where Prentice was. He had points to prove, and he wished he was operating on his own. Besides, Prentice had not been given the full picture about Primakov. According to Fielding, all he had been told was that the Russian had expressed an interest in making contact with Marchant. Primakov had known his father, and Marchant would use the meeting to sound him out for possible recruitment. Prentice knew nothing about Primakov’s past role as a British asset.
Marchant looked across at the picture again, and was about to walk over and stand in front of it when he heard a commotion at the entrance. A loud group of Russians strode in: dyed-blonde women weighed down with make-up and designer labels, middle-aged businessmen in blue jeans and chalk-striped jackets. A few steps behind them was a short, overweight man in his late fifties whose gnomic smile and wine-flushed cheeks exuded bonhomie. He was dressed differently from the others. The cord jacket, open shirt and silk scarf suggested a man of culture rather than commerce. Primakov, no question.
Hugo Prentice slipped into the gallery a few moments after Primakov. A Russian waitress greeted him with an offer of wine. Instinctively, Prentice checked himself. He didn’t drink on duty, but he needed to blend in, and there was only one glass of orange juice on offer. He took a red wine from the middle of the tray and smiled at the waitress.
‘
He recognised a couple of Primakov’s babysitters, but the sight of Primakov in the flesh caught him off guard. Despite his experience, he struggled not to look at him twice. It was like seeing a reclusive celebrity come out of hiding for the first time in years. Prentice had read the files, watched film footage of him and studied various photos, but for some reason their paths had never crossed, which was unusual, given their respective Cold War careers.
He knew all about him, of course. Stephen Marchant used to talk to him of their public sparring, how he had tried in vain for many years to recruit the Russian. Everyone in Legoland had heard about his spats with Britain and America in the 1980s. Primakov seemed to love and despise the West in equal measure, teasing with his friendships, annoying his own superiors. And now he wanted to meet Daniel Marchant, the son of his oldest adversary, who was going to try where his father had failed.
‘Bacchus has arrived,’ Prentice said into his concealed lapel wire, moving towards the bar at the back of the gallery, where the crowds offered more cover.
Before Marchant could do anything, Primakov had placed both hands on his shoulders and was admiring him as if he was one of the canvases on the walls.
‘It’s so true, you look just like your father,’ he beamed, standing in the middle of the gallery and making no effort at discretion. His accent was almost completely Westernised, more American than English, with only a hint of Russian. ‘I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?’ He turned towards one of his babysitters, who shuffled awkwardly. ‘This boy’s father was my very dear friend,’ Primakov said, ‘and a lifelong enemy.’
The group’s entrance had silenced the gallery. Still smiling, Primakov leaned in towards Marchant and kissed him on both cheeks before hugging him. Marchant caught the strong smell of garlic, and for a moment he was back in Delhi. Just before Primakov pulled back, he whispered into Marchant’s ear. ‘Goodman’s, Maddox Street, ten minutes. I’ve a letter from your father. We’ll take care of the Graham Greene joker.’
Marchant glanced across at Prentice standing by the bar, chatting up one of the waitresses, who topped up his glass as they flirted. He then turned to the group of Russians, who were now being introduced to the artist.
Outside in the street, he hailed the parked taxi he had seen earlier. Its light came on as it drove towards him. Marchant met it halfway and climbed in.
‘A friend of mine in there needs a cab, too,’ he said, nodding at the gallery window. ‘Now.’
‘He’s left the gallery,’ Prentice said, walking down a side corridor and back into the main gallery.
‘Get yourself out of there,’ Fielding ordered, glancing at Armstrong. They were in his fourth-floor office in Legoland, watching a bank of CCTV screens relaying images from the West End. In one of them, a black taxi was making its way down Conduit Street.
‘Repeat please,’ Prentice said. His voice was being broadcast in the office, but it was barely audible, breaking up.
‘Marchant’s flagged a code red alert,’ Armstrong said. She had never liked Prentice, but the message had been given to one of her officers, so she felt obliged to pass it on. ‘You need to move now.’
Prentice hadn’t heard Armstrong’s words, but he caught her tone of anxiety just before his comms dropped. He had also noticed Valentin, the tall Russian from Sardinia, who had peeled away from the group around Primakov and was coming towards him, blocking his exit from the gallery.
‘You caused me a lot of embarrassment with your little home movie,’ Valentin said, his body language at odds with his thin smile. ‘It was a fake, of course.’
‘Of course. But a good one, no? An Oscar, surely, for best foreign film.’
‘Our politicians don’t like to be ridiculed.’
‘And Her Majesty’s agents don’t like to be compromised.’
‘The boy seemed to be enjoying himself. At least, that’s what Nadia said. Where is he now? I thought I saw him earlier.’
‘No idea. I must go, though. It’s been a pleasure.’
But Prentice knew already that he was going nowhere. With a taut smile, Valentin took the glass of wine from him and handed it back to the waitress, just as the gallery began to spin and blur.
45
Marchant was shown by the female
‘A drink while you’re waiting?’ the woman asked, ushering him to a table that had been made up for two. She let her hand linger on his shoulder a moment longer than was appropriate. There were four other tables in the room, but they were empty. ‘Nikolai will be here in a few minutes.’
‘A whisky, thanks,’ Marchant said. ‘Malt.’ He had drunk a glass of wine at the gallery once he had seen others being served from the same tray, but he had declined a top-up, despite the persuasive charms of the waitresses. He wouldn’t drink his malt until he had heard what Primakov had to say.
The taxi from MI5 had dropped him off in Maddox Street, outside the restaurant, where the parked cars were a wealthy mix of Porsches and Bentleys. He needed to talk to Primakov on his own, but it was no bad thing if Armstrong’s people knew where he was. He thought for a moment about Prentice. He had looked tired tonight, too old for street work.
Goodman’s served American steaks, but it was owned by a Russian who ran a chain of similar restaurants in Moscow. To judge from the main room, at least half the clientèle was Russian too. Marchant had seen few female diners when he was shown through to the back room.
He glanced at the starters on the menu — sweet herring with hot mustard — and listened to the subdued hubbub of conversation on the other side of the panel, which must have been more solid than it appeared.
Then suddenly Primakov was in the room, quieter now, taking a seat opposite him, leaning back to whisper something to the
‘I presume you’ve had the “big talk” with the Vicar,’ Primakov began, burying the corner of a linen napkin under his chins and spreading the rest out across his chest as if he was hanging out the washing. His breathing was thickened by a slight wheeze. ‘Let MI6 believe what they want. Your father and I were very close, it is true — unnaturally so, I suppose. But I never once considered working for him. Please remember that.’
Marchant tried not to blink at the Russian’s bold opening gambit. If Primakov was lying for the sake of Moscow Centre’s ears, he was making a good job of it. For a split second, Marchant doubted everything — his
