A terrible pity. Any of the great universities would love to get their hands on you. Im biased, of course, but Cambridge would lay out the red carpet for you.
An enticing prospect.
He sat there, frowning slightly, as if considering it. She said, Is there anything particular to hold you in Moscow?
Not a thing. Cancer took my father some years ago, there are cousins here and there. Svetlana is my closest relative. No woman in my life. He smiled and shrugged. Not at the moment, anyway.
So? she said.
They watch me closely. If they knew I was even talking this way to you, theyd lock me up. He nodded. Anyway, well see. Paris in a fortnight.
Something to look forward to. You should be proud.
She opened her purse and produced a card. Take this. My mobile phone number is on it. Its a Codex, encrypted and classified. You can call me on it whenever you like.
Encrypted! Im impressed. You must be well connected.
Encrypted! Im impressed. You must be well connected.
You could say that. She stood up and said, I mean it. Call me. Paris isnt too far from Cambridge, when you think of it.
He smiled. If it ever happened I wouldnt want an academic career. Id prefer to leave the stage for a while, escape my present masters perhaps, but vanish. Id like to think that my escape would be total, so Moscow had no clue as to where I had gone. I wouldnt appreciate the British press knocking on my door, wherever I was.
I see what you mean, but that could be difficult.
Not if I were able to leave quietly, no fuss at all. Moscow would know Id gone, but the last thing theyd want would be for it to be public knowledge, create a scandal. Theyd keep quiet, say I was working in the country or something on a new book, and try to hunt me down.
I take the point and will pass it on to my friends. Take care.
He caught her arm. These friends of yours. They would have to be very special people who knew how to handle this kind of thing.
She smiled. Oh, they are. Call me, Alex, when youve had time to think.
She went to the elevators, a door opened at once, she stepped in, and it closed.
FOUR OCLOCK in the morning in London, but in the Holland Park safe house, Giles Roper sat as usual in his wheelchair, his screens active as he probed cyberspace, his bomb-scarred face restless. Hed slept in the chair for a couple of hours; now Doyle, the night sergeant, had provided him with a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. He ate the sandwich and was pouring a shot of scotch when Monicas voice came over the speaker.
Are you there, Roper?
Where else would I be?
Youre the only fixed point in a troubled universe. Thats one thing Ive learned since getting involved with you people. Is Sean spending the night?
Returned to a bed in staff quarters ages ago. How was your evening? Did Kurbsky impress?
Just listen and see what you think.
It didnt take long in the telling, and when she was finished, Roper said, If hes serious, I cant see why we couldnt arrange something. Ill speak to Sean and General Ferguson first thing in the morning. You, we should be seeing sometime in the early evening.
Exactly.
She switched off. He sat there thinking about it for a while. Alexander Kurbsky doing a runner to England. My God, Vladimir Putin will be furious. He put Kurbsky up on the screen. Too good-looking for his own good, he decided morosely, then brought up his record and started going through it carefully.
KURBSKY HAD FOUND Bounine in the Volvo outside the Pierre to bring him up to speed. He smoked a cigarette. Bounine said, So far, so good. Its worked. She must be quite a lady.
Thats an understatement.
So, if they take the bait, we have Paris to look forward to. Colonel Luzhkov will be pleased.
Only because he wants to please Putin, and if Paris works, you mustnt be a part of it, Yuri. No one should know who you are. Luzhkov will work out something for you. Cultural attaché, for instance, would do you very well. Someone I can trust personally when Im in London.
Im glad you still do, Bounine said.
Its been a long time, Yuri. Youre the only GRU man I know who looks like an accountant. No one would ever dream you were in Afghanistan and Chechnya in the paratroopers.
Whereas you, old friend, look like they found you in central casting. The smiler with the knife, they used to call you from that first year, remember?
Quite right. Kurbsky got out and turned, holding the door. I also write good books.
Great books. Bounine smiled. One thing is certain: Putin will be happy the way things have gone.
Putin has many reasons to be happy with the way things are going these days, Kurbsky said. Night, Yuri. He closed the door and went back into the hotel.
MOSCOW / LONDON
2
It had all started three weeks before, with Colonel Boris Luzhkov, Head of Station for the GRU at the Embassy of the Russian Federation in London. The summons to Moscow had come from Putin himself and could not be denied, although it had surprised Luzhkov that it had come from him and not from General Ivan Volkov of the GRU, Putins security adviser.
