation. Farmer was in Tallinn at the time of the attempt on the President’s life, using the identity Martin Hughes. This you already know.’
How did he know I knew? Before Lenilko had time to reflect on it, Rokva went on.
‘Farmer, or Hughes, is former MI6. His real name is John Purkiss. He’s the man who brought down the Black Hawk. He prevented the assassination of our President.’
Lenilko sat very still. Inwardly, he reeled.
‘Very few people know this. Me, the other directors. The President himself. And now you.’
After a few seconds Rovka gave a short laugh. ‘Your face… An officer of your experience shouldn’t be surprised by anything any longer, Semyon Vladimirovich.’
‘Sir, I —’
Rovka continued as if Lenilko hadn’t spoken. ‘The British leaked Purkiss’s identity to us soon after the attack. Their logic was admirable. They knew we wouldn’t publicly admit that the life of our President had been saved by a British agent. The political embarrassment would have been enormous. But they made it clear that we owed them a favour. It’s a favour they have yet to call in. At minimum, though, we can’t allow Purkiss to come to grief at the hands of one of our assets.’
‘Director Rokva. May I speak freely?’
Rokva waved a hand.
‘This man is a foreign agent operating on Russian soil. He cannot simply have carte blanche —’
‘The matter’s not open to negotiation. Purkiss is untouchable. And he will remain so until Britain declares war on us, or until we come up with a bargaining chip to trump theirs. I rather hope the second circumstance will prevail.’
Rokva rose, Lenilko following suit.
‘Something else?’ asked the director.
‘Do you know the nature of the operation I’m conducting at Yarkovsky Station, sir?’
‘Yes. Broadly.’
‘Then you’ll know it involves a great deal of uncertainty. I don’t yet know who the targets are, or what their agenda is. This man Purkiss may possess crucial information.’
Rokva, half a head shorter than Lenilko, seemed to tower over him. His voice barely above a murmur, he said: ‘I have made my orders clear. There is a fine line, Semyon Vladimirovich, between assertiveness and insubordination. I trust I won’t have to repeat myself.’
‘Understood, sir.’
Forcing himself to keep his breathing under control, Lenilko emerged from the office. The two men who’d escorted him upstairs were waiting, and he allowed them to walk him through the lobby and towards the elevators. When the doors opened, he said over his shoulder, his voice as neutral but as authoritative as he could fashion it: ‘I’ll make my own way from here.’
Alone in the elevator, he let his self-control slip, permitted his face to contract in a grimace of fury.
He had to call Wyatt. Had to break the rule, and initiate the contact, thereby potentially putting Wyatt at risk of discovery, because who knew who else would be in the room with him when the phone rang? Lenilko had to call him, right now, because if he didn’t and Wyatt happened to take action against Farmer — Purkiss — Lenilko’s career would be over. As would the future wellbeing of Natalya and the twins.
Olga… He remembered with a twist of pain that he’d been on his way home to see her when Rokva’s men had accosted him. Lenilko looked at his watch. Five forty. If he continued downwards, reaching the ground floor and heading out the doors, he could be home by six. Half an hour with Olga, listening to her account of the ballet exam, showering her with praise and affection, and then he’d be back in the office by seven.
The elevator stopped elegantly. The digital indicator above the doors read: fourth floor. The doors opened.
Lenilko hesitated a second.
He stepped out.
Twelve
They crowded into the room, one after the other.
Budian joined them next, followed by Montrose and Clement. Montrose turned immediately and tried to usher Clement back. Budian’s hands came up over her face, her eyes wide between her fingers, her glasses shoved askew.
Medievsky moved in front, approaching Keys’s body. He stopped a few feet away, peering at it from all angles.
Purkiss glanced round. Avner, who’d discovered the body, hadn’t returned. There was no sign of Wyatt.
Medievsky turned. He closed his eyes, once, drew breath.