Authors: Stella Rimington
56
A
s Michael emerged into the arrivals lounge at Cork airport he saw a tall, casually dressed figure with the obvious air of a police officer standing waiting. “Maloney,” said the officer, offering his hand. “You’ll be Mr. Fane.” Michael felt like a visiting dignitary as he walked out of the airport behind Maloney, into the clear Irish light and climbed into an unmarked police car parked outside. In the driving seat was a much younger officer who introduced himself as Rodrigues. In spite of his Portuguese name, Garda Rodrigues had hair the colour of a satsuma and a face of freckles. Maloney was clearly in charge. Michael was relieved to see the message from London had got through and that, exceptionally, both Garda men were wearing side arms.
“Now, Mr. Fane. How can we help you?” Maloney asked and Michael realised with a sinking feeling that they had been given no background briefing, just the general instruction to take him where he wanted to go. He was in charge and he didn’t feel ready for the responsibility.
“We need to go first to Shillington airport,” said Michael in a voice more confident than he felt.
Maloney gave a mild groan and explained that he and Rodrigues had just come from near there. “Never mind,” he said with a wry smile. “They also serve who only sit and drive.”
Let’s hope that’s all we have to do, thought Michael.
As they drove along, the two Gardai sitting in the front of the car, Maloney pointed out local landmarks while Rodrigues drove in silence. The countryside they were travelling through had a wild, undomesticated aspect, made harsher by the bright light filtered through banks of high grey clouds. Crumbling stone walls ran along the edges of the fields, with the occasional rusting iron bedstead blocking up a gap. This was hinterland Ireland, Michael realised, a world away from the Cork coast one read so much about, the Republic’s new Riviera.
Then Michael’s phone rang. It was Peggy, speaking fast. “Where are you?”
He asked Maloney, then relayed their location to Peggy.
“Listen carefully,” she said. “Liz has got a message through. She’s at a country house called Ballymurtagh but she said they’re leaving soon for Shillington airport. Try to get there before they go. Greta Darnshof is there. She’s turned out to be a Russian—we think she’s probably the Illegal we’ve been looking for. She’s dangerous, and she’s armed. The Garda are sending more officers to cover the airport and to the house. But you’ll probably be there first. Try and get Liz out of it in any way you can. But be careful.”
She rang off and Michael, his palms damp where he was holding the phone and his stomach churning painfully now, explained the change of destination.
“Ballymurtagh?” asked Maloney incredulously. “That old place?”
“That’s what they said. And we’ve got to hurry. How far is it from here?”
Maloney shrugged. “About ten miles. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
Rodrigues spoke up. “Less than that if I use the siren.” He looked questioningly in the rear-view mirror.
Michael shook his head. “Better not. There’re other people there, and they may not be friendly.”
Rodrigues gave a sideways look at Maloney and raised an eyebrow.
Michael explained. “I’m here to collect my colleague. She’s called Liz Carlyle, but she’s using the name of Jane Falconer. There’s also a Danish woman there named Darnshof, who is really a Russian, and some other Russians. According to the call I just had, they may not want my colleague to leave. At least one of them is armed. There could be trouble.”
Rodrigues blew through his teeth and looked at his partner again, this time with alarm. “No one said anything to us about Russians.”
“It’ll be fine,” said Maloney to his younger partner, but when the older man turned towards Michael his face was sombre. “What exactly do you want us to do? Is the priority getting your colleague out of there, or dealing with these other people?” he asked.
“Getting my colleague,” he said, remembering Brian Ackers’ orders. But Michael, just fending off panic now, realised they might have to do both.
As they changed direction and turned on to another road, the radio crackled. Maloney answered and, listening to the transmissions, Michael realised that this was turning into a major incident and he was at the centre of it.
A pulsating sound overhead, a shadow, and then a helicopter passed over the car, barely 500 feet above the ground, and flew off into the distance. “Is that one of yours?” asked Michael, pointing through the windscreen.
Rodrigues shook his head. “No. But right now I wish it was.”
