Zorin looked bewildered. But what would that be?
Your nephew, Captain Igor Zorin, has died in action while taking part in a highly dangerous and most secret covert operation. I had the unhappy duty of conveying this news to our President a short while ago. He sends his condolences.
Oh, my God. Zorin tossed back the vodka, then poured another. But was that a certain relief on his face? Yes, thought Volkov. What terrible news. When did this happen?
Within the last few days. His body is already here in Moscow at the military morgue.
Where did it happen?
Im afraid I cannot divulge that information. However, he died honourably, I can assure you of that. There may even be another medal.
That wont help my sister. Shes been widowed for years and her health isnt good. The caviar arrived and more vodka.
Try some of this. A man must live, my friend. Volkov spooned some of the caviar himself. Your sister is here in town at the moment?
Yes, she lives alone with her maid.
Would you like me to be with you when you go to see her?
The relief on Zorins face was even greater. That would be too much to expect, General.
Nonsense, Im happy to do it. Now eat up. It will do you good. Then you can take me to your sisters house and well break the bad news.
Zorin was pathetically grateful, strange when you considered his stature, and yet dealing with such a wealthy man gave Volkov no problem at all. The oligarchs, the billionaires, those Russians who preferred the delights of English public schools for their children and townhouses in Mayfair for their residences still had enough to contend with back in Moscow. In the old days, the KGB had kept Russians of every level in line, and now it was the FSB, Putins old outfit. Putin was hugely popular as President which meant that he, Ivan Volkov, didnt need to be. Fear was enough.
The Zorin apartment was in a grand old block with views over the river and looked as if it hailed from Tsarist times. The bell echoed hollowly and the door was opened by an old woman who answered to Tasha, dressed in a peasant blouse and long skirt, grim and rather forbidding, her hair bound by a scarf, her face like a stone.
Where is she? Zorin demanded.
In the parlour, she said, and with the privilege of an old servant asked, Forgive me, but is this bad news?
It couldnt be worse. This is General Volkov from the President himself to tell us of her sons glorious death in action against our countrys enemies.
His sense of theatre was poorly received. She glanced at Volkov briefly, obviously not particularly impressed, but then she looked as if she had lived forever. She had probably been born during the Great Patriotic War, the kind of woman who had seen it all.
I will speak to her first, she said. If you gentlemen would wait here.
Simple, direct, it brooked no denial. She opened a mahogany door with a gold handle, went in and closed it behind her. Zorin shifted from foot to foot, very uncomfortable.
Shes very direct, Tasha, he said. Peasant stock from the family estate.
So I can see. There was a dreadful keening from inside the room, a wailing that was quite disturbing, followed by sobbing. After a while, Tasha opened the door. She will see you now, both of you.
They entered, and Volkov found himself in a room that was a time capsule from another age: tall French windows to a terrace outside, a distant view of the river, old-fashioned mahogany furniture, wallpaper with paintings of rare birds, an Indian carpet, the grand piano covered with family photos. There were green velvet curtains, a musty smell to everything. It was as if nothing had changed since the nineteen twenties, and even the clothes that the broken-hearted mother wore seemed antique.
She was sitting in a chair clutching a photo in a silver frame, her hair bound with a gold scarf, and Zorin embraced her.
Now then, Olga, you mustnt fret. He wanted only to be a soldier since his youth, no one knows that better than you. See, look who I have brought you. General Ivan Volkov, with words from President Putin himself extolling the bravery of Igor.
She stared vacantly at Volkov, who said, He died for the Motherland. Theres talk of a medal.
She shook her head, bewildered. A medal? Hes got medals. I dont understand. Where are we at war? She clutched at Zorin. Where was he killed?
Volkov said, On a mission of the greatest importance to the State, thats all I can say. You may remember him with pride.
She held up the photo of Igor Zorin in a bemedalled uniform, and Volkov took in the handsome face, the arrogance, the look of cruelty, and then she seemed to come to life.
Thats no good to me, General. I want my son alive again and hes dead. Its turned my heart to stone already.
She burst into a torrent of weeping. Tasha held her close and nodded to Zorin and Volkov. Go now, she said. Ill see to her.
