Authors: Stella Rimington
35
O
n Tuesday May arrived and for the first time the temperature climbed into the seventies. As Liz walked from Hyde Park Corner Underground station to the Brunovsky house, turning over in her mind all the recent events, she glanced wistfully at her alabaster arms, bare in her short-sleeved top, and wondered briefly whether this summer she might for once develop a decent tan.
Though she had made light of it with Peggy, she did, of course, continue to wonder whether the mugging and Rykov’s appearance in Battersea were connected. It was the latter which puzzled her most. How had Rykov got the address of the safe house and why had he been hanging around there? Did he know about her and that she lived there or had the address been blown on some completely unconnected operation? He could have found out her address from Jerry Simmons, who had driven her home after the auction. But if Rykov had been asking Simmons about her, why hadn’t Simmons mentioned it to Michael Fane, who was supposed to have recruited him? And did that have any connection with the attack on her? Had it really been a chance mugging, or something more sinister? Well, it was definitely a woman, so it couldn’t have been Rykov. Anyway a Russian diplomat, even if he was an undercover intelligence officer, wasn’t likely to mug anyone.
There was an alternative possibility. That someone else in Brunovsky’s circle knew about her and had some reason to want to kill her. At present she had no answers, but whatever else she did, she was going to move out of that flat as soon as possible.
As the maid let her into the house she put it all out of her head and switched into her cover role. She sensed immediately an air of excitement in the house. Tamara was bustling along the corridor, not even offering her usual curt, acknowledging nod. In the study Liz could hear Brunovsky on the phone—his voice raised to a high pitch in excitement. Mrs. Warburton was busy checking the tables in the hall for dust.
Walking through to the dining room, Liz was about to put her laptop on the table when she noticed two figures sitting on the front window seat. They looked like a pair of garden gnomes, huddled together face-to-face. Seeing her, one of them stood up. It was Marco Tutti, dressed formally today in a charcoal suit with thick pinstripes. The other man rose more slowly. “Hi there,” he said, and she saw it was Harry Forbes, looking very American in a striped shirt and red braces.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, but Forbes shook his head. His grin was distinctly boyish.
“No problem,” he said. “Just having a chat with Marco here.”
Now she heard other voices in the hall. Looking through the door she saw Tamara and Greta Darnshof, standing waiting tensely.
“Come on,” said Forbes, looking out of the front window towards the street. “The baby’s arrived.”
The front door was open. Brunovsky stood on the steps with Tamara and Greta, while Liz, Tutti and Harry Forbes peered out from the hall. Three Securicor vans had stopped in the street in front of the house, and half a dozen uniformed men in helmets converged around the back of the middle van. Its door was open, and two men emerged, wearing gloves and green aprons, and carrying between them a large flat package, wrapped in white sheeting. Joining them on the pavement was a thin, bespectacled figure in a three-piece suit. The man from the insurance company, thought Liz. He looked as white as a ghost, though she thought his pallor probably came from nerves about the cargo’s arrival rather than a lack of sun.
As they came to the front steps, Brunovsky suddenly began clapping, short sharp smacks of his hands. Gradually all of them followed suit. Liz felt faintly ridiculous applauding a painting, but there was something touching about the oligarch’s boyish excitement that
Blue Field
had reached its new home.
They followed the painting upstairs. It had been put down on the small dining room’s table and the insurance executive was slowly unwrapping it, with an ostentatious delicacy that was belied by the slight trembling of his hands. At last the final covering was removed. He looked at Brunovsky. For a moment no one said anything. Then Brunovsky nodded and the two men in green aprons moved forward to secure it to the wall and wire it up to the alarm system. “Brilliant,” said Marco Tutti, suddenly coming forward to stand next to Brunovsky in front of
Blue Field.
“But you know,” he said, lowering his voice and sweeping an extended arm around the room and its other pictures, “you may need to find another space soon.”
Brunovsky looked at him quizzically. “Space for what?”
“Another Pashko perhaps,” said the Italian, with the tantalising air of a man who has a secret.
Brunovsky turned and faced Tutti. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.
Tutti lifted both hands. “Perhaps nothing,” he admitted, “but perhaps not. A little bird tells me that there is a possibility that
Blue Mountain
was not destroyed after all. It seems the publicity surrounding
Blue Field
”—and he gestured to the picture on the wall—“has led to the most intensive search for its twin.”
“It was destroyed,” the oligarch said flatly.
“These are not just vague rumours,” insisted Tutti. Liz had to admire his persistence, since Brunovsky seemed close to losing his temper. And she realised that for all his sharp clothes and swish manner, what Tutti really had was the consummate panache of the true hustler. He’d sell you back your own shoes, she thought, listening as the Italian explained. “I have a dealer friend who lives near Cork in Ireland,” he declared. “He told me several senior people from Northam’s visited the area last week. One was Archie Davenport-Howse.”
“Their Russian expert,” whispered Harry Forbes, who was standing next to Liz.
