“So what do you want me to do?”
“Go through the entire story from the beginning, access all Russian sources, check out who’s going to be at the Dorchester function, what kind of security the Putin delegation will have. Something might be there, lurking in the woodwork. Everything in life has a flaw.”
“Well, if there’s one to this whole affair, I’ll find it.”
12
And work at it Roper did. There wasn’t an aspect of the entire affair that wasn’t covered. All relevant traffic out and in at the Russian Embassy in London, traffic from the Kremlin, dealings with the IRA. It was never-ending.
Another interminable night, then, of sandwiches and whiskey and constant smoking, and Doyle, on the duty shift, bringing innumerable cups of tea.
At five o’clock, Doyle pulled up the blinds. “Dirty morning, raining away.” He turned. “Look, sir, don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit?”
“You always are when you’re looking for the little things, Sergeant, so it pays to take care. I learned that lesson with my last bomb in Londonderry. It was just a Mini car with a shopping bag on the rear seat, so I didn’t treat it seriously.”
“Bad luck, sir.”
“Sheer carelessness, so it pays to take care. Check everything.” At that precise moment, he was proved right.
The intercept was one of many relevant to Station Gorky, mainly messages to do with administration, work structure, now and then commands from Volkov himself. Roper was reviewing them, when he stopped, then frowned and reversed the screen listings. The message that had caught his eye referred to transportation for Belov’s flight from Station Gorky, but not to Moscow Airport. Some little distance from it was the Belov Complex, which specialized in private planes, executive jets and the like, even courier aircraft from foreign countries, making their regular pilgrimages in and out with Embassy material.
The particular message made the point that Colonel Josef Belov’s chauffeur, one Ivan Kurbsky, would meet the plane and transfer the Colonel straight to the Kremlin before Belov moved on to the Excelsior Hotel to his usual suite.
It hadn’t struck Roper before, the reference to Belov’s old KGB rank, and he went back to the beginning of the traffic from Moscow to Station Gorky. No reference to Max Zubin. Well, of course there wouldn’t be. The whole emphasis was on Belov, even in the most trivial matters.
Perhaps he was tired, or slightly out of his mind by that stage, but a wild idea had formed in his head. Crazy, obvious and simple. What if
He turned to Doyle. “See if the Major’s stirring, Sergeant, and ask her if she’d fancy some early breakfast with me, and I’d like you to help me out with her,” and he explained.
“Certainly, sir.”
Roper poured a whiskey to pull himself together. The implications were obvious. “Right, old son, don’t mess up,” he murmured.
“You look terrible,” Greta told him.
“I’ve looked terrible for some years now.”
She was genuinely sorry and shook her head. “But your diet seems to consist solely of Irish whiskey.”
“That’s Dillon for you.”
“I expect so.”
“And too many cigarettes.”
“They help calm me down. I get neurological symptoms. Can’t sleep.”
“And you only eat sandwiches. I haven’t seen you tackle a decent meal.”
“Well, you will now. I’ve ordered a full English breakfast. I thought you’d like to join me. Start with the tea, Sergeant,” he said to Doyle. “Oh, and pass the morning papers.”
“Coming up, sir.”
Doyle picked up the
“My God,” she said, as she looked at the
“My God, indeed.” Roper poured another whiskey. “This is purely medicinal, I assure you, but a toast to Russian barefaced cheek.”
She read the piece quickly and looked up. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, come on, you’ll never get away with it.”
“That’s what you think. Ashimov passed Max Zubin off in Paris the other year with no trouble. Not only does Zubin really look like Belov, he’s a damn good actor. Ashimov told me he handled it really well. It fooled everybody. French intelligence, the CIA, the Brits.”
Doyle had come in with a trolley and laid a table by the fire. She carried on talking.
“If it worked then, it will work now.”
He wheeled his chair to the table and started on the bacon and eggs. “Come on, eat up, it’ll get cold.”
She took his advice. “Say, this is good. But you must understand, Roper, we Russians are used to the cold.”
“Well, you didn’t do too well in the Cold War.”
He was pushing her now, and she flared. “We did all right. Gave you your share of bloody noses, you and the Americans both. And some you don’t even know about.”
Doyle brought a bottle across and two glasses. “I’m sorry, Major Novikova. Major Roper told me a vodka usually starts a Russian breakfast. I forgot.”
“It certainly does, he’s right there.” He poured, she took it down in one go. “Another, Sergeant.” She was on her mettle. “I’ve invented a new breakfast for you English. Vodka and bacon and eggs.”
“Actually, I’m Irish, Major.” Doyle smiled. “What they call Black Irish.”
“God, I can never understand this. Why do you Irish always fight for the English? You should hate them.”
“Not really, Major.” He slipped another vodka in her empty glass. “I mean, they’re a bit like your mother-in-law. An inconvenience when she calls.”
She fell about laughing and finished the third vodka. “Your mother-in-law? I like that. Do you like it?” she asked Roper.
He pushed his plate away. “If you do, but enough of this chat. I’m telling you, this Belov Protocol will never work.”
“Why not?”
“Too many people know what happened to the real Belov, know about Zubin, I mean, everybody who worked with him at Station Gorky.”
She exploded, almost in fury. “Are you stupid or something? Don’t you understand? To everyone at Station Gorky, Max Zubin
There was a moment’s stillness, and Roper said, “Is that really true?”
“But of course. Only a handful of us know the truth – Ashimov, me, General Volkov, and through him, the President.”
“And we do.”
“Because Dillon pressed a button and killed Belov.”
“So when you present Zubin at Station Gorky…”
“He’s got to be Belov.” She shook her head. “Surely you can see that? Even his chauffeur in Moscow thinks he’s Belov. People accept. And what can you do?” She held her glass up to Doyle. He refilled it obediently.
