were assigned and ready, and that, apart from scanning the personal files again, was about all that could be done.
The door opened and Sokolov’s aide entered, carrying a tray of tea and sweet biscuits, which he placed in front of the general. Sokolov nodded his thanks and picked up the next file. He glanced at the name on the cover – ‘Bykov’ – then opened it and looked down at the full-face photograph of a sharp-featured man wearing an artillery officer’s uniform.
Simpson stood up and walked to the window overlooking the Hammersmith flyover. His small pink hands fussed among the cacti for a minute or so, a sure sign that his mind was on other things, and then he walked back to his desk and sat down. ‘Explain,’ he snapped.
‘First, the body,’ Richter replied. ‘The head injuries were extremely severe, even for a high-speed, head-on collision. According to the Russian authorities, the car ran into the back of a parked truck at about fifty miles an hour, but the other injuries to the body don’t gel. From the condition of the car, the driver must have sustained lower-limb damage if his right foot was on the brake pedal at the moment of impact. I can conceive of no circumstance in which a driver, knowing that a collision was imminent, would remove his feet from the pedals. His natural instinct would be to brake, and keep on braking—’
‘Unless he was suicidal,’ Simpson interrupted.
‘Yes, but in that case, his foot would almost certainly be on the accelerator. Same difference. No apparent arm injuries, either. And the fire that followed the crash conveniently burnt the body’s hands and forearms, obliterating the fingerprints. No, the whole thing stinks. The injuries are certainly consistent with the damage caused to the car, but with the proviso that the driver was unconscious at the time of impact.
‘As far as I can see, the only way the body could have received those injuries was by being strapped into the car, feet placed on the floor and hands and arms lying limp or perhaps on the lap. And another thing; when I was examining the corpse, Erroll pointed out a line of light bruising running across the chest, about six inches below the shoulders. At the time, I didn’t know what had caused it, but I worked it out on the flight back.’
‘What was it?’ Simpson asked.
‘When they put the man in the car, he was still alive, but unconscious. The seats on the Lada that Newman owned were very upright, and I think they found that he slumped forward instead of sitting normally in the seat. So they tied a length of string or twine around him to hold him upright.’
‘Why string? Why not rope?’
‘Too strong. What they wanted was a body that looked as if it had died in a road accident. If they’d used rope, that would have left heavy bruising on the body.’
‘OK,’ Simpson said, ‘but you’re telling me this man was alive when he was put in the car, but killed by the impact. Dead bodies don’t bruise.’
‘No, but tissue damage would still occur, and would still be detectable, and might lead to awkward questions being asked, albeit only in private. But they had a better reason for using string. They wanted the victim to die in the crash. If he had been tied upright with rope, he might possibly have survived, and then they’d have had to beat him to death with clubs or whatever to make it look as if he’d been killed in the crash. And it’s very difficult to do that without it being perfectly obvious to any reasonably competent pathologist. They must have assumed that we would give the body a post-mortem, just because of who Newman was. By using string to support him, they made sure that at the moment of impact the string would break, and the body’s head and upper torso would swing forward and downwards, and make hard – and probably fatal – contact with the steering wheel and dashboard. The bruising was caused by them tying the string a little too tightly, or maybe it was a bit too strong, coupled with the pressure the body exerted on it at the moment of impact, just before it broke.’
Simpson considered this for a minute or so, then nodded. ‘OK. Go on.’
‘It was a set-up. Having snatched Newman, they looked around and found some middle-aged Russian with a similar build and colouring. They knocked him out, dressed him in Newman’s clothing, put him in the car and then drove it, maybe by some sort of radio control, into a barrier.
‘Then they made sure the face was unrecognizable – part of the lower jaw was missing, and most of the teeth, so even dental records wouldn’t have been much help in confirming the identity – and that the body was dead, and burnt the hands and the car. And finally they called the British Embassy to impart the sad news that Graham Newman, Third Secretary and only incidentally Moscow SIS Head of Station, was dead.’
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi
Lieutenant Nilov gave a respectful double knock on General Modin’s inner office door, waited until he heard the muffled command to enter, then opened it.
‘Yes, Vadim? What is it?’ General Modin asked, looking up from his desk.
Nilov walked briskly across the office and stopped in front of the general. ‘I have just been informed by the foyer guards that Minister Trushenko has arrived, General.’
Modin leaned back in his chair, an expression of faint surprise on his face. ‘The Minister? He’s come here?’ he said. ‘I wonder…’ His voice trailed away, and he looked up at his subordinate. ‘He has, I suppose, come to see me?’
‘Yes, General. He’s on his way up now,’ Nilov replied.
Modin stood up, pulled his uniform jacket straight and began fastening the buttons. ‘Well, we must make the Minister welcome, Vadim,’ Modin said. ‘Coffee and biscuits, please, and show him straight in.’
Six minutes later Nilov knocked again on Modin’s door and swept it open without waiting for a response. ‘Minister Trushenko, General,’ he intoned, and bowed slightly as the politician walked past him and into the office. General Modin stood up respectfully as Trushenko entered. He strode forward and shook the Minister’s hand, then gestured to the easy chairs either side of the low table upon which Nilov had already placed refreshments.
‘Welcome, Minister,’ Modin said, as Trushenko sat down and placed his briefcase on the floor beside him. ‘You have not, I think, been to Yazenevo before?’
Trushenko stretched out his long legs before replying. ‘No, General, I have not. In truth, I always preferred Dzerzhinsky Square. It was much more convenient there than being out here in the wilds.’
‘Yazenevo is hardly Siberia, Minister,’ Modin said, smiling. ‘We are only a few minutes’ drive from the Kremlin.’
‘I know, but to me Yazenevo just feels remote.’ He nodded as Modin gestured to the coffee pot, and leaned back in the chair. Modin passed the coffee cup over, pushed the plate of biscuits across the table, and waited. He knew Trushenko well, and knew that the Minister would not have arrived – still less arrived unannounced – unless he had a pressing reason for doing so. In all his previous dealings with him, Modin had always been summoned by Trushenko, and they had always met in Moscow, either at the Kremlin or in Trushenko’s own spacious office suite in the Ministry.
Trushenko took a sip of coffee, then replaced the cup and saucer on the table and looked across at the SVR officer. ‘We have a problem, General,’ Trushenko began. ‘There has been, I am now quite certain, some kind of a leak. You will recall that we discussed this possibility at our previous meeting, before the Englishman was questioned.’ Modin made a gesture of distaste, which Trushenko noticed. ‘The English,’ Trushenko said, ‘have an expression –“you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.” We are not making an omelette, but the same principle applies. The death of the Englishman was inevitable, once he had been taken for questioning. We could hardly send him back to his masters at SIS with knowledge of the questions we had asked.’
Modin put down his coffee cup. ‘I do not dispute that, Minister,’ he said. ‘What I do dispute is the method that was employed to question him. Surely the interrogator could have been instructed to use drugs, rather than the medieval methods that he so obviously enjoyed?’
‘No,’ Trushenko replied. ‘The interrogator was acting under my direct orders, and I allowed him to use whatever methods he felt were the most suitable. He felt that, because time was critical, torture was likely to be the fastest and most efficient technique.’
Modin shook his head. ‘I cannot agree, Minister. I don’t know what went on in—’
‘I do know,’ Trushenko interrupted. ‘I had the interrogation video-taped.’
‘You taped the interrogation?’ Modin demanded, staring in disbelief.
