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Tim Glister: Red Corona

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Tim Glister Red Corona

Red Corona: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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A missing scientist. A desperate spy. It’s 1961, and the white heat of the Space Race is making the Cold War even colder. The age of global surveillance dawns. Secret Agent Richard Knox has been hung out to dry by someone in MI5, and he needs to find the traitor in their midst. Meanwhile in a closed city outside Leningrad, top Soviet Scientist Irina Valera discovers the secret to sending messages through space, a technology that could change the world. But an accident forces her to flee. Desperate for a way back into MI5, Knox makes an unlikely ally in Abey Bennett, one of the CIA's only female recruits, while Valera’s technology in the hands of the KGB could be catastrophic. As three powers battle for dominance, three people will fight to survive….

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Other women in Povenets B tried to disguise their deterioration, tying their brittle hair into elaborate plaits or squirrelling away their meagre supplies of butter and oil to give their faces an unnatural sheen. Valera did neither. She had no interest in pretending life in the naukograd was any better than it was.

She also didn’t want anyone paying attention to her – especially Zukolev. But, as she took a blunt knife to half an old beetroot she’d been saving to make a thin borscht, she realised it was ten days since she’d last had to face the commandant of this prison she was locked away in, and she was overdue a visit.

CHAPTER 4

After Manning had left Bianchi and Moretti’s flat with Peterson at his heel, several MI5 officers arrived to pack up the scene and arrange transport of the bodies to a secure morgue.

Knox made his own way back into town. There were no black cabs on Deptford High Street, so he caught a train into London Bridge, then walked over the river to Bank and took the Central Line to Oxford Circus.

The Central Line in July was one of the least pleasant places to be in the whole of London. It was hot, pungent with the smell of stale bodies and cigarette smoke, and, somehow, always crowded. But it was also the fastest way across the city.

Less than an hour after leaving Deptford, he was walking the short distance from Oxford Circus to Berwick Street and Kemp House, the eighteen-storey high-rise block that towered over the centre of Soho.

The building had only been complete for a few months and Knox had been its first resident. When he’d seen the announcement by Westminster Council about the block in the Evening Standard over a year ago he knew he had to live there, and he’d used some contacts to pull a few strings and cut a deal with the council to buy a flat on the top floor off the architect’s plans.

His flat was made up of a single large living area wrapped by windows, which served as his kitchen, dining, and living room. The space looked austere but considered. There was nothing extraneous, and everything served a purpose. On one side of the room was a free-standing granite kitchen counter. On the other was a large marble dining table and chairs. Along the wall halfway between them a well-stocked drinks trolley sat next to a black leather and rosewood Eames lounger. Behind the open plan was an equally minimalist bedroom and en suite.

Of all the absences from the flat, one was particularly noticeable: a television. In less than a decade they’d become a feature of almost every British home, but Knox had never seen the appeal. He understood the excitement a little window on the world might offer people locked away in semi-detached houses up and down the country, but he saw more than his fair share of life on a daily basis.

Knox always said he liked living in Kemp House because it made him feel connected to the heart of the city. Holland had countered that he’d chosen it so he could see his enemies coming from a long way off. Knox admitted it was a little bit of both.

Ten minutes after arriving home and making himself a stiff gin and tonic to take the edge off the afternoon, there was a knock at his front door.

Knox didn’t receive many visitors, which was another part of the attraction of living at the top of a high-rise. He valued his privacy, and still hadn’t introduced himself to the building’s few other residents. And should any of them want to learn more about him, all they’d find in any public rec-ords would be his name and job title at Avalon Logistics, one of the more prosaic cover company names used by members of MI5.

He checked his watch – a 1956 Omega with a silver body, clear face, and tan leather strap he’d treated himself to when Holland had been made director general and promoted him three years ago – and took a guess about who was calling on him at four in the afternoon.

He opened his door and proved himself right. A Watcher was standing in the hallway, holding a small crate.

‘Is this everything?’ Knox asked, fairly sure it wasn’t.

‘It’s what I was told to bring. So it’s what I brought.’ The Watcher thrust the crate into Knox’s hands and turned back to the lift without saying anything else. Knox let him go.

Back inside his flat, Knox emptied the crate onto the dining table and spread out the contents. He picked up the slim MI5 file on Bianchi and Moretti. It was scant. Copies of their passports, a few details about their daily routines, a police report for a night Moretti had spent in a cell for being drunk and disorderly a few months ago, and not much else.

Then, the rest of the crate: business cards for both men, an address book, and several bundles of paper, which Knox assumed must have been the ones scattered across the desk in their makeshift office.

Knox’s instincts told him he’d been given the edited lowlights. Nothing jumped out to him that justified Manning’s interest in their deaths, or even MI5’s surveillance of them, as light as it might have been. Manning was already tying his hands behind his back. It was frustrating. But it was all Knox had to work with, so it was where he had to start.

The business cards were elegant, but didn’t give away anything other than the Italians’ names and their address, which Knox already knew. There was no company or mysterious foreign phone number to call. The address book contained the details of several high-profile organisations, but they all matched the list Manning had reeled off in their makeshift study. There were no curious omissions or additions.

Of the four bundles of papers, three of them were written entirely in Italian, which Knox had never learned. The fourth appeared to be a series of mathematical equations, advanced enough to use symbols rather than letters or numbers – another language Knox couldn’t read. It wouldn’t have taken much to get the Italian pages translated. Knox only needed to walk a few hundred yards to Bar Italia, the twenty-four-hour Italian cafe on Frith Street, buy an espresso, and call in one of the many favours the cafe’s waiters owed him. He knew he could rely on their tact – he’d owed them his fair share of favours over the years for secrets they’d kept and indiscretions they hadn’t held against him – but he decided it probably wasn’t worth the security risk in case the papers did end up containing something important. He’d have to send them on through official channels and wait for someone to be assigned to translating them.

The equations, however, he might be able to get help with sooner.

CHAPTER 5

Ledjo stood pressed against the front door, his nose rubbing the unvarnished wood and his mouth moving as he silently counted to himself. When he reached five he spun round and Valera, who had been creeping up on him from the kitchen, froze like a statue. He stared at her. Ledjo had inherited his mother’s eyes, but also his father’s, so they looked more like raindrops than almonds, with a slight upward curve at the edges that made him look permanently on the verge of breaking into a smile. He giggled and waited for her to make the slightest movement. She didn’t budge.

He faced the door again, counting faster this time. When he turned back, Valera was already halfway across the living room. He started to spin round and round, giggling more with every turn until Valera reached him, scooped him up, and pulled him into a tight, bony hug.

‘Be a good boy today at school,’ she said into his neck.

‘Yes, Mama.’

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