57
I
n the drawing room the air crackled with tension. Greta stood in front of the fireplace now, very much in charge. Liz saw that someone, presumably Dimitri, had carried in the
Blue Mountain
canvas on its easel and stood it up in a corner where the light from the windows fell obliquely on it. Brunovsky had brought Jerry Simmons in from the front of the house and now they were standing beside the picture like some kind of uneasy reception committee. The whole scene resembled a stage prepared for “curtain up.” Only the main character had not yet arrived.
Like Brunovsky, Dimitri was avoiding meeting Liz’s eyes. She realised that he might genuinely be a gallery curator but he was no bystander here. From the assured way he was acting, he was obviously fully part of whatever was going on. That explained the small mysteries she’d found in the man: his excellent English (despite supposedly having been to the West only once before), his expensive lifestyle—the chic hotel, the expensive dinner. And, she remembered with a shiver, the sudden phone call that had sent her off home early to the waiting mugger.
Liz glanced at Simmons. How much did he understand about what was happening? He had been outside with the car while Greta was pointing her gun at Liz. She didn’t know whether he was armed. Probably not. How would he act if events took an ugly turn or if she was threatened? His job was to look after Brunovsky. He’d interfere only if his principal was threatened—or in his own defence, and he was no quick thinker.
Her reflections ended abruptly when the French windows to the garden burst open and a tall, lean figure came into the room. Liz recognised the taut, scarred face of Grigor Morozov. Of course, this was the last piece of the jigsaw. The final act had begun.
Morozov wore a dark grey business suit and an open-necked shirt. Turning to face the room, he looked round, puzzled, his eyes moving from one figure to another, as he tried to understand the scene he had walked into. Then he saw Brunovsky standing by the sofa. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Where is the owner? Who are all these people?”
“Upstairs,” said Brunovsky. He waved a hand airily. “But she has no objection to your looking at the picture.”
“Forbes told me I would be alone,” Morozov said tensely. “Have you bribed him too? If you have bought the painting, just say so and I will go back to London. But do not play games—I have had enough of your games, Brunovsky.”
Brunovsky said something in Russian in a sharp, harsh voice. The explosive anger Liz had seen before seemed close to surfacing, but she noticed Greta give him a cautioning look. He contrived a small, phoney smile.
“The picture is there,” he said in English, pointing at the canvas in the corner. “Be my guest. It is a little rich for my blood.” And he chuckled knowingly.
Mystified, Morozov hesitated, then turned and stared at the painting on its easel. He walked closer to examine it, and Liz noticed that Greta still had her hand in her shoulder bag. Dimitri had moved and was standing now between Morozov and the door to the hall.
Morozov inspected the picture for a moment, then uttered a caustic laugh. He turned to face the room and his eyes fastened on Greta and Dimitri.
“For this you have brought me to Ireland?” he said, gesturing at the painting. “For this?” he said again, only this time there was an edge to his voice.
He turned and contemplated the picture calmly. Then suddenly he stepped forward and smashed the back of his hand into the canvas. There was a ripping, tearing sound, and a large piece of canvas flopped like a loose shirttail to the floor.
In the brief ensuing silence, Liz could only think that if
Blue Mountain
were authentic, it had just lost most of its £20 million value. But of course, Morozov had done nothing more than destroy fifty pounds’ worth of recently bought paint and canvas. Who had painted it? Dimitri quite possibly.
“Why have you brought me to Ireland to show me an obvious fake?” Morozov demanded, turning to glare angrily at Brunovsky. “You thought I was so stupid that I would fall for it?”
“Well, you came!” Brunovsky replied. Some of his self-assurance had returned and his customary grin appeared on his face.
“What is the point of this charade?” asked Morozov angrily, addressing the room in general. “You have taken great trouble and you have spent many thousands of pounds, to do what? Just to fool me? Well, in that you have failed. I am not fooled.”
Greta spoke, her voice calm and steely. “The picture was not the point of the exercise.”
“What is the point then?” he demanded angrily.
“You are the point, Comrade Morozov.”
“I am no comrade of yours, whoever you are. I have a British passport.”
“An officer of the KGB does not cease to be a Russian simply because he leaves the Service. He has his oath, his duty.”
“What do you mean? Who are you?” demanded Morozov, his voice rising. For the first time Liz saw fear in his eyes.
