surveillance ability of Patrick Wilkinson, whom he was sure he would have picked up even if Wilkinson hadn’t been identified to him in London. But Wilkinson’s lack of professionalism was MI5’s problem, not his. He didn’t see why the hell James Straughan had insisted he duplicate the hunt for Charlie Muffin when there were six others-three of them MI6-sitting around on their fat asses at the embassy. Or why, having insisted he make the independent check, Straughan banned a direct approach to a Rossiya receptionist with a twenty-dollar bill folded inside a friendly handshake for a ten-second look at the register. What was the point of confirming the bloody man’s presence anyway? Until the actual moment the diversion had literally to be triggered, Radtsic remained his foremost priority.
Jacobson negotiated the difficult double roundabout system to prevent being automatically routed onto the ring road, to return with growing discomfort along Leninskaya. The maneuver put the highway-robbing militia on the opposite side of the multilane road, but there were uniformed, radio-equipped militia spotters on the memorial side Jacobson had isolated as Radtsic’s pickup point: their presence heightened the possibility of an ambush as well as risked curiosity at the return of a car so recently passing in the opposite direction.
Radtsic was there, for once properly using what cover a tree clump offered. He needn’t stop, Jacobson knew. The militia concentration was sufficient reason for him to abort and revert to another emergency contact meeting. Radtsic was actually looking at him: could see-would see-the circumstances and understand! Although the block was on the other side of the highway, the cars traveling in Jacobson’s direction slowed, to gawk, forcing him to slow, too, and as Jacobson did, Radtsic moved away from his partial concealment, walking now as self-importantly as he always did. There were two motorcycles, previously obscured by militia vans but visible now: he could be chased, easily stopped, if he attracted attention by suddenly accelerating.
He didn’t. Jacobson was careful to indicate his intention to move out of the slowed, otherwise occupied traffic line, paused rather than stopped at the pavement edge the moment Radtsic reached him, and at once indicated his getting back in line the moment the Russian was inside the car.
“This was an absurd place to meet!” protested Radtsic, at once.
“How the hell could I have known there’d be a GIA extortion!” Jacobson was intent on his rearview and wing mirrors, searching for pursuit.
“I didn’t think you were going to stop.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“If this had been a trap, I would have sprung it a long time ago,” said Radtsic, presciently.
“Am I supposed to be reassured?” Jacobson was unsettled at the other man’s awareness of his fear.
“You’re supposed to believe me: believe that I’m not tricking you.”
No militia vehicles were following and the traffic was picking up speed. As soon as he could Jacobson pulled onto minor roads from the inner beltway. “We’re okay.”
“Of course we’re okay. You’ve told London how it’s got to be done now?”
“It can’t be according to your timing. They’re planning the separate extraction, Elana and Andrei from Paris, you from here. But it’s got to be at our signal.”
“This is ridiculous,” said the Russian.
“It’s practical. And will be safe. The safety of you and your family is the essential, not something concocted as we go along,” said Jacobson, disregarding his earlier doubts. “Direct contact has to be made with Elana and Andrei. You have to tell her that.”
“I’m thinking of going to the Americans,” abruptly threatened Radtsic.
Jacobson drove for several moments without responding. “I’ll tell London. Stop them taking anything further in Paris that might interfere with how Washington might devise their extraction. Didn’t it occur to you, though, that after the Lvov episode Washington might not be as receptive as we are?”
Now it was Radtsic who retreated into silence. Jacobson had completed the rerouting from the inner-ring road before the Russian spoke. “Why did you mention Lvov?”
“I thought it was relevant, it having occurred so recently,” lied Jacobson, exasperated at what was being demanded of him. But now, suddenly, he was curious.
“I had no part in that: not the planning, I mean.”
Radtsic had no need to explain or excuse himself. So why was he? Challengingly, Jacobson said: “You’re the executive deputy of the FSB. You must have been part of it.”
“It was a long-term strategy: you know that. Going back to KGB.”
Jacobson drove automatically back onto the ring road, his entire concentration upon the other man. He was in the shit and sinking after the Amsterdam mistake, Jacobson reminded himself. And there was the outside possibility of his being wrong with the Rossiya assessment. This just conceivably might be his recovery. “You’re old-time KGB, Maxim Mikhailovich. You were there when it began.”
“Not part of it, though!” Radtsic once more denied. “You know when and where the Lvov thing was devised. In 1982 I was in St. Petersburg, not Cairo.”
Within both British intelligence agencies the Lvov episode had already attained legendary status as the most brilliantly conceived and attempted Russian-intelligence penetration, only defeated by more than brilliant MI5 deduction. But Jacobson didn’t know any details: he couldn’t continue this totally unexpected conversation without almost immediately exposing his ignorance. It had to be ended with the surprise retained. “We’re here to talk about Elana and her exit visa, not things that happened in the past.”
“I suspected it was another test: that you were doubting me,” said Radtsic.
“It wasn’t. And I’m not.”
“Elana’s visa is arranged. Her flight’s booked for noon tomorrow. Her departure will take four days, six maximum, to permeate through the system potentially to become a personal risk to me.”
“You’re still trying to impose your own time frame,” accused Jacobson.
“Of course I am!” admitted Radtsic. “And you know why!”
“London doesn’t want an ultimatum.”
“I thought they already knew there had to be a strictly timed schedule.”
The remark fitted the arrogance Jacobson had come to expect. Seeing the possibility of a respite, he said: “You’re ready to move, the moment I give the word?”
“You know damn well I’m ready.”
“So we don’t need any more meetings. We can keep in touch by mobile phone, while Paris is set up.”
Radtsic looked anxiously across the car. “You’re not abandoning me, are you? Elana’s documentation is in the system. I can’t retrieve it now.”
“Of course I’m not abandoning you, Maxim Mikhailovich,” insisted Jacobson. “I want everything resolved as quickly as you do.”
“No, you don’t,” contradicted Radtsic. “No one could want it resolved more quickly than I do.”
“I’d hoped for more,” complained Barry Elliott.
I’m certainly hoping for more, thought Jane Ambsersom, already encouraged by the easy familiarity with which the FBI man had kissed her, although only on both cheeks, when he’d picked her up from her London flat that morning. According to his estimate they’d arrive in perfect time for their already booked lunch. She said: “I warned you there hasn’t been time to collate it all. I don’t even know how much there is, in total.”
“There will be more, though?” pressed Elliott.
Jane hoped he did other things as well as he drove the car: the signpost they were passing showed Stratford to be only twenty miles away. “I’ve circulated our archival and records people between whom it’s apparently spread. I haven’t heard back from the Director-General but I can’t see why there should be any difficulty.” She hesitated, her approach prepared. “I’m guessing you’ve approached MI6 for help, as well?”
“For what it was worth.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The message we got back was that Lvov wasn’t their baby: that it was all down to you guys and they didn’t think what little they had would contribute anything. We’re switching the unofficial approach to a formal request through the CIA.”
It was going her way, as she had every hope of this journey going her way, which made it essential that she weigh every word. “There are things we share and some we don’t. What has our Secret Intelligence Service got to hide about a closed case in which, in their own judgment, they were only minimally involved?”
