A. Zander: Moscow City

“No, I really have to get going.” He took the money out of his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. “Here’s the full amount. I appreciate your time, but I’ve got things to do.”

She stood at the door as he walked down the path and crossed the road. He looked back. She looked good in her brown dress. And he could see she was for real. She wasn’t the type to feign interest in someone. She seemed to care. He hurried back past the other large detached houses and towards the tube station. When he turned the corner, he took out his phone and dialed Bailey’s office number. It rang several times before a woman’s voice came on the other end of the line.

“The Deputy Commissioner’s office, how may I help you?”

“This is DC Harper. I’d like to leave a message.”

“Go ahead.”

“If you could just tell her I’d like to accept her offer.”

“Staaandaard!”

The newspaper seller had become expert at spotting anyone interested in 85 Albert Embankment. The crowds that bustled around Vauxhall tube station contained a lot of tourists just interested in snapping a photo in front of the famous MI6 building. But occasionally, there was someone who lingered a bit too long, or took too many pictures. These were the people his contact in the service was interested in. If he saw anyone suspicious, all he had to do was point a little camera in their direction and get a couple of shots.

“Get your Staaaandaaard!”

At the end of the day, he loaded them onto a USB stick and handed it to the posh bloke in the hat with his evening paper. Some days there was nothing to report, but other days, there were a few. Easy money. His other talent was spotting people that worked in the building over the road. Just for fun. The chances of meeting one were quite high considering most of them had to come past his stand to get to work. The two standing in front of him now were not typical, but it was something about the way they spoke to each other. The hushed tones; voices careful and aware.

Walker and Varndon kept talking in hushed tones as they crossed the road and walked into the MI6 building. They made their way up to the fourth floor and weaved their way through the throng of people packing their belongings into boxes. The door to Alpha’s office was slightly ajar, but Varndon knocked anyway.

“Come in,” came the voice from inside. They both walked in and took a seat opposite the head of their department. The old man was leafing through some files, sorting out what could be kept and what should be incinerated. “I think I’m the only one round here who still keeps anything on paper you know,” he said. “I just think some things are best left in their original format, don’t you think?”

Both men nodded as he surveyed them over the top of his spectacles. He walked over and shut the door to drown out the noise coming from the main floor of the department. “This move should have happened a long time ago you know.”

“Shows they’re taking the department more seriously,” said Varndon.

“And so they should,” said Alpha. “Some of them laughed at me when I said we needed a Financial Security Division. And now the same people are knocking on my door and asking for advice.”

“Which floor are we going to?” said Walker.

Alpha pointed upwards. “High enough to stop the sniggers.”

“The Cavendish house was a bit of a horror show,” said Varndon.

“Did the police give you any trouble?”

“They tried, but the call stopped them in their tracks.”

“That’s good,” said Alpha. “There’s nothing worse than some blunt instrument of a copper sticking his nose into things way above his station. Hopefully they’ll get the message. If they haven’t, I’ve pulled a few strings to make sure they know we have our priorities on this one and they are second tier.”

“So what now?” asked Walker.

“I’m sending you both to Moscow.”

“Which alias?”

“The same. Bankers with deep pockets.”

“I heard the Met are sending a team out there too,” said Varndon.

“They’ll be gone in a week,” said Alpha. “If they show signs of making any trouble, you tell me straight away and I’ll make sure they’re hauled back here.”

“When do we leave?” said Varndon.

“Monday. But be careful. Our friends in the Lubyanka will be expecting you.”

Harper stared at the small bottle of pills, contemplating whether to take one. The broken light flickered on and off in the cramped plane toilet. He finally took the cap off, poured the contents into the toilet bowl and pressed the handle. The suction system pulled them down into the bowels of the plane, scattering them somewhere over the English Channel. He had already removed the label displaying his real name before he left the house, so he just threw the unmarked bottle into the small bin. The effects of the pill he had swallowed earlier were just about wearing off. It had reduced the anxiety, but it had also dulled his senses. He decided he would have to cope without them. He moved his face close to the mirror and examined the red lines streaked over the whites of his eyes. The dry air circulating around the plane made his skin feel tight and stretched.

The lights had been dimmed when he stepped back out into the aisle. Some of the passengers continued watching films in the dark, while others fidgeted under their blankets trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. A baby that had been screaming during takeoff seemed to have settled down, much to the relief of its mother. Harper made his way to the back of the plane and sat down.

He took out his tablet and opened the files on the dead men.

Marcus Stewart. Veteran investor. Spent his business career investing in some of the world’s most hostile countries and coming away with a small fortune each time. Former British Army. Served with the SAS in Northern Ireland, the Falklands and Bosnia. Cavendish clearly wasn’t naïve. If you were going to spend time in the Russian business world, this is the type of man you would want to have sitting next to you. Harper turned to Luca Francini’s file. Born in Geneva. Grew up in Hong Kong. Worked for Goldman Sachs before joining Cavendish at Woolaton; the savvy and urbane frontman for the investors. The three of them had been in and out of Russia since the fund’s inception.

Then there was Andre Katusev.

The only information they had managed to dig up on Woolaton’s reclusive partner was from press reports. His own hedge fund was called Svaboda Capital. He had been touted as part of an emerging Kremlin inner circle. But there were no football clubs, no lavish yachts or public philanthropy. In comparison to his oligarch peers, he was like a ghost. The newspapers had nothing to get excited about, so he mostly seemed to stay off the front pages.

Harper pulled the tablet to his chest as a passenger walked slowly towards the back of the plane. He waited until the man had started to walk back before he relaxed again. The seats directly to his left were empty and there was a young teenage couple asleep in front of him. He scanned the rest of the cabin, but nothing much stirred. He read over the short intelligence files a few more times and consigned the main details to memory before wiping them from the device. There could be nothing linking him to the job once the plane touched down in Moscow. From now on, he was Ryan Evans, a slightly disgruntled office worker who decided to jack in his life in the UK for a bit of adventure in Russia. He took out the fake passport and gave it another quick once over. Keep it together Ryan Evans, he said to himself under his breath. Keep it together.