Man From Barbarossa

near the Grand Hotel. The canal was a black sheet of glass, and what light there was made the buildings across the water look like grey cardboard cutouts. ‘The military are split. After all, the President promised a new country, and it seems to have slipped into chaos. He has promised a way forward through the Communist Party – so much for the Western belief that Communism has failed – but the disorganisation and hardship are worse than before. The army is unhappy. Some returned from Afghanistan to receive nothing, not even homes in which to live. The Americans have collective guilt over their returning troops from Vietnam. There is no collective guilt in Russia.’

‘But Misha will give you authority,’ M spoke soothingly, as though to give the KGB man confidence.

Stepakov flapped his arms. ‘Of course. Yes, the comrade President would give the order through me, but I have no idea whether the military would take any notice. Local commanders seem to be making their own rules.’

‘As I said,’ M put his face close to Stepakov’s ear, ‘I can help you. This would have to be done by Spetsnaz, wouldn’t it?’

‘They’re the only troops who could ensure a containment at the Lost Horizon, yes.’

‘Colonel Berzin,’ M screwed his eyes against the breeze. ‘Gleb Yakovlevich Berzin.’ Even his tone was cryptic. ‘You know him, Bory?’

‘Spetsnaz Training School commandant at Kirovograd? That son-of-a-bitch?’

‘Personally I know nothing of his ancestry.’ For a second M held the Russian with eyes bleak as an ice floe. ‘I do know that Colonel Berzin owes me a favour.’

‘He’s a general now. What the Americans would call hard-nosed. The course at Kirovograd has been made even more difficult since he’s been in charge. It was hell before him, now it is purgatory, hell, and a nightmare all at the same time.’

‘A general, eh? Come up in the world.’

‘Owes you a favour.’ Stepakov sounded as though he found that hard to believe, but he was not questioning.

‘I do assure you, Bory, that whatever his allegiances are now, there’s more than a ninety per cent chance that he’ll obey the President’s orders if you give him a message from me.’

‘You mean it? You’re not just hoping . . . ?’

‘Oh, I mean it. Whoever’s in control, Berzin will want to keep his job.’

‘You’re not telling me he’s an asset of your people?’

‘Hardly. Someone like Berzin would’ve been very difficult to control. No, he’s not an asset. But, as I say, give him a message, together with the President’s orders, and you should have no problem.’

‘And the message?’

‘Just tell him, “All I ask is a tall ship.” He should reply, “And a star to steer her by.”’

‘This is your poet, Masefield. I prefer Wordsworth.’ Stepakov’s mouth was fixed in the permanent clownlike smile that was also a look of despair.

If there had been light enough, the Russian might have detected a flush on M’s face. ‘Don’t know much about poetry,’ he growled. ‘Know what I like. Songs of the sea, that sort of thing. Just give Berzin the orders, then tell him what I said. Don’t even mention I said it.’

‘And he will obey the comrade President’s orders, no matter how he feels? Even if he’s allied to a possible military revolt?’

‘I’ve told you, Bory. The chances are high.’

‘You have a secret with him. Obvious. Tell me.’

‘People who live in secret houses should not throw answers. Now, let’s go.’

They watched Stepakov leave with his two bodyguards in a car he had conjured from a trusted secret source which M said could even be a PLO cell in Stockholm. ‘Bory is accepted by the strangest people,’ M told them as they walked back to the elevators. ‘That’s why he plays it so close to the chest. He’s made counterterrorist work into an art form, and he doesn’t just play both sides of the street, he plays the entire neighbourhood.’

Back in the Bernadotte suite he told Tanner to order dinner from room service. ‘Just a light supper for the three of us. Then I’m going back to London.’ He fixed Meadows with bleak eyes, the colour of the North Sea in winter. ‘Nigsy, you’ll go further north. Join a couple of people up there. Chief of Staff will give you the mumbo-jumbo after he’s telephoned London. We’ll pinpoint this Lost Horizon hotel. You can try to run interference for Bond if he makes a break for it. Intuition tells me this isn’t just an internal power struggle or a genuine attempt to shame the government into putting Vorontsov on trial. There’s something more at stake here. Something which could affect all of us. Global, as the strategists say. I’m very unhappy. It feels as dangerous as trying to ride out a hurricane in a ketch.’

They had Olebrod – that devious beer soup which is a favourite in Stockholm – followed by Janssons frestelse, a wonderfully simple casserole of potato, onion and anchovy, something which suited M’s jaded palate, and while they ate, Nigsy asked about General Berzin. ‘How, sir?’ not expecting an answer.

M filled his mouth with a forkful of the casserole, closing his eyes. It was the nearest Meadows had ever seen him to admitting that the taste of food could be a beautiful experience. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘a literal translation of this dish is Jansson’s temptation. I have a recipe at home, but nobody can make it in London.’

He ate more, washing it down with an aquavit flavoured with rowanberry and a long draught of beer as a chaser.

‘Berzin,’ he said the name and gave a grim smile. ‘You recall Berzin, Chief of Staff?’

‘Like yesterday.’

So, uncharacteristically, M told the story. ‘You remember Savall?’

‘The cipher clerk?’ Meadows knew people who had worked with Stanley Savall at the Moscow Embassy. The rumours were that he was a spy who had committed suicide.

Savall, while in Moscow, had been honey-trapped into a homosexual relationship with one of the KGB’s male prostitutes. The ones they called voron – ravens, the counterpart of their lastochka. In the space of a year they collected massive amounts of audio and photographs. This was in the late sixties. When Savall was posted back to London, the Russian service laid the news on him. They could destroy his life. So Savall agreed to do what was asked of him. Over two years he systematically stole classified information and fed it to his control in London. Then he was caught, in a routine security check. There was no fuss. The Security Service kept it quiet and spirited him off to a safe house where they dried him out. The safe house was a fifteenth-century manor house in Wiltshire, near the ancient city of Bath.

While the British and American Services did not go in for assassination, the Russians had never been shy of it, so the interrogators ringed the old manor house with experienced members of the SAS. They knew that Savall could give them a lot of information regarding KGB operational practices in the UK.

On the third night after they had moved Savall into the house, two members of the SAS stalked and caught a man dug into a skilfully concealed position, giving him a view of the garden area where Savall was allowed to exercise. The man wore a camouflage suit and carried a Dragunov SVD sniper rifle. He would answer no questions, so they passed him on to M who carried out the interrogation himself in the secure rooms underground, below the headquarters overlooking Regent’s Park.

Before he began the inquisition, M had the prisoner’s photograph run through their vast filing system which they called ‘the magic machines’. The machines put a name to the face, so, when he began the first session, M seated himself opposite this hardened, tough young soldier, offered him a cigarette and began to talk. ‘Colonel Berzin,’ he began. ‘I wonder how your wife, Natalie, and your two children, Anatol and Sophie are getting on in your quarters in Kirovograd. I would speculate they won’t be allowed to stay there for long.’ He then gave the colonel a rundown of his entire life history, his training and the present mission. He even guessed, correctly, at how Berzin had come into England, via France and Guernsey. There was no doubt what his mission had been. Then M threw a packet of cigarettes on the table and left Berzin alone for two days.

When he returned, M told the soldier what they intended to do. ‘We’re simply going to send you home. When you arrive back, you can carry on your normal life. But I have to tell you that a full report of your capture, together with a copy of the secret information you have given us in this interrogation, and a tape, will be sent to the GRU.’

‘I have told you nothing,’ Berzin laughed.

‘They’ll only have your word for that.’ M gave him a warm smile which said he loved all mankind. ‘You won’t