“Ach,” said Brunovsky with disgust, “I don’t believe it.” He looked sharply at Tutti. “Has anyone seen this picture? What you say is pure fantasy.”
“I would not be so sure,” said a measured female voice. It was Greta Darnshof, standing near the door, looking, Liz had to admit, extremely attractive in a classic Chanel suit. If Monica’s dress sense was It girl, Greta’s was strictly haute couture. “Grigor Morozov believes it.”
“Meaning?” asked Brunovsky, but he was not dismissive with her.
“I’ve heard Morozov sent two of his henchmen to Ireland to follow up this news.”
“Is he crazy?” Brunovsky looked around the room, searching for moral support.
“No,” said Greta patiently, “just determined to own
Blue Mountain.
”
Tutti laughed now. “Or determined to keep you from owning it.”
Brunovsky nodded at this and looked down at the floor, thinking hard. “This must not happen,” he said. He raised his face and looked at Tutti. His expression was calm now, but determined. “If
Blue Mountain
exists, I want you to find it for me,” he said. “I don’t care what it costs.”
Later that morning Liz was in the downstairs dining room when Brunovsky came in, looking contemplative. He shut the door to the foyer behind him. “I have been thinking, Jane. We both know why you are here. I take it you have not uncovered anything suspicious.”
“No,” she said carefully, “I haven’t.” The only person who’d been in danger was Liz herself, but there was no reason to tell the Russian that. Perhaps he was wondering if there was any point to her presence, and she was momentarily cheered by the prospect of leaving this bizarre household and getting on with her proper job.
“I am not surprised,” he said. “Still, it is very nice to have you here, even though that is not what I am worried about.”
The invitation to probe seemed undisguised. So Liz did not hesitate to ask, “What
is
worrying you?”
He hesitated, walking halfway around the dining-room table before he replied. “Have you ever been followed?”
“No,” said Liz, lying as smoothly as she could.
“I was once, for three months by the KGB. In the old days.” He gave a weak smile. “I am older than I look. When that happens, you feel like you have gone out on a hot day but for some reason are wearing an overcoat. Try as you may, you cannot take the coat off. If eventually you manage to, then
presto
, suddenly it is back over your shoulders.”
“How unpleasant,” said Liz, struck by the accuracy of his description.
“No, it is not nice. But that is how I feel with Morozov. Not that he follows me physically—as far as I know—but he casts a shadow wherever I go.”
“When did that start?”
“Over ten years ago. In Russia. He came to me to ask my help protecting one of his associates, a man called Levintov, a Jew from Kiev, who had offended one of the big criminals. I spoke with some people I knew in the security services. Also, a policeman I had once bribed.” He said this quite unself-consciously, and Liz remembered that in the cowboy ethics of the Russian state, bribing a policeman was perfectly normal.
“I found Levintov a bodyguard. Morozov was pleased,” continued Brunovsky. “In fact, he could not be grateful enough. He showered me with presents, asked me to his dacha. But then one night, when this man Levintov was returning home from the ballet in Moscow, two cars followed him, men got out carrying Kalashnikovs and fired over fifty bullets into his car. Levintov was killed immediately—with his bodyguard and his driver.”
“The mafia caught up with him then?”
Brunovsky was shaking his head. “It turned out not to be the mafia at all. I was told on the highest authority that it was a renegade group of ex-KGB men. Levintov had crossed them in a deal and they took their revenge.”
He stood by the window now, looking out at the front garden’s roses. He spoke softly. “When I told Morozov this, he didn’t believe me. He said I had betrayed his friend and he would make me pay. I took very little notice at the time, and then I moved to England. But then he came to live here too. I can’t help feeling I was the reason for that.”
36
M
ichael Fane was excited. This was his first real involvement in operational work and he could hardly sit still. Igor Ivanov had arrived the night before and was staying at a small hotel in Bloomsbury. Four teams of A4 were in place to follow him wherever he went. “Any news?” he asked, sticking his head round the door of the Ops Room for the third time that morning.
“No,” said Reggie Purvis crossly. “And there’s not going to be. Your operation’s off. Counter-Terrorism has taken all the teams.”
“What?” said Michael angrily. “I’m going to complain.”
“Do what you like, sonny,” replied Reggie, as his radio sprang into life with a burst of static, “but push off, will you? I’m busy.”
Back in the open-plan office, Michael asked Peggy, “Why have they pulled A4 off Ivanov?”
“There’s been an alert. A suspected Al Qaeda operative has flown in from Turkey; they think he may be meeting with a cell in North London.”
“So no one’s watching Ivanov while he’s here?”
“Nope. And he’s flying back to Germany tomorrow.”
“But he could go anywhere in the meantime,” Michael protested.
“You’ll see, if you look at the transcript of his calls, he’s having lunch with Rykov. Rykov phoned him to confirm this morning. They’re being very English—Wiltons on Jermyn Street.”
“Where else is he going?”
“I’ve no idea. And without A4 we’re not going to know.”
