With the rapturous force of a religious conversion, Lenilko understood. His unnerving lack of fear wasn’t because he had nothing more to lose. It was because some part of his unconscious had realised there he had a way out of this. And when he started to speak, it was as if he’d rehearsed the words, like an actor, until his delivery was pitch perfect.
‘You’ve got a problem, sir.’
Rokva all but recoiled. ‘What did you say?’
‘You’ve got a problem, Director Rokva, sir.’
The quietness was entirely gone from Rokva’s voice. It cracked across the desk like a whip. ‘Remember who you’re talking to, Lenilko.’
‘You’ve all but fired me already, sir. Which means that I can no longer be accused of insubordination, because I don’t work for you any more. Rudeness, yes, possibly, but not insubordination.’
Rokva’s eyes shifted to the door behind Lenilko. For the first time Lenilko felt a thrill of alarm. If the Director decided to call his men in and have Lenilko hauled away, he’d miss his opportunity.
Quickly he said, ‘Your problem is John Purkiss. Once it emerges that you connived at my operation while knowing full well that Purkiss, the untouchable, was at Yarkovsky Station, and while knowing his life was under threat, and while keeping his presence there a secret from not only the Director of the FSB but the President himself… your position won’t be much better than mine, to be honest. You may not face charges of treason, as I’m assuming I will, but at the very least you’ll be kicked out of your job in disgrace, and your career will be at an end. Not to mention the humiliation your family will be put through.’
Lenilko was astonished at his own boldness, his arrogance, but in a detached way, as if he was observing himself as a character in a film.
Rokva remained standing, the rage in his face undiminished. But he was listening.
‘I know a way to protect us both,’ Lenilko went on. ‘To ensure that we both emerge intact. A lot depends on whether or not General Tsarev’s men secure the Tupolev and prevent the removal of the warheads. If they fail, we’re doomed, you and I. But probably so is everybody in Moscow. If, however, they succeed, it’s a different matter. I’ll accept some censure, for having acted in an unorthodox and unauthorised manner. You’ll keep your position. Everyone will be happy.’
An element of calculation had crept into Rokva’s features.
Lenilko continued: ‘We have to erase all traces of Purkiss. Destroy all evidence of his having been associated with Yarkovsky Station in any way. Get rid of the documentation authorising his alias, John Farmer, to visit the station. Delete his image wherever it occurs, on copies of his passport, in surveillance footage from airports, et cetera. And, of course, Purkiss himself must be eliminated. Along with everybody else associated with him.’
Rokva spoke flatly. ‘British Intelligence will know what has happened.’
‘They’ll know, but they won’t be able to prove anything. We’ll deny any knowledge of Purkiss’s involvement in this. Even — and I say this with full awareness of the implications — even our President must not know about it.’
Rokva leaned his elbows on the desk. He was no longer looking at Lenilko; instead his narrowed gaze was on some distant point, not in space but in time.
He said: ‘General Tsarev has ordered his men to apprehend the fugitives, not to kill them. I do not have the clout with him to instruct him to change those orders.’
‘Then you have to persuade the Director of the FSB himself to speak to Tsarev. Yes, I know this means involving the Director. But it’s in his interests, too, that Purkiss’s involvement is covered up. He is ultimately responsible for what goes on in his organisation. If Purkiss’s presence at Yarkovsky Station, he’ll either have to admit he didn’t know about it, which makes him look incompetent, or be forced to concede that he looked the other way while Purkiss was under threat.’
Rokva stood up. He walked to the tall window at the end of the office, like Lenilko’s overlooking the square. He stood there with his hands behind his back.
Thirty seconds ticked by. Lenilko felt poised on a tightrope.
Abruptly Rokva turned. ‘Get out. Go back to work.’
‘You accept my suggestion?’
‘Yes.’ Rokva was reaching for the phone on his desk. ‘But your involvement in this particular operation is over. Understood? You stay away from it from now on.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lenilko strode out of the office, past the waiting men who stared after him. He couldn’t see their faces but he imagined the looks of puzzlement. He rode the elevator downstairs, reentered his own office suite, crossed towards his door. His face was grave throughout.
Nobody approached him, except Anna. She sidled up and whispered: ‘Mr Lenilko?’
He turned to her, his fingers on the door handle.
‘Is everything…?’ she managed.
He allowed the tiniest smile to quirk the corner of his mouth. ‘Yes, Anna,’ he said. ‘Everything is just fine.’
Thirty
The GAZ Vodnik lumbered across the tundra, its massive tyres chewing up the snow and the frozen soil as though deriving sustenance from the rough ground.
Captain Aleksandrov sat beside the driver, his tense face scanning the darkness ahead, his hand on the phone in his lap, ready to lift and activate it the moment he felt the first vibration. On the dashboard, the satellite navigation system charted their progress, the destination of Saburov-Kennedy Station a red full stop at the end. He hoped they wouldn’t reach it, because it would mean they’d failed.
An hour had passed since the Mi-26 had lifted into the sky and he’d watched Nikitin and seven more of his men disappear towards the Nekropolis. General Tsarev had left it to Aleksandrov to decide how to divide the force. Aleksandrov had unhesitatingly despatched the bulk of his troops to the Nekropolis. They would be dealing with an unspecified number of enemy, who might have an entire arsenal at their disposal. Aleksandrov, on the other hand, was pursuing at most five or six fugitives, most if not all of them civilians, research scientists, whose armaments were likely to comprise nothing more than handguns and non-military rifles.
An hour had passed, and Aleksandrov had heard nothing from Nikitin. The Mi-26 had a top speed of just under 300 kph. It was flying with a light load of just eight passengers and no heavy equipment. It would have reached the Nekropolis, ninety kilometres away, in less than twenty minutes.
Something, a muffled thump, sounded through the rumble of the Vodnik’s engine. Aleksandrov looked at the driver, who glanced at the dashboard.
‘Not us, sir,’ he said. He meant: it wasn’t our vehicle.
Aleksandrov leaned forward in his seat. Was that a flare of light in the distance, over the horizon?
The phone hummed beneath his hand. He snatched it up.
Nikitin’s voice: ‘Sir, we have successfully engaged with eleven lightly armed hostiles at a location two klicks from the former research site Nekropolis. Said hostiles were salvaging the wreckage of a Tupolev TU-22M. They have been neutralised. Three captured, the remaining eight killed. No casualties on our part.’
Aleksandrov let out a slow breath between pursed lips. ‘Excellent work.’
‘Do you want us to rejoin you, sir?’
‘No. Return to Yakutsk with the prisoners. I’ll notify them to expect you.’
Aleksandrov ended the call. He thumbed the key that would connect him to General Tsarev. Through the windscreen, a twisting ghost-like funnel was rising in the distance, vague against the dark cloud of the sky. Aleksandrov recognised it as a column of smoke.