Adrian Magson - Execution

‘KGB?’

‘Yes, but also known variously as the Ninth Directorate and the GUO — I forget what that means.’

Harry wasn’t surprised. The Russians had any number of secretive agencies, most interconnected and linked through the KGB and its forerunners, now through the FSB and its governing body. His work with the security services had not brought him into close contact with individual members, but it had often been said that every single member of Russia’s vast security network was connected by one string or another, like a giant spider’s web. Pull one and the tug was felt right down the line.

‘I must have been out of the room when they lectured us on that one,’ he said. A thought occurred to him. ‘If their role is protection, what made Balenkova a target for an approach?’

‘Christ, you’re going to get me shot, you know that?’ Ballatyne gave it a few seconds, then said, ‘Balenkova first got lit up when she was working personal protection with a team of about twenty men and women, assigned to shadow a small but important group of military personnel. These were all high-ranking officers with responsibilities for communications, weapons and strategy, including nuclear installations. Balenkova and her colleagues were the elite of the FSO, proficient in languages and top-level protection. They went everywhere with their charges, including overseas. The psych evaluators we employ to tell us clever stuff about our friends and enemies reckon they would hear and see things we can only dream about. Each one of them probably carries more secrets buried in their brains than any other members of the security apparatus.’

It explained a lot. Who wouldn’t want to try draining one of these super-guardians of information, especially the intimate details of what the top military personnel had been chatting about over dinner and drinks when their barriers were down? Even gossip and scuttlebutt was useful if applied correctly. It was a spy’s daydream.

‘So Clare was assigned to get close to Balenkova and milk her.’

‘Yes. Balenkova’s name popped up again when she accompanied a couple of generals from the Northern Command to London for talks. She was seen as a possible target.’

‘Why?’

Ballatyne hesitated. ‘It’s not what you think. Balenkova was friendly, outgoing and there to smooth the way for talks while protecting her charges. She speaks excellent English and knows how to mix it with people. But she was heard to make some remarks off the record that our psychological profilers judged to show a degree of disenchantment with the regime in Moscow. It was too good a chance to miss, so Jardine was told to make an approach, get friendly and build a rapport. It began in London and travelled across to Brussels as the Russians moved around. There was another meeting three months later, in Paris this time, when the Russians were talking to the French, and a final one in Frankfurt. That’s when Jardine got her chain yanked. She’d gone too far and got noticed. She’d got involved.’

‘Did her handlers know in advance?’

‘What — that Balenkova was gay? Apparently not. They didn’t know Jardine was, either. One of those things. Equal opportunities and inclusivity and all that, we’re not supposed to ask anymore.’

‘So where do I find this Balenkova?’

‘You’re really hot on this one, aren’t you? What makes you think she even cares about Jardine, let alone that she’ll help you? Word is, she got busted down the ranks as a security measure after Jardine got close.’

‘I don’t know. But Clare might try to contact her. If she does it might give us a lead on where she is.’

‘Balenkova might simply turn her whereabouts over to the wet team, have you considered that?’

‘In that case, we’ve nothing to lose by asking. You know she’ll get nothing out of me.’

‘Let’s hope not. Trouble is, I don’t know where she is. If I had a hotline into the FSO database, I’d tell you. But I don’t.’

A dead end. Or was it? Ballatyne had a habit of storing information and acting on it later.

‘Another bit of news,’ Ballatyne continued, ‘is that Tobinskiy died choking on his own vomit.’

‘Seriously?’

‘That’s the public version. Truth is, there are small signs that question the facts; minute signs of bruising on the lips, which could have come from a hand placed over his mouth; and marks on his shoulders suggesting he might have been restrained, although the medical staff logged two occasions when he had to be held down for fear of hurting himself, so that’s not proven. He was nauseous, anyway, and vomiting had been recorded, but I’m told it’s easy to induce in a patient suffering gunshot wounds and running a fever. It’ll keep the conspiracy theorists busy for years.’

Harry digested the information, the scene running in his mind. For a man in a weakened physical condition and suffering a bullet wound and pumped full of drugs, it would have been a simple job physically to hold him still and complete the task. Quite what it would have called for mentally was another thing altogether. Killing was hard enough; killing a man in his hospital bed required a detachment and cold-bloodedness that he hoped he never acquired.

‘Do you have any leads so far?’

‘We got a name of the man who might be running this job. His name’s Sergei Gorelkin. He’s one of the FSB’s senior figures responsible for special operations overseas. He went off the radar in Moscow a few years ago, and it’s thought he went into another department or got demoted. Then he popped up again recently as right as rain. He was seen boarding a flight to Frankfurt several days ago. Two other suspected FSB operatives were identified passing through Paris Charles de Gaulle by a French intelligence officer on his way back to their embassy in Moscow. He recognised one of them from a penetration operation eight months previously by colleagues in the DGSE. All three were travelling under cover names. It’s only a guess but I’d bet my pension they were converging on London.’

‘Did your lady friend on the Russian desk tell you all this?’

‘The Russian desk claims to know nothing about it. I think they’re playing silly buggers and hoping to bag the prize. I got all this through back channels of my own.’

Harry grinned. ‘You’re more devious than I thought.’

‘I have my moments. But if you think I’m devious, Gorelkin’s got a reputation like a box of weasels. He’s old-school KGB and as hard as nails. If he’s over here, it means the Tobinskiy job was given top priority. Gorelkin has a chain of command like everybody else, but it’s known that he takes his orders from the presidential office.’

‘Would their embassy know he’s here?’

‘I doubt it. Whatever Gorelkin’s doing, the last thing Moscow wants is a politically motivated assassination leading right back to their front door.’

Harry digested the information, then said, ‘What about the other two men?’ He and Rik must have come very close to running into them earlier, and he didn’t like the idea of two FSB heavies walking up behind him with orders to kill.

‘The French say they’re specialists. You know what that means.’

‘Killers.’

‘Correct. I don’t have names and only the vaguest descriptions, but I’ll mail those over to you as soon as I have something firm. Why — are you getting nervous?’

Harry told him about the other people hunting Clare Jardine. ‘They’ll spread the net further and faster than we can. Can’t we get the Met involved?’

‘Sorry. No can do. They’re under pressure elsewhere, and this is messy enough as it is. There’s already chatter on the wires about a patient disappearing from the hospital. If we get the plods looking for her, it’ll hit the news before tea time that there’s a manhunt going on. God only knows what the media would make of that.’