Cambridge would lay out the red carpet for you.”
“An enticing prospect.”
He sat there, frowning slightly, as if considering it. She said, “Is there anything particular to hold you in Moscow?”
“Not a thing. Cancer took my father some years ago, there are cousins here and there. Svetlana is my closest relative. No woman in my life.” He smiled and shrugged. “Not at the moment, anyway.”
“So?” she said.
“They watch me closely. If they knew I was even talking this way to you, they’d lock me up.” He nodded. “Anyway, we’ll see. Paris in a fortnight.”
“Something to look forward to. You should be proud.”
She opened her purse and produced a card. “Take this. My mobile phone number is on it. It’s a Codex, encrypted and classified. You can call me on it whenever you like.”
“Encrypted! I’m impressed. You must be well connected.”
“You could say that.” She stood up and said, “I mean it. Call me. Paris isn’t too far from Cambridge, when you think of it.”
He smiled. “If it ever happened… I wouldn’t want an academic career. I’d prefer to leave the stage for a while, escape my present masters perhaps, but vanish. I’d like to think that my escape would be total, so Moscow had no clue as to where I had gone. I wouldn’t appreciate the British press knocking on my door, wherever I was.”
“I see what you mean, but that could be difficult.”
“Not if I were able to leave quietly, no fuss at all. Moscow would know I’d gone, but the last thing they’d want would be for it to be public knowledge, create a scandal. They’d keep quiet, say I was working in the country or something on a new book, and try to hunt me down.”
“I take the point and will pass it on to my friends. Take care.”
He caught her arm. “These friends of yours. They would have to be very special people who knew how to handle this kind of thing.”
She smiled. “Oh, they are. Call me, Alex, when you’ve had time to think.”
She went to the elevators, a door opened at once, she stepped in, and it closed.
FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning in London, but in the Holland Park safe house, Giles Roper sat as usual in his wheelchair, his screens active as he probed cyberspace, his bomb-scarred face restless. He’d slept in the chair for a couple of hours; now Doyle, the night sergeant, had provided him with a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. He ate the sandwich and was pouring a shot of scotch when Monica’s voice came over the speaker.
“Are you there, Roper?”
“Where else would I be?”
“You’re the only fixed point in a troubled universe. That’s one thing I’ve learned since getting involved with you people. Is Sean spending the night?”
“Returned to a bed in staff quarters ages ago. How was your evening? Did Kurbsky impress?”
“Just listen and see what you think.”
It didn’t take long in the telling, and when she was finished, Roper said, “If he’s serious, I can’t see why we couldn’t arrange something. I’ll speak to Sean and General Ferguson first thing in the morning. You, we should be seeing sometime in the early evening.”
“Exactly.”
She switched off. He sat there thinking about it for a while. Alexander Kurbsky doing a runner to England. My God, Vladimir Putin will be furious. He put Kurbsky up on the screen. Too good-looking for his own good, he decided morosely, then brought up his record and started going through it carefully.
KURBSKY HAD FOUND Bounine in the Volvo outside the Pierre to bring him up to speed. He smoked a cigarette. Bounine said, “So far, so good. It’s worked. She must be quite a lady.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“So, if they take the bait, we have Paris to look forward to. Colonel Luzhkov will be pleased.”
“Only because he wants to please Putin, and if Paris works, you mustn’t be a part of it, Yuri. No one should know who you are. Luzhkov will work out something for you. Cultural attache, for instance, would do you very well. Someone I can trust personally when I’m in London.”
“I’m glad you still do,” Bounine said.
“It’s been a long time, Yuri. You’re the only GRU man I know who looks like an accountant. No one would ever dream you were in Afghanistan and Chechnya in the paratroopers.”
“Whereas you, old friend, look like they found you in central casting. The smiler with the knife, they used to call you from that first year, remember?”
“Quite right.” Kurbsky got out and turned, holding the door. “I also write good books.”
“Great books.” Bounine smiled. “One thing is certain: Putin will be happy the way things have gone.”
“Putin has many reasons to be happy with the way things are going these days,” Kurbsky said. “Night, Yuri.” He closed the door and went back into the hotel.
MOSCOW / LONDON
2
It had all started three weeks before, with Colonel Boris Luzhkov, Head of Station for the GRU at the Embassy of the Russian Federation in London. The summons to Moscow had come from Putin himself and could not be denied, although it had surprised Luzhkov that it had come from him and not from General Ivan Volkov of the GRU, Putin’s security adviser.
The reason became clear when he was driven to Berkley Down outside London and found a Falcon jet waiting to fly him to Moscow, a luxury that should have warned him to expect the worst.
Two pilots were on board, the aircraft ready to go, and a steward, who introduced himself as Sikov, was waiting as he boarded. Luzhkov seated himself and belted in.
Sikov said, “A great pleasure, Colonel. The flight time is approximately seven hours. I was instructed to give you this from Prime Minister Putin’s office as soon as you arrived. May I offer you a drink?”
“A large vodka. I hate takeoffs. I once crashed in Chechnya.” Sikov had given him what looked like a legal file.
Sikov did it old style, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Luzhkov tossed it back and coughed, holding out his glass. Sikov poured another, then moved up to the small galley. Luzhkov swallowed the vodka and, as the plane started to roll, examined the file: several typed sheets stapled together, and an envelope addressed to him, which he opened.
The letter was headed “From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation.” It went on: “Attention of Colonel Boris Luzhkov. You will familiarize yourself with the material contained in the enclosed report and be prepared to discuss it with the Prime Minister on your arrival.”
Luzhkov sat there, staring down at the report, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Falcon had risen fast to thirty thousand and the flight so far was very smooth. Sikov returned.
“Would you like to order, Colonel?”
Business first. Better get it over with. More vodka was indicated. He suspected he was going to need it. In fact, it was worse than he could have imagined, although some of it was already familiar to him.
TH E REPORT DETAILED an operation gone bad. General Volkov had hired a group of IRA heavies to strike at Ferguson and his associates, but instead it was Ferguson who had struck at them, killing them all at their base in Drumore in the Irish Republic. If that wasn’t bad enough, General Volkov himself and two GRU men had disappeared. It could only mean one thing.
On top of that, the attempted assassination of Harry Miller, the individual known as the Prime Minister’s
