Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

Let’s hope Simmons sings as well, thought Liz. She felt a sense of measured optimism, like someone starting out on an enormous jigsaw puzzle who makes unexpected progress early on, though it was only corner pieces of the puzzle that had come her way. She had no idea what the larger picture would look like when it emerged. If it ever did.

“This is a Fragonard,” declared Nikita Brunovsky, pointing delightedly at a beautiful young woman in a flower-filled garden.

“Marvellous,” said Henry Pennington of the FCO, in an unctuous voice which was beginning to grate on Liz.

Brunovsky had already shown them a small Cézanne, a Bonnard, a Picasso sketch from his Blue Period and a Rembrandt drawing. Liz felt she was back at university, paging through an illustrated textbook on art history. Only none of these were reproductions.

Now Brunovsky stopped in front of the marble fireplace and pointed to a large abstract in a gleaming steel frame above the mantelpiece. Dark purple waves of paint met ebony swirls in a circle of orange fire. “Who do you think painted this?” the Russian asked.

Liz wasn’t going to venture a guess.

“Howard Hodgkin?” asked Pennington.

The Russian laughed gleefully. He was a small man with tousled hair, a sharp nose and dark, dancing eyes. “It is the work of my sister,” he replied, and cackled again.

The grim-faced blonde woman who had escorted Liz and Henry Pennington upstairs had introduced them and disappeared. Brunovsky had greeted them enthusiastically without asking their business. Now, as Pennington tried to match Brunovsky in affability, Liz looked around her.

The previous year she had treated herself to membership of the National Trust and had become a keen visitor to stately homes. But this first-floor Belgravia drawing room was like nothing she had ever seen. The large high-ceilinged room had six long, elegant windows overlooking the square at the front and the garden at the rear. The delicate duck egg blue brocade on the walls served as a subtle backdrop for the art collection hanging there.

But what Liz found startling was the bewildering mixture of furniture crammed into the room. Eighteenth-century English pieces jostled with heavy, ornate Russian cabinets and sideboards. On a corner table there was a large glass model, half castle, half fort, with intricate onion minarets and towers reproduced in exquisite detail. It seemed oddly familiar, until Liz realised it was a replica of the Kremlin.

Above all this, two vast fountain chandeliers glittered like tinsel festooning a Christmas tree. Looking towards the windows, Liz recognised a Regency pier table with a marble top and ornate legs that was similar to the cherished family heirloom her mother kept in her cottage in Wiltshire. Then Liz noticed there were five of them, one between each window.

“Come,” Brunovsky said abruptly, and Liz and Pennington obediently followed the slight, wiry figure out of the room and down a passageway. His high spirits struck Liz as slightly artificial. He was presenting himself to his visitors as disarmingly impetuous, and slightly mischievous as well, like a charming small boy, Liz reflected. There was nothing boyish about his clothes, though: Brunovsky wore an elegant blue blazer with four gold buttons on each sleeve, a well-cut striped shirt, silk tie, flannel trousers and tan Gucci loafers.

Opening a door, he ushered them into a dining room, which had in its centre an elegant burred walnut table. The classical effect was spoiled by the set of chairs surrounding it—Russian monstrosities of oak, each built like a throne, upholstered in gaudy red plush. More paintings hung in clusters on the walls, though these were modern oil paintings.

“My Russian collection,” Brunovsky announced with an expansive sweep of his hand.

Liz noticed that on the far wall there was an empty space in the middle of a group of still lifes. Brunovsky smiled, “You see the missing one, no?”

“Is it on loan somewhere?” Given the quality of what she was being shown, Liz would not be surprised if museums were lining up to borrow Brunovsky’s holdings for their own exhibitions.

“No,” said Brunovsky, shaking his head. “It is not mine to loan,” he added playfully. He walked to a sideboard at one end of the room, and picked up a sale catalogue sitting on top of a stack. Flipping through its pages he stopped at one and handed the catalogue to Liz.

She looked at the page, which was dominated by a colour reproduction of an abstract, its mass of darkish blue broken by a slash of yellow paint. The guide price, she noticed, was £4 million.

“You like it?” demanded Brunovsky.

“It’s very interesting,” said Liz diplomatically.

“Lovely,” said Pennington, peering at the catalogue over Liz’s shoulder. “When are you selling it?”

“ Selling it?” asked Brunovsky. “I am not selling it, I am buying it. I would never sell a Pashko.” There was genuine outrage to his voice.

“Of course, of course,” Pennington said soothingly.

Liz pointed to the space on the wall, and said, “To go there?”

“Yes!” declared Brunovsky, pleased to see she understood. “It will be the crown of my collection. To me, Pashko is a god. The Russian Picasso. Now let’s go downstairs.”

This time he led them to his study at the back of the house. Motioning them to a sofa in one corner, Brunovsky sat down on a leather chair on casters, on which he began to roll around gently like a restless schoolboy. “So,” he said and grinned, though Liz noticed his eyes darted nervously, “what is it I can do for you?”

Liz let Pennington make the running. After all it was at his instigation that they were there. As soon as Brian Ackers had been told of Victor Adler’s information, true to form, he had decided that something must be done. Much against Pennington’s wishes, Special Branch had been brought in. They were to warn each of the oligarchs of a heightened risk to them from Russia, though without any specific mention of the Adler information.

Pennington, who regarded the police as chronic leakers, had sulkily predicted that as soon as they were involved the whole thing would be on the front page of the Evening Standard within twenty-four hours. When he heard that Rykov had recruited a source in Brunovsky’s household, he had leapt to the conclusion that the plot was already under way and had insisted on visiting Brunovsky himself, to warn him to avoid any public criticism of Moscow. Brian Ackers, whose opinion of Pennington matched Geoffrey Fane’s, had asked Liz to go too, to report back on what was said. After a show of reluctance, Pennington had agreed to her accompanying him, though when he discovered that Liz would be using the alias of Jane Falconer, he had huffed about spooks and their unnecessarily secretive ways.

As Pennington delivered what seemed to Liz an especially longwinded warning, her eyes moved discreetly round the room. It was the only room in the house that didn’t look like a museum. Here in his study, she thought, Brunovsky was for once not showing off.

Their host had stopped sliding his chair around and was listening intently. When Pennington had finished, he nodded, still taking it in.

“ Tak ,” he declared at last, his expression now serious, his lips taut. “And you think it is me the Kremlin plans to move against?”

“We can’t be certain,” said Liz, “but you’re an obvious candidate.”

He nodded again and leant back in his chair, then shrugged. “I am not surprised. All of us living here know our government keeps an eye on us. What do you want me to do?”

Pennington adopted a thoughtful expression. “Your views about the present Russian government are well known. It occurred to us that perhaps for a little while you might want to curtail your public pronouncements about President Putin. Just until the alarm is over.”