Стелла Римингтон: The Moscow Sleepers

But today Liz had a strong feeling that something was hanging in the air; something was not being said and she wanted to know what it was. She waited, saying nothing herself.

Peggy broke the silence. ‘Miles thinks their Kiev Station has an emergency contact arrangement set up with Mischa and he’s getting clearance from Langley to activate it.’

‘Oh. I see,’ said Fane. ‘So Langley haven’t given clearance yet? I can tell you, they’re not going to, either.’

It was obvious to Liz that Geoffrey Fane had something going on with the Americans that she didn’t know about. She wondered whether Miles Brookhaven knew what it was, although it sounded unlikely. Peggy, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent in the room, said, ‘The FBI are desperate to know what can link Petersen in Vermont with Ohlson and Canada.’

‘I can see their point,’ said Fane, ‘but it’s not going to happen.’

Peggy looked about to argue, but catching Liz’s warning eye said nothing.

Liz reached for her bag and stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, gentlemen. We’ve done what we were asked to do and brought you up to date, and we’ve passed on the Bureau’s request for help. So we’ll leave you to it.’

Fane and Bruno both stood up too. Peggy, scrabbling to get her papers together and retrieve her bag from the floor, was the last to rise.

‘I’ll see you out,’ said Bruno, holding the door open. He came out into the corridor with them and said quietly to Liz, ‘Have you got a minute? There’s something I’d like to discuss.’

‘Sure,’ said Liz, curious. When the lift arrived, Bruno got in with them and pressed the button for the second floor.

‘Do you want me to wait downstairs?’ Peggy asked when the lift stopped.

‘No, you come too, please,’ said Bruno. ‘It won’t take long.’

He led them into a small windowless meeting room across from the lift. ‘Do sit down,’ said Bruno. He took a seat at the end of the room’s table. ‘Sorry to be so mysterious, but there’s something I need to tell you. I thought Geoffrey was going to, but you know what he’s like: he can’t bear to give away any information when he doesn’t have to. He’d have told you eventually, but I think you need to know now, because it affects how we handle this new business with the Bureau.’

Bruno paused as if hesitant to come clean. Liz waited patiently and finally Bruno went on again. ‘I’m being posted to Moscow. I’ll be there under cover, not diplomatic. The cover is being worked on now so I can’t tell you any more than that. But I’ve got one task and that is to get alongside Mischa’s brother. Our Station has been working with the Americans out there and they have identified the brother, Boris, and know quite a lot about him and his lifestyle. We’ve given him the codename “Starling”. I’m to try to recruit him and keep him in place.’

He exhaled nosily, seemingly revealed to have spilled the beans. ‘You can see why Geoffrey is nervous about initiating any contact with Mischa. If it went wrong, it would compromise this operation – and Starling is a much bigger prize than his brother. He’s at the heart of the FSB.’

‘Well,’ said Liz, reeling slightly from this disclosure, ‘it goes without saying, if there’s anything we can do to help…’

‘At the moment you can just look surprised when Geoffrey tells you. Which he will. When he’s ready.’

‘Who else knows?’ asked Peggy. ‘Does Miles?’

‘I don’t think he does. I’m not sure about Langley. I assume the Director of Counter Intelligence and his most senior staff do. Even Geoffrey wouldn’t dare keep this from them. And of course their Head of Station in Moscow and the head people in the Ops Directorate. There’ll be an indoctrination list soon but so far you are the first people to know in your outfit.’ He looked at Liz. ‘Given your dealings with Mischa, you clearly need to be in the picture.’

‘I appreciate your telling us.’ But she was uneasy about keeping a secret about a secret, and was puzzled that Bruno Mackay was going behind Fane’s back. She added, ‘Let’s hope Geoffrey decides to tell us officially before too long.’

As they walked back to Thames House across Vauxhall Bridge Liz said to Peggy, ‘Something must have happened to Bruno. He used to be so difficult, but just now he couldn’t have been nicer. It’s hard to believe he’s the same man.’

‘Perhaps he’s in love,’ said Peggy, and laughed.

‘Maybe,’ said Liz, unconvinced. ‘If he is, long may it last.’

The little plane landed with a teeth-jarring bump and bounced along the runway. Special Agent Harry Fitzpatrick opened his eyes. He hated flying in small planes. They seemed to swirl about like kites, swooping and soaring with every thermal or breeze. He could cope with big planes; they seemed robust enough to survive turbulence, but propeller planes with just sixteen seats such as these were to his mind obviously unsafe. As soon as the plane had juddered to a halt he unclipped his seatbelt and stood up, anxious to be out of the flimsy little cabin as soon as possible.

As he climbed down the steps he saw a large, dark-haired man in a navy-blue suit and dark glasses standing on the tarmac. This must be Boyd, the local Agent who had alerted him to activity in what Fitzpatrick thought to be a dead duck case. When the first lead had come in from the British that there was a Russian Illegal in the States who had been hospitalised with a serious illness, it seemed important to quickly identify the man in case he recovered and became active again.

It had taken a good few months to locate the man and he had sometimes wondered whether he was justified in using the resources on a case that looked as though it would go nowhere. Eventually, after extensive searches involving dates and nationality, age and type of illness he had decided that the Swede Petersen was the best fit, however unlikely it seemed. By the time he had got on to him, however, Petersen had been moved from the large hospital where he had been having treatment to a small hospice.

Since then Petersen hadn’t moved from his bed, and apparently no one had been in touch with him; it looked as if when he died, the case, if it ever was a case, would die too. But a couple of days ago Boyd’s report had come in, and now it seemed possible that there was just the smallest of threads to unravel. And to Harry Fitzpatrick that was irresistible.

As Boyd drove them both to the hospice where Petersen had died he outlined the arrangements he had made for Fitzpatrick’s visit. After the hospice they would go to the rented house where Petersen had lived for the last five years and then on to the university to interview the head of department where Petersen had worked. ‘I got a key to the house from the realtor who manages the rental,’ Boyd said, ‘but I haven’t been in. Thought you’d want to see it as he left it.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Harry. ‘Has the realtor been in?’

‘No. I told him not to.’

At the hospice, Nurse Sarah Burns showed them Room 112 where Petersen had spent the last four months.

‘We haven’t moved anything, except to strip the bed,’ she said, looking at Boyd.

‘Has anyone else been in here except you and your colleagues?’ asked Fitzpatrick. She shook her head. ‘So this is all the stuff he had in here?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking over at the things on the top of the dressing table. A few books, a wallet, small change and some car keys. ‘His clothes are in the closet.’

Fitzpatrick stood with his hands in his pockets, looking around him. ‘Those are his keys?’ he asked eventually, pointing to the dressing table.

‘Yes. Car keys and house keys.’