“You know very well what I mean.
Predatel!
” She spat out the word.
“I am not a traitor,” Morozov protested.
“What—are you saying now that you are a German? No true Russian would work for German masters as you did, Grigor Morozov. That is treason. Article 64 of the Soviet Code prescribes the death penalty for such a crime.”
Morozov swallowed, seemingly struggling to keep his nerve. “I had no choice. The Germans paid for my son’s treatment. Do you know what that costs? How much it meant to me, who was paid as the Soviet state paid its servants?”
Finding no sympathy in Greta’s eyes, he changed tack and addressed the room as though it were a business meeting. “There is now no such thing as the Soviet Union. It is history. You have no right to pursue a private citizen. I have a British passport. I am leaving now.”
But he did not move. Greta also remained motionless. She said, “What you have done will not go away, Morozov. Treachery is not a crime which expires within seven years, like some others.”
Morozov paled suddenly. He asked, “What are you going to do? Kill me?”
“No,” Greta said, her voice calm and chilling. “We shall not kill you. We shall put you before a Russian judge. You will have your day in court, as your British friends say. But you know the sentence. The story of your treason will be known to all.”
“You are taking me to Moscow?” asked Morozov with disbelief. “How are you going to get me there? You expect me to smile and bow at passport control?”
“No,” said Greta. She gestured with her hand and Dimitri moved forward, producing out of nowhere two sets of plastic handcuffs.
At the sight of them Morozov flinched, reflexively holding his arms straight out to his sides. Greta removed the pistol from her bag and pointed it straight at him, saying curtly, “Put your hands down.”
He complied reluctantly, and Dimitri cuffed his wrists. Then he roughly pushed Morozov’s legs together and, kneeling down, snapped the second set around his ankles. He pushed the helpless Morozov on to a sofa and walked out of the room. Brunovsky stared uneasily out the window, scratching his jaw. No one spoke.
After a minute or two Dimitri returned with Svetlana, who was carrying a syringe and a small bottle containing a clear liquid. She filled the syringe with the fluid. Morozov, on the sofa, moaned and squirmed. Svetlana lifted the syringe and inspected it admiringly. Then she moved towards Morozov.
The Russian flinched and tried to struggle to his feet, twisting his body towards Jerry Simmons. “Help me,” he shouted, then seemed to grasp that nothing could or would be done. With an assertive push of one hand, Dimitri shoved him back on to the sofa and, seizing the lapels of Morozov’s jacket, opened them out until the jacket’s shoulders had slid halfway down his prisoner’s arms, encasing him in a home-made straitjacket. Simultaneously, Svetlana leant forward and with one deft move plunged the syringe into the Russian’s biceps, piercing the skin through his shirt. Morozov gave a short hoarse cry, and when Svetlana extracted the syringe, a tiny circle of blood appeared on his shirt, spreading like an ink stain.
“What have you done to me?” he demanded, wincing from the jab.
“Don’t worry,” said Greta. She had relaxed, now that Morozov had been secured. “You won’t even go to sleep.”
Rohypnol, thought Liz. The date-rape drug. Ten times stronger than Valium. They could walk Morozov through passport control, rather than having to carry him, explaining away his stupor as a vodka-fuelled binge. He wouldn’t be able to say much of anything—he’d just nod and smile dozily and before he knew it, he’d be flying at 35,000 feet towards Moscow.
What would happen to him there? A trial, it seemed, though probably little better than a show trial. This one would be designed to show the prying Western media that the Russian state did things the right way. No assassinations, no radiation poisonings, but the punishment meted out would be the same. Death.
Morozov’s eyes were growing glassy; already the drug was working. He said something in Russian and shook his head, fighting against the effects of the injection. Then he tried to say something else, but no sound came out.
Greta turned to Dimitri and gave an order. He and Brunovsky lifted Morozov to his feet and shuffled him out between them. They were going to put him in the car. She turned to Liz and Simmons, silent spectators of the whole drama. “I’m going to put you two in the cellar, along with that old man who answers the door.” Then she added with an unpleasant smirk, “Perhaps later on, Miss Cottingham will let you out.”