Agent of the State (18 page)

Unknown to his passengers, Karl had been brought up in Kazan and was still fluent in Russian. And he knew Boris’s translation was rubbish.

The Russians had insisted on using their armoured Jag, which was so heavy it practically left ruts in the tarmac all the way down the M4. The driver-cum-interpreter-cum-bodyguard shifted lanes, braked and swerved as if there was nothing else on the road.

‘Three out of ten, Boris,’ murmured Karl, as they cut in front of a thirty-two-tonne artic. He couldn’t believe the guy was actually called Boris. It had to be a joke. Christ, he’d stepped straight out of a James Bond movie. ‘Would it be easier if I speak in your language?’ he asked, in perfect Russian, as they drew up outside the Dorchester. Boris swung round to his boss so sharply that the Jag almost wiped out the concierge’s desk. Karl could read expressions, too. Although Rigov managed to maintain his fleshy mask, Karl could hear Boris’s walnut-sized brain whirring as he rewound the journey’s indiscretions.

Rigov recovered first. ‘Of course, my friend, why did you not say? What was your first name again? You are among friends.’

Karl tried to look embarrassed. ‘It’s Karl.’

‘And you are also Russian, I think?’

‘Yes, and I apologise, but we are required to speak English for our initial meeting. It’s protocol at the Yard.’

Karl was lying, and knew that they knew it. He could have kicked off with some banter in their language and covered the usual
émigré
London-life crap the moment they arrived. Instead he had encouraged free speech by busying himself with the radio and ostentatious glancing in the passenger mirror. For Karl it was a routine liaison-protection trick, deceptive and productive: the visitors felt at home, and he got to hear what they were really up to.

Now he spoke Russian directly to the principal. ‘What time would you wish me to return, sir?’

But the reply came from Boris, in English. ‘Tonight the minister will rest here, in the hotel.’

‘But I understand Mr Rigov has an engagement this evening, a cocktail party?’ pressed Karl, discreetly waving away the overdressed hotel flunkey on door-opening duty.

Rigov was smiling at him and his own English put Boris to shame. ‘Thank you, Karl, but that will not be required. Please tell your people at Scotland Yard I am very grateful.’

‘They will wish me to accompany you,’ persisted Karl, sticking with English.

‘It is not necessary. This is an unscheduled addition to the programme, purely social.’ Rigov clapped his driver on the shoulder. ‘Boris here will take good care of me.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Karl, turning in his seat, ‘but with respect, my duty requires it. I understand the event is at ten o’clock in Knightsbridge?’

‘Very well, but I hope you understand this is a private engagement.’

To Boris, the interpreter, Karl spoke the order in Russian. ‘I will meet you here in Reception at twenty-one-thirty precisely.’ Boris looked round to his boss for support, but Karl was already out of the car and opening Rigov’s door. ‘Enjoy your rest, sir.’

‘You have proved surprisingly attentive, Karl,’ said Rigov, as the concierge waved Boris into a parking bay, but the smile had disappeared.

Karl returned to the Yard for his evening meal but was back in the Dorchester’s reception area ten minutes early. He waited until 21.33 and was not surprised they had tried to lose him. At Heathrow, Boris had given Karl the official embassy events schedule. Boris’s copy had rested between them in the Jaguar and, as they had trundled from the airport towards London, Karl had memorised the extra-curricular events scrawled in Russian around the margins. Now he followed their trail around Marble Arch. He found the Jaguar parked round the corner with a few other limousines. Boris was leaning against the bonnet, having a smoke and texting. Karl parked farther down the street so that Boris would not see him, and waited until he was right in his face before surprising him in Russian.

‘Zero out of ten for timekeeping.’

Boris’s oversized head jerked up in astonishment and he almost dropped his mobile. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ When caught off-guard, before diplomacy could kick in, aggression came easily to Boris. ‘Piss off.’

‘Texting me, are you, Boris?’ The bodyguard scrabbled at the phone, attempting to speed-dial, but Karl was already covering his hand. ‘It’s OK, I’ll see myself in.’

Boris shoved Karl’s hand away and seized his arm. ‘We already told you this is a private event,’ he hissed, ‘purely social.’

‘I’ll just go and check he’s OK and be right back,’ said Karl, removing the fat hand from his sleeve. ‘Then we can have a nice chat about life back home.’

As he turned away, Karl sensed Boris make his move. ‘No! I told you!’ Boris’s meaty hands landed heavily on Karl’s shoulders as he tried to turn him. Karl reacted instinctively. Spinning with the momentum, he took Boris with him, shoving him face first against the brick wall in an armlock.

‘If I want you to speak, you pile of shit, I’ll tell you,’ said Karl, into Boris’s cauliflower ear, ‘so stay by the car and enjoy a cigarette. Make a move and I’ll rip your bollocks off and shove them down your throat. Understood?’ He reached into Boris’s pocket. ‘And I’ll take care of this for now,’ he said, removing the mobile. ‘Don’t want a diplomatic incident, do we?’

The venue was a white stucco double-fronted house on three storeys, with broad stone steps leading up to the main entrance. A narrower flight went down to the basement, secured from the street by a black iron fence and gate; a tall wooden fence gave complete privacy from the side-street. Karl walked there first, out of sight from the main road, and checked the phone. He had given Boris no chance to lock it, so scrolled to the call log and rapidly recited the numbers into the recorder on his bodyset.

As he did so a dark red Audi A4 saloon caught his attention, parked a discreet distance from the house. It had the embedded registration-numeral leaf symbol on the upper left windscreen and specially toughened glass that, to the initiated, showed it belonged to a member of the Royal Family.

When he had everything he needed, Karl returned to Rigov’s limousine and handed the phone back to Boris, as if he had changed his mind. ‘Wouldn’t want to get you into trouble, big man.’ He smiled, calculating that Boris would never disclose the security breach to his boss.

The front door was unlocked, with no sign of security until Karl was inside the hallway. No wish to disturb the neighbