Mark Dawson - Sleepers

“Copy that.”

Aleksandrov reached down for a briefcase that had been resting against the chair legs. He entered the combination on the locks that secured the two clasps and popped the lid open. He reached inside and took out a single sheet of paper. He handed it across the table and Geggel looked at it. It was some sort of schematic.

“What is this?”

“You’ve heard of the Su-58?”

“The aircraft? I know the Su-57. The new fighter Sukhoi was working on—they shelved it.”

“The Fargo,” Aleksandrov said with a nod. “No. That was a distraction. All the while, they were working on the 58. NATO doesn’t even have a designation and now they have completed a successful design.” He laid a finger on the paper. “That is a schematic of the underside missile port. The Su-58 can be equipped with the new variant of the Ovod cruise missile. Sukhoi were given the task of producing a plane that could shoot down the Americans’ F-22s and F-35s. They have succeeded.”

Geggel looked down at the page and then back up to Aleksandrov. “Where did you get this, Pyotr?”

“Do you remember my daughter?”

Geggel found the information was surprisingly easy to recall. “Oh,” he said. “I see. She worked for Sukhoi.”

The recollection triggered a little spill of excitement. The possibility of using the father to turn the daughter had been tantalising back then, but, as Geggel recalled, Aleksandrov had shut down the possibility as soon as he sensed SIS’s motives. Anastasiya was a patriot, a dedicated servant of the motherland, and she had seen her father’s defection as the most heinous of betrayals. She had disavowed Aleksandrov in disgust. Geggel and Aleksandrov had had many late-night conversations about it; Aleksandrov had been crushed by her reaction.

“She was assigned to the research division in Komsomolsk,” he said. “They are developing the Su-58 there. There is a treasure trove of intelligence waiting to be taken. Anastasiya had access to everything.”

“I also remember that the two of you were not exactly on speaking terms.”

“We were not.”

Geggel noted the use of the past tense and tapped his finger on the schematic. “But she sent you this.”

“Things change. My defection was bad for her career, as you would expect. But her reaction to it—her hatred of me—persuaded the GRU that she is trustworthy. They always knew that she was smart and hard-working, and, once they were satisfied that she was patriotic, that she hated me, she was given responsibility again.”

Geggel sat a little straighter. He might have been retired, but his instincts were still sharp and he knew, immediately, that this conversation had the potential to be one of the most important of his life. “That’s not enough,” he said. “Something else must have changed.”

Aleksandrov nodded. “She was married five years ago. His name was Vitali Romanov and he was a nice man, from what I understand. An oil and gas trader—very successful, rich. I do not know the details, but he was convicted of financial improprieties and sent to Sevvostlag. Anastasiya says he was innocent, but that the state would not listen to her. He died in the gulag. They said it was a heart attack, but Anastasiya said he was well before he was sentenced. She says that they murdered him for his money.” He sipped his beer. “Oligarchs with connections to the Kremlin. It happens often. Anastasiya sees this as the second betrayal of her life, but this one is worse than the first. What happened to him has given her the opportunity to consider what I did in a different light. She sees that perhaps the Rodina is not the utopia that she once thought.”

Geggel glanced around the room. The pub was busy, but he couldn’t see anyone who looked as if he or she might be paying them any special attention. The hubbub around them was welcome; if he was wrong, and someone was watching them, it would be too noisy for them to eavesdrop.

“What does she want?”

“To defect,” Aleksandrov said. “She wants to come here with me.”

“And she knows she’ll have to give us something to make that happen?”

Aleksandrov nodded, his expression a little bitter. “She knows that she cannot rely on your kindness, yes. I have taught her that much. She knows that she will have to buy her passage, but that is fine—she has something valuable to sell.” Now it was Aleksandrov’s turn to lean forward. He rested his elbows on the table and spoke quietly. “This schematic is just the start. She can provide you with everything: blueprints, timelines, Gantt charts, evaluation criteria, production schedules, subcontractors, tender information. Data on airborne radar and weapons control systems. Everything .”

“I’m listening, Pyotr.”

Aleksandrov grinned. “Your aerospace industry will see it as a goldmine. It is unprecedented. The value in this intelligence… it is incalculable.”

Geggel tapped a finger on the piece of paper. “Do you have the rest?”

Aleksandrov shook his head. “Pass that to your old friends on the river and ask them to investigate. My daughter wants you to respect her—this is how she proves that she is worthy of that respect. SIS should confirm that this information is good. When they have done that, we can discuss how she can be exfiltrated.”

“Where is she now? Is she safe?”

“She is in hiding. The FSB questioned her after Vitali’s death. She told them how she felt—she is hot-blooded.”

“Like her father,” Geggel suggested.

Aleksandrov smiled. “She knew that she went too far, and disappeared before they could come back to bring her in. They are looking for her now. She is frightened. Exfiltration will not be a simple thing. She knows that—but she also knows that what she will bring with her is worth the effort.”

“So how do we contact her?”

“It must be through me. She will not speak to anyone else.” Aleksandrov reached across the table and grasped Geggel’s hand in both of his. “Will you help?”

Geggel knew that he had no choice: the information that Aleksandrov was offering was so valuable that it would be tantamount to treason to pass up the opportunity of acquiring it, but even more than that it was a chance for him to remind his old superiors that they had erred by treating him the way they had. He could bring the opportunity to them as a demonstration that the old ways were still better than the new, that an old hand like him was still worth something even when held up against the up-and-comers like Jessie Ross and the other youngsters who had replaced him.

Aleksandrov squeezed his hand. “Leonard?”

“Yes,” Geggel said. He disengaged himself from Aleksandrov’s grip and glanced down at the piece of paper that lay on the table between them; it had been stained by a splash of spilled ale. “I’ll need this.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll show it to them. They’ll have questions.”

“I am sure they will. But they must work through you, Leonard. I trust you . I do not trust anyone else.”

Geggel stood. He took the paper from the table, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his pocket. Aleksandrov stood, too, and Geggel took his hand and shook it.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I have word from London. Don’t contact her again unless you have to.”

Aleksandrov kept hold of his hand, clasping it in both of his. “Thank you. This is a very good thing that you do. My daughter will be grateful. As am I.”

Geggel smiled, and Aleksandrov released his hand.

“Be careful, Pyotr.”

“And you.”

Nataliya had taken up a position on the promenade. She could look north toward the pub where Aleksandrov and Geggel had met, or, by turning to the west, she could see the street where Geggel had parked his car. There was nothing out of place, and nothing that gave Nataliya any cause for concern.