They did as they were told, went out into the street and paused beside their two limousines.
I cant thank you enough for coming with me, Zorin said.
When I spoke to Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians, we agreed on the day after tomorrow for the funeral, ten oclock in the morning, the Minsky Park Military Cemetery, so your nephew will be laid to rest with some of Russias finest soldiers. We will see what we can do about the medal. I can certainly promise a letter with Putins name on it.
I doubt whether even that will cheer her. Zorin got in his limousine and was driven away.
Just another day at the office, Volkov murmured, got into his own limousine and was driven back to the Kremlin.
The funeral at Minsky Park was all that could be desired. There was a company of soldiers from the Fifteenth Siberians training camp outside Moscow, plenty of mourners in black, family and friends. The coffin was delivered on a gun carriage, lowered into the prepared grave, and twenty soldiers delivered the correct volley as ordered at Colonel Bagirovas shouted command.
Olga Zorin stood with her brother, a few relatives behind, Tasha on the end of a line. Zorin held the umbrella, his sister sobbed, the regimental bugler played a final salute. Volkov stood some distance away wearing a military coat of finest leather and a black fedora, an umbrella over his head. The crowd dispersed to their various cars and Zorin came towards him.
It was good of you to come. The family are very grateful.
Volkov, who had observed the furtive glances coming his way, smiled. Oh, I dont know. I think theyre more worried than anything else. This coat always makes me look as if the Gestapo actually got to Moscow.
Zorin obviously couldnt handle such levity. The reception is at the Grand. Youre very welcome.
Duty calls, Im afraid, you must make my excuses.
The letter from the President, which came yesterday, was a great comfort to her after all.
Yes, it was intended to be. In truth, hed signed it himself, but that was no matter.
Olga Zorin sobbed as relatives helped her into the back seat of one of the funeral cars and Tasha followed her.
A mothers love, Zorin said piously. Im a widower with no children, you know. Igor was my only heir.
Well, he isnt now, Volkov said brutally. Youll get over it. We know what you oligarchs get up to in London. That bar at the Dorchester, the delights of Mayfair, the ladies of the night. Oh, youll cheer yourself up in no time.
Well, he isnt now, Volkov said brutally. Youll get over it. We know what you oligarchs get up to in London. That bar at the Dorchester, the delights of Mayfair, the ladies of the night. Oh, youll cheer yourself up in no time.
He walked away smiling, leaving Zorin with his mouth gaping.
Shortly after his return from America, Ferguson received a call to visit the Prime Minister, where they discussed Miller and the Kosovo affair at length.
So what do you think, Charles?
Ive no quarrel with Millers actions regarding Zorin. But Ill be frank with you, Prime Minister, I thought I knew him and I find I didnt. The stuff he was engaged in all those years, Titan and Unit 16. Remarkable.
Especially when you consider that even people as knowledgeable as you had no idea. No, Im very impressed with Harry Miller. He got up and paced around. Miller has done many excellent things for me, great on-the-ground reporting. He has a brilliant eye and a gift for a tactical approach to difficult situations. Youd find him very useful, Charles.
Ferguson could see how things were going. Are you saying you think we should get together?
Yes. I know theres always been a fine line between what you do and his more political approach.
And the fact that the two might clash, Ferguson said.
Yes, but I believe Harry Miller is a kind of hybrid, a mixture of the two.
Ive no argument with that. So what are your orders?
To get together and sort things out, Charles. The Prime Minister shook his head. What a world. Fear, uncertainty, chaos. Its a war in itself. So lets try and do something about it.
The following day, Roper had Doyle drive him down to the Dark Man on Cable Wharf in Wapping, the first pub Harry Salter had owned and one still dear to his heart. When they arrived, Doyle parked the van and extracted Roper from the rear, using the lift, and they went inside.
Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, were at the table in the corner booth, his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, having a beer at the bar. Ruby Moon served drinks and Mary OToole beside her handled food orders from the kitchen. Roper joined the table and nodded to Ruby, who immediately sent him a large Scotch by way of Joe Baxter.
Harry Salter and Billy were reading a file between them. Roper said, Is that the stuff I sent you on Miller?
