E. Seymour - A Deadly Trade - A gripping espionage thriller

‘I’ve no idea. When?’

‘Early 90s, I believe. Part of a UK/US delegation.’

‘She must have been a junior member.’

‘Who knows?’ Yakovlevich said, dismissive. ‘Many laboratories were closed down. Many good men were put out of work. Russians have long memories. Perhaps she was killed out of revenge.’

A fair point, a new angle, and one I wanted to explore. ‘Could she have been working on something that was of particular interest to your people?’

His smile was caged.

‘I have no firm evidence,’ I continued, ‘but there’s a possibility that Wilding was working on bio-weapons. In a defensive capacity, of course,’ I added swiftly.

‘Of course.’ He smiled without exposing his teeth. ‘And how did you come by this information?’

‘On the grapevine, as we say.’

He threw his head back, laughed, full-throated, then returned to his woozy eyes half-closed act. One glance at his watch was my cue for leaving. I duly obliged and drained my glass.

‘Forgive me, Mikhail, I’ve taken too much of your time already.’

‘Think nothing of it. A pleasure, always.’ He lumbered to his feet. ‘We must do business again soon.’

I cleared my throat. I wasn’t sure what to say, the concept of taking on another assignment strangely unsettling, then Mikhail handed me over to Yuri who, resembling a creature trapped between night and day, escorted me from the building.

I did not go far. I crossed over, walked to the end of the street and loitered in the descending mist. The air, dank and chill, nipped at my clothes.

Yakovlevich emerged fifteen minutes later wearing a dark cashmere coat slung rakishly over his shoulders. For him to venture out alone without a minder in tow a rare sight.

I followed at a respectable distance, the thickening fog concealing my pursuit. As I trailed from street to street, out into the glare of Knightsbridge with all its sleek and not so subtle charm, then dropped onto the Brompton Road and eventually to a residential maze of leafy squares and railings, I wondered where the big Russian was heading with such abandon. In his enthusiasm, he seemed to have forgotten the basic rules of tradecraft.

Yakovlevich was now quite a way in front, the grey and gloomy streets deserted apart from the odd cyclist. A glance at my watch informed me that it was not yet four in the afternoon. Then he was gone.

I paused, bent down as if to tie a shoelace, and listened. Muffled voices drifted from a garden square ahead. Screened from the road by railings and dense foliage, it provided an ideal location for a meet. I didn’t know who was on the other side of the conversation.

No gambler, I was more inclined to study a quarry and calculate his actions accordingly. All men had a price and Yakovlevich was no exception. Superficially, he seemed like any other gangster, the acquisition of huge wealth and riches his reason to get up in the morning. In reality, he was a power junkie, which explained why he rubbed shoulders with those who could really shake things up and make them happen: his cronies in the FSB. Straining my ears, I heard Yakovlevich’s deep bass voice speaking in his native tongue. I had no clue what was spoken, but I calculated that Yakovlevich’s garden guest was a Russian intelligence officer. Had Yakovlevich personally ordered the hit, he would have kept his distance. The fact he was here, reporting back to base, indicated that Wilding’s blood was not on Yakovlevich’s hands. The same could not be said of the Russians.

Straightening up, I squinted through the murk at the empty street. Frustratingly, there were few places in which to hide. Acutely aware that if I got close enough to see Yakovlevich and his friend, they could also see me, I backtracked and sloped across the road and stole down a flight of stone steps leading to a basement flat. Hopefully, the occupants were out. Concealed behind a boundary wall, I slipped the camera from my briefcase and waited.

Yakovlevich emerged first, followed by his friend. They crossed the road together, passing dangerously close to where I crouched, breathless. Taking a snap, I got a good look at the other man: middle-aged with short grey hair and a distinctive scar on the left side of his chin. Seconds later, they shook hands; Yakovlevich walking one way, ‘Scar-face’ the other.

Mission accomplished, I slipped the camera back into the briefcase. I probably had another hour, if lucky, before the light entirely faded, smothered by the thickening murk. Within an easy stroll of Imperial College in Exhibition Road, I decided to head that way. The Israelis’ London Station, embedded in the Israeli Embassy on Palace Green, was also within striking distance. Reuben once told me a small team operated there from several floors below.

Cutting back into a crush of shoppers, I allowed myself to be buffeted along on a human tide. A fragment of me wondered what it would be like to run alongside and join them. The thought lasted seconds.

It started to spit with rain as I turned a corner and walked up Exhibition Road past the Natural History Museum, the V&A on the opposite side, and glanced up at the main entrance to Imperial College with its geometric glass and steel winking in the gathered gloom. By now the woman from the British Security Service would already have paid a visit, interviewed Wilding’s line manager and asked all the usual questions: were all security restrictions in place; was anything missing; was Wilding behaving oddly; had she trouble sleeping; was she depressed? I wished I could have been a fly on the wall when that conversation took place. But I had other ideas.

I’m a big believer in timing. Wrong place, wrong time exists, but it’s rare. It underlines the theory of calculating the odds. Match a certain set of events with a number of different players and chances are those players will end up bumping into each other, the fact my path almost crossed with Wilding’s assassin a fine example. Given the circumstances, it was actually surprising that we didn’t meet. I hoped my theory held up now.

Taking a left into Kensington Gore, I sauntered parallel to Queens Gate with its classy hotels and wide residential streets of Victorian buildings and white stucco grand six-storey edifices, similar to those found in central Moscow. I felt peculiarly settled in the shadows and I walked slowly, softly, in the direction of Kensington Palace Gardens, more specifically Palace Green, the most secure and exclusive road in Kensington and beating heart of Embassy land. Within its half mile stretch of prime real estate lay the red brick former home of the novelist and essayist, William Thackeray, its current occupier the Israeli Embassy. As one would expect, security around the embassy remained extremely tight. Fine by me. I had no intention of straying too close.

My field of vision restricted, my hearing constrained by the hostile elements, call it intuition, but I sensed the redhead at Wilding’s house that morning would be chasing down the same leads, perhaps within the same time frame. All I had to do was pick a spot and wait.

I set down the briefcase beside me and took up a position leaning against a plane tree. Surrounded by a collection of moving shapes, silhouettes, the gauzy light of cars and lorries, I took out a pack of cigarettes I’d bought earlier in a backstreet newsagents. Fog stretched over my face in a damp embrace. There were many approaching footsteps, some fast and staccato, others flat and heavy. Still I waited.