German. Either he’s from both France and Germany or he’s good with languages and could be from anywhere. He has used two British passports so far, so that might suggest he’s from the UK.’ Procter sat straighter. ‘We can speculate until we’re blue in the face, but I think the fact we’re dealing with a dead former Russian and Soviet naval officer who was trying to sell Russian missiles tells me the killer is probably SVR.’
‘If that’s the case we’ll never get that technology for ourselves,’ Chambers said. ‘Moscow would just love that.’
He nodded. ‘It would, but it doesn’t really feel like the Russians, does it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If this guy’s SVR, then that explains a lot, but who then hired seven guys to kill him after completing the job? Who would know the SVR was sending him there? And gunning Ozols down in an alleyway is pretty basic. No polonium in his tea. Not even a suicide. Just painlessly executing a traitor isn’t really their style.’
Chambers pushed her hair back behind her ears. ‘I didn’t realize they had any style.’
Procter noted Sykes’s subservient smile. He looked at Ferguson. So far the old man had barely said a word. ‘What do you think?’
From behind his glasses Ferguson’s dark eyes met Procter’s. ‘I’m not sure, buddy.’
The old guy never used Procter’s actual name. It was always buddy, pal, or friend. Procter found it annoying, bordering on insulting, as though Ferguson did so as a sign of disrespect, but Procter told himself he was reading too much into it. And even if he wasn’t, he sure as damnit wasn’t going to get a rep as a precious a-hole by bringing it up or insisting Ferguson call him Mr Roland Procter.
‘Russia is your territory, Will,’ Procter said, happy to have returned the overfamiliarity favour. Procter was quite aware Ferguson disliked his first name being shortened. ‘Are the SVR a likely suspect?’
Ferguson looked at him and considered for a moment. ‘It’s more than a possibility for sure. This is Russian weapons technology we’re talking about, after all. Moscow will do anything it needs to do to protect its secrets.’
‘You think it’s their style?’ Chambers asked.
‘You think it isn’t?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Don’t think the KGB aren’t more than capable or willing to execute Ozols. If they’d found out what he was up to, then do you honestly think they wouldn’t try to get the information back and silence the leak? And traitors are always punished, no matter where in the world they are.’
Procter knew Ferguson’s referral to the SVR as the KGB was heritage from his Cold War days. To him they were one and the same. Ferguson may have been something of a hero during those dark days of the twentieth century, but he had failed to upgrade and modernize his thinking. The world had moved on. East and West were no longer ideals, merely compass points.
Procter continued, ‘But to risk the fallout-’
‘What fallout?’ Ferguson actually looked angry. ‘Unless we had irrefutable proof they were behind it, which of course is impossible, the most we would do these days is tell them off. What could we realistically do? And let’s face it, we would have a hard time doing that with a straight face. Remember, we were trying to steal their technology, hardly a sound moral basis for us to criticize their methods. Ozols was a traitor, don’t forget. We would have no right to rattle our sabre, and they wouldn’t care if we did.
‘And, may I remind you, this is technology that Moscow refused to sell to us on more than one occasion. Everyone seems to think that because of glasnost the bear has lost its claws, that fifty years of rivalry has been replaced by friendship. It’s a ridiculous notion, and one I can’t believe that America has lapped up so easily. A bear is still a fucking bear. He may be weaker now, but that only means he has to be more cunning.’
An uneasy silence hung in the air for a moment. Ferguson’s face was flushed. Procter was momentarily lost for words. So the old bastard did carry some resentment about the changing world order and his relegated place within it. Ferguson had obviously spent far too long fighting the communists to let it all go. It was quite pathetic, a shame really, but the sooner Ferguson retired the better.
‘So,’ Procter said eventually, ‘what do you think we should do?’
Ferguson took a calming breath. ‘Finding out what the hell the Russians are really up to would be a good place to start.’
CHAPTER 40
Zhukovka, Russia
Saturday
21:04 MSK
Colonel Aniskovach climbed out of the SVR limousine and nodded to the driver, who closed the door behind him. Gravel crunched beneath Aniskovach’s feet as he approached the front of the three-storey dacha. It was built before the revolution and was a huge, resplendent building protected from prying eyes by tall pine trees flecked with snow. For a building with twelve bedrooms, to Aniskovach dacha, which meant ‘cottage,’ seemed a laughably inept description.
The town of Zhukovka was home to many such houses, owned by Russia’s powerful and wealthy figures. Some people called it the Beverly Hills of Moscow. Aniskovach had never been to Beverly Hills, but he knew enough about it to know that Zhukovka was the more tasteful of the two. A manservant had the front door open for him, and Aniskovach stepped inside from the cold and into the warmth. He unbuttoned his long coat and handed it to the servant.
Inside, the dacha was even more impressive than outside, and Aniskovach took a moment to take in the marbled floor, panelled walls, and original oil paintings that hung from picture rails. He could hear faint voices, laughter, and soft music drifting into the room from somewhere else in the residence. It sounded like a cocktail or dinner party where the usually very boring guests had been softened up by alcohol enough to finally start having a good time. He was motioned towards a doorway and stepped into a study. The room was empty of people, and he stood in the centre, hands held behind his back, waiting. He tried to look unruffled by the setting and occasion, but he knew that he had been brought here to make an impression, and he would do well to act, at least in some way, as expected.
A decanter of brandy was visible on a sideboard, two glasses next to it, all on a silver tray, placed for his host and him to drink while they talked. On a whim he poured himself a glass while he waited. To pour oneself a drink without invitation could be considered particularly rude, but Aniskovach believed his host would see it as a sign of strength and be impressed with his confidence.
Most people would have been nervous if they were put in a similar position, but Aniskovach was as calm as he had ever been in his life. He checked his reflection in an oval mirror hanging above the room’s fireplace. He’d nicked himself shaving, just a tiny cut on his chin that regrettably marked his looks but, he noted, gave a certain rugged manliness to his striking features. He had a jaw set like an anvil, and with his dark, absorbing eyes he knew he was easily the best-looking man in his department — and, if he wasn’t being modest, the whole organization. He liked to imagine that most of the female employees at headquarters lusted after him.
Aniskovach heard the footsteps in the hallway outside, but he pretended to be taken by surprise when a voice behind him said, ‘Forgive my tardiness, Gennady.’
Aniskovach turned around and bowed his head briefly. ‘It is an honour to meet you, comrade Prudnikov.’
The man in the doorway was tall and heavy-set and wore a well-fitting dinner jacket that shaved off at least ten pounds. He was in his late fifties but looked younger by some years. He wore a friendly smile and was by all reports very personable, but Aniskovach knew him to be quite ruthless. This was the first time he had met the head of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razyedki.
Aniskovach placed his brandy down and approached his superior. They shook hands, Aniskovach letting Prudnikov be the one to grip harder, though only marginally.
‘It is to my regret that we have not had a chance to meet before, Colonel Aniskovach.’ Prudnikov’s eyes glanced at the glass of brandy and then to the decanter, and for a second Aniskovach feared he had offended him, but Prudnikov smiled. ‘You’re a drinker, then, I see — good.’ He released Aniskovach’s hand and moved to pour