The reason became clear when he was driven to Berkley Down outside London and found a Falcon jet waiting to fly him to Moscow, a luxury that should have warned him to expect the worst.
Two pilots were on board, the aircraft ready to go, and a steward, who introduced himself as Sikov, was waiting as he boarded. Luzhkov seated himself and belted in.
Sikov said, A great pleasure, Colonel. The flight time is approximately seven hours. I was instructed to give you this from Prime Minister Putins office as soon as you arrived. May I offer you a drink?
A large vodka. I hate takeoffs. I once crashed in Chechnya. Sikov had given him what looked like a legal file.
Sikov did it old style, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Luzhkov tossed it back and coughed, holding out his glass. Sikov poured another, then moved up to the small galley. Luzhkov swallowed the vodka and, as the plane started to roll, examined the file: several typed sheets stapled together, and an envelope addressed to him, which he opened.
The letter was headed From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation. It went on: Attention of Colonel Boris Luzhkov. You will familiarize yourself with the material contained in the enclosed report and be prepared to discuss it with the Prime Minister on your arrival.
Luzhkov sat there, staring down at the report, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Falcon had risen fast to thirty thousand and the flight so far was very smooth. Sikov returned.
Would you like to order, Colonel?
Business first. Better get it over with. More vodka was indicated. He suspected he was going to need it. In fact, it was worse than he could have imagined, although some of it was already familiar to him.
TH E REPORT DETAILED an operation gone bad. General Volkov had hired a group of IRA heavies to strike at Ferguson and his associates, but instead it was Ferguson who had struck at them, killing them all at their base in Drumore in the Irish Republic. If that wasnt bad enough, General Volkov himself and two GRU men had disappeared. It could only mean one thing.
On top of that, the attempted assassination of Harry Miller, the individual known as the Prime Ministers Rottweiler, had been a botched job from the beginning and had succeeded only in killing his wife in error. And-the greatest shock of all-Volkovs connection to Osama bin Laden, the shadowy man known only as the Broker, had been unmasked. It had turned out to be Simon Carter, the Deputy Director of the British Security Services. Luzhkov could hardly believe his eyes-he had known Carter for years! Needless to say, Carter was no longer in the picture either.
Millers sister, Lady Monica Starling, had apparently played a part in the Drumore affair, too, and now she had an apparent relationship with Dillon. GRU agents, of whom there were twenty-four at the London Embassy, had sighted them together on a number of occasions.
It was all a bit too much for Luzhkovs whirling brain, but he turned the page and found one that was headed Solutions. He started to read, pouring himself another vodka, and gagged on it as his own name came up. He read the paper several times, phrases like the Prime Ministers final decision in this matter floating before him. Finally, he came to the last page, headed Alexander Kurbsky. It began: Kurbsky is a man of extraordinary talents, who has served his country well in time of war. To use these talents again in the present situation would be of great use to the State. If he objects in any way, the enclosed DVD and the additional attached information should persuade him.
There was a small DVD screen on the back of the seat in front of Luzhkov, and after reading the information, he inserted the DVD and switched on. It lasted only five minutes or so, and when it was finished, he switched off and removed it.
Holy Mother of God, he said softly, and there was sweat on his brow. He took out a handkerchief and mopped it. Sikov approached. Something to eat, Colonel?
Why not? Boris Luzhkov said wearily. Why not.
THEY LANDED on time, and a limousine with a uniformed GRU driver at the wheel was waiting. The streets were dark, frostbound, a city of ghosts, snow drifting down-angels wings, his mother used to call them when he was little-and he sat there, thinking of what awaited him as they passed the great entrance of the Kremlin and moved through narrow streets to the rear, paused in a paved yard. Steps up to an entrance, a blue light over it. The door swung open and a young lieutenant in GRU uniform admitted him.
Please to follow me, Colonel.
Luzhkov had never been to Putins suite in his entire career, and he followed in a kind of awe, one gloomy corridor after another, the decorations finally becoming more ornate, oil paintings in gold frames on walls. Everything was subdued, no sign of people, not even an echoing voice. And then they turned left and discovered two individuals in good suits seated in high chairs on either side of a large gilded door. Each of them had a machine pistol on a small table by his right hand. They showed not the slightest emotion as the lieutenant opened the door and ushered Luzhkov through.