Tell them he loved them.
Stay with them forever.
Don’t die.
The blow to his back sent him flying forward. Lying on the ground, he tried to crawl forward, his fingers digging through the snow.
Something hard smacked onto the nape of his neck and held him still.
A boot.
No adrenaline now.
Only absolute terror.
The boot lifted. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him onto his back. Then two hands grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet. The man’s face was inches from his. There was just enough light to see that he looked calm.
That he was Taras Khmelnytsky.
The officer’s legs kicked out, but it made no difference. Khmelnytsky held him firm, a smile now on his face.
Rapid movement.
Immense pain in his gut.
Of course.
The knife.
No chance now of cuddles with excited children, of consuming kholodets and Pinot Noir, of making love to his wife.
Khmelnytsky wrenched the knife up and dropped the officer.
He lay on the road, his whole body violently shaking. But his mind was still alive.
Khmelnytsky towered over him for a moment.
The officer thought about the secret that had made his week risky and tense. He wondered how his wife would’ve reacted if he’d told her about his work as an MI6 double agent.
He’d never know.
Khmelnytsky knelt down and thrust the knife into Borzaya’s face.
Chapter Fifteen
W ill was back in Ukraine, striding through the lobby of Kiev’s Hyatt Regency, his cell phone against his ear. “I’m dining with him at seven tonight at the restaurant here. Will that give them enough time to assemble a team?”
Patrick’s voice sounded hesitant. “It’s going to be tight, but we’ll mark the telegram as urgent. ”
Will sat on a corner sofa, away from other guests. “Tell them it’s imperative that they get every word.”
“Still can’t guarantee you won’t be lifted.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Will looked around the lobby. “When you get the transcript back, all I need to know is whether they’ve kept in the reference to the colonel.”
“Understood. I’ll send you an SMS.”
“Not to my Eden phone.”
“No shit.”
The lobby was starting to fill up. Will decided he needed to move.
“If they do lift you, you’re deniable-even if they throw you in prison for a few years.”
Will smiled. “No shit.”
I t was early evening. Will was in his hotel room, finishing putting on his suit. Examining himself in a mirror, he was satisfied that he looked the part.
Thomas Eden. British national. Director of the London-based Thomas Eden Limited-a legitimate company but a suspected front for illegal arms procurement and one that had been under
scrutiny by MI6 and the CIA.
This morning, the CIA had sent an urgent telegram to Ukraine’s security service, the Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny, stating that Thomas Eden was meeting the defense attache of the Iranian Embassy in Kiev at seven P.M. in the Hyatt Regency’s restaurant. It requested that the SBU covertly record the conversation between the two men and send the transcript back to Langley; that Eden should not be touched, as to do so would compromise a bigger investigation into his arms deals; and that if the SBU did this the CIA would be very grateful and would supply some new intelligence on U.S.-Russian relations and the likely effect on Europe.
It was a straightforward request and the type that intelligence services often made of each other. It also suggested that the CIA was behaving itself in Ukraine by not trying to do things in the country without the SBU knowing.
But the truth was not straightforward. The telegram was transmitted with the hope that the SBU would send the transcript not only to the CIA but also to the SBU’s closest ally: the SVR.
Will gathered up his new business cards, which he’d collected from the Hotel Otrada the day before, after completing and couriering all Thomas Eden Limited documentation to his London accountant. It was time to go. He left his hotel room and took an elevator to the restaurant. As he descended, he began to get his mind into character.
Be gregarious, affable, money-driven, and occasionally crude, have an eye for anything in a skirt and no allegiances, and hate lawmakers. Be nothing like Will Cochrane.
The elevator doors opened; he walked into the restaurant. The 155-seat venue was three-quarters full. After giving his name to a waiter, he was shown to his table. The stocky, middle-aged Iranian DA was already there, dressed in a suit and sporting a mustache and lacquered black hair. He rose to shake Thomas Eden’s hand.
Will grinned and said in a loud voice, “Mr. Mousavi, good to meet you.”
The DA did not smile; instead, he looked cautious. “We could have met at the embassy.”
Will smiled wider as he sat down at the table. “Embassies are terribly dull places”-he grabbed a wine menu-“and they don’t normally have a good wine cellar.”
“Maybe I don’t drink.”
“If that’s the case, maybe you’re in the wrong job.”
Mousavi’s expression softened, though he still did not smile. Sitting down, he opened his white cloth napkin and placed it carefully over his lap. “Officially, I’m not supposed to meet strangers outside of the embassy.”
Will leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye. “But unofficially”-he glanced around before looking back at the DA-“these types of places are where the real work is done.” He whipped open his napkin and positioned it. “I’m so sorry, you need a business card.”
He gave him one, certain that the two couples at the table next to him were the SBU surveillance team and could easily overhear his conversation.
Mousavi looked at the card for a while before stating, “Canary Wharf is a prestigious address.”
Will shrugged. “I chose it because it gives me a good view of female bankers strutting to work in their tight office skirts.”
Mousavi smiled. “Business must be good.”
“Damn good.” Will beckoned a waitress. “So good that demand is outweighing supply.”
The waitress came over.
Will beamed at her. She was in her midtwenties and had short blond hair and no rings on her fingers.
In Russian, he asked, “What do you recommend to eat?”
She smiled, looked a little coy. “I’ve only just started working here and don’t really know the menu. Let me get someone else to serve you.”
Will wagged a finger. “That would ruin our evening. You’re the prettiest woman in here.”
She giggled. “Well, I’ve heard the steaks are good.”