“That’s outrageous,” Michael said. “What about the Illegal? How are we going to identify him if we don’t follow Ivanov? I’m going to complain to Liz.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Peggy, but Michael was already out the door.
“No,” said Liz firmly when Michael made his complaint. “It’s unfortunate, but not outrageous. It’s a matter of matching resources to priorities. That’s always the problem.”
She was not willing to argue the point. When Michael tried, she cut him off, making it clear he shouldn’t raise it again.
He went away dissatisfied, certain that a mistake was being made. He supposed he shouldn’t care—after all, he was just an underling, new to the game. But there was an opportunity here being carelessly thrown away. He was surprised Liz didn’t seem to realise this.
Show some initiative.
Wasn’t that what his father used to say when Michael was at a loose end, bored, with nothing to do? Especially that last fateful summer before his parents’ divorce, when post-A levels, pre-gap year, Michael had nothing to occupy himself. His father had said it repeatedly then, to Michael’s intense annoyance.
But maybe his father had a point. All right, Michael decided, initiative here we come. And he went back to his desk with an idea starting to take root. When Peggy Kinsolving came into sight he hailed her like a taxi. “What are you doing for lunch?” he asked.
“I’m going to the Public Records Office,” she said firmly and kept walking.
Be like that, thought Michael. Who else might better appreciate his offer? He thought suddenly of Anna, his ex-girlfriend—she couldn’t very well call him immature now. He picked up the phone, and five minutes later found himself explaining, “No, not sandwiches. Quite the contrary, I assure you,” he added as suavely as he could.
He listened for a moment. “Oh come on,” he said finally. “Do it as a favour. Weren’t you the one who said you wanted to stay friends?”
Roland Phipps was bored. Really, he thought, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Tony Caldecott had warned him that though the lunch would be top-notch, the conversation might not be scintillating. Too true, but this one really was the pits. You had to hand it to Russian officials—only they could bore you until lobster and Puligny-Montrachet tasted like cardboard and cold pee—and this at Wiltons.
He and Tony went way back together—to the second rowing eight at Winchester to be precise, which was enough to keep them twice-a-year friends. He’d gone into Lloyd’s after Winchester and Tony into the military. They’d never quite lost touch and then Tony had resurfaced in the City, with an investment bank, channelling venture capital into Russian gas exploration.
“It won’t be too bad, old man. Strictly social,” Tony had said. “My friend Vladimir at the Trade Delegation’s got some bigwig in tow that he needs to impress. I need you for local colour.”
Well, Tony was a pal, but my God, Roland had earned this expensive blowout. He didn’t mind Russia in principle, even though his partnership had taken a bit of a bath after Chernobyl. He didn’t even mind bores—there were plenty at Lloyd’s. But Tony hadn’t prepared him for just how boring these two chaps were going to be.
One—Rakov? Rykov? Who knew? Who cared?—spoke English well, so well in fact that he never seemed to shut up. But the other fellow was a nasty piece of work—a sinister-looking Slavic bastard, straight out of a James Bond film, barely said a word. It didn’t make for a lively exchange of views.
Another thirty minutes maybe, thought Roland, sneaking a look at his watch. Would Tony’s hospitality stretch to a largish brandy with the coffee? Now, there was a pretty girl at the table just behind the Russians—pity she’s not with us, thought Roland. He wondered if it would be rude to go for a pee, then thought the hell with it and offering his excuses made his way rearward to the gents.
It was on his way back to the table—he’d taken his time—that he noticed the young fellow sitting with the really splendid girl. There was something familiar about him, and then it clicked.
“Excuse me,” he’d said, leaning over the table, emboldened by several glasses of Wilton’s best and a strong desire to delay his return to his deadly luncheon companions. “Aren’t you Geoffrey Fane’s boy?”
The boy blushed and the girl looked surprised at the figure leaning over their table.
“I’m Michael Fane,” said the boy quietly. He seems shy, thought Roland, not at all like his father. Geoffrey had always been smoothly self-assured, polished, even at school.
“Roland Phipps,” he said amiably. “Sorry to interrupt. All well with your father?” The boy just nodded. “Well, give him my best then,” said Roland, and nodding benignly at the pretty girl, clapped the boy on his shoulder and went back to his table.
“Remember Geoffrey Fane?” he asked, as Tony came to the end of some lengthy remark about bond issues. “That’s his boy over there. I met him at Lord’s with his papa, years ago.” He nodded. “Pretty girl he’s got there. Chip off the old block.”
He turned to the voluble Russian. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve seen the son of an old acquaintance.” He paused, wondering if he was about to be indiscreet. No, not these days. “We’ve always thought his father was a spook.”
When Rykov looked at him blankly, Roland explained. “You know, the Secret Service.” He gave the stolid Ivanov a glance. “James Bond. That sort of thing.”
And for the first time Ivanov’s eyes lit up. Yes, he understood. How amusing, his smile seemed to suggest.
Jesus, thought Roland, another half-hour to go.