It certainly is, Harry said. Where have they been keeping this guy all these years?
In plain sight, Billy told him. Hes been around. We just didnt know the other side of him.
Harry, a gangster most of his life, said to his nephew, And what an other side. His past is incredible.
I wouldnt argue with that. As Billy leaned over, his jacket gaped, revealing a shoulder holster and the butt of a Walther PPK.
Ive told you before, his uncle said. A shooter under your arm when were about to have our lunch is that necessary? I mean, there are ladies present.
God bless you, Harry, Ruby called.
As an agent in Her Majestys Secret Service, Im licensed to use it, Harry, and in this wicked world we live in, you never know when.
Give it a rest, Billy, Harry told him and Ferguson walked in. Thank God, its you, General, perhaps we can have some sanity round here. Wheres Dillon?
He got a call last night from Levin, down at Kingsmere Hall. Theyve asked Dillon to give them a day for some reason. Hell be back this evening.
At that moment, a man walked in behind him. A light navy blue raincoat hung from his shoulders, over a smart suit of the same colour, a white shirt and regimental tie.
I had to park by the river, he told Ferguson. Had to run for it. He slipped off the raincoat. Its started to pour.
That his suit was Savile Row stood out a mile. There was a small silence and Harry said, Whos this?
Sorry, Ferguson told him. Im forgetting my manners. Meet Major Harry Miller. You could be seeing him from time to time in the future. Hes thinking of joining us.
The silence was total. It was Billy who said, Now thats a show stopper if ever I heard one. He stood up and held out his hand.
There was only a certain amount of truth in what Ferguson had said. Hed spoken to the Major as the Prime Minister had asked him, and Miller in his turn had had his orders from the great man, which hed accepted with some reluctance. On the other hand, after looking at the file Ferguson had given him, with details of his units activities and personnel, hed warmed to the idea.
A drink, Major? Harry asked. Best pint of beer in London.
Scotch and water, Miller said.
A man after my own heart, Roper told him, and called to Ruby, Another here, love, for Major Miller, and a repeat for me.
Billy said to Ferguson, So whats Dillon doing at Kingsmere? I know he speaks Russian, but Levin, Greta and Chomsky are the real thing.
Maybe theyre supposed to be encouraged by how well Dillon copes with the language, Roper said. After all, he is still a Belfast boy at heart.
Anyway, Simon Carter sanctioned it, and I wasnt about to argue it, Ferguson said.
Miller surprised them all by saying, You have to understand his logic. All Irish are bogtrotters, with faces like dogs and broken boots. By displaying Dillon with his Russian ability, his argument probably runs something like: If this animal can do it, so can you.
Jesus, Major, thats really putting the boot in old Carter.
Who isnt popular in our society, Roper told him. And he loathes Dillon.
Why, particularly?
It goes a long way back, to when John Major was PM. Major was hosting an affair on the terrace of the House of Commons for President Clinton, and Simon Carter was responsible for security. Dillon told Carter the security was crap, and he laid a bet that no matter what Carter did, sometime during the affair he would appear on the terrace, dressed as a waiter, and serve the two great men canapés.
And did he?
It was Ferguson who said, Yes. He got in from the river. Harry and Billy dropped him off overnight in a wet suit.
Me being the biggest expert in London on the Thames, Harry said modestly. Youve got to get the tide just right, and the current can be a killer.
President Clinton was very amused, Ferguson said.
But Simon Carter wasnt. That was Miller.
No, Roper laughed. Hates him beyond reason, perhaps because Dillon is what Carter can never be.
And whats that?
Carter is the ultimate desk man, Ferguson put in. Hes never been in the field in his life. Sean is someone quite beyond his understanding. He will kill at the drop of a hat if he thinks its necessary.
And on the other side of his coin, he has an enormous flair for languages; a scholar and poet by inclination, Harry said. Plays great piano, if you like Cole Porter, and flies a plane.
And dont forget, a bloody good actor in his day, Roper said. A student at RADA, even performed with the National Theatre.
And gave it all up, as he once said to me, Ferguson put in, for the theatre of the street.
Miller nodded, a strange alertness there. Is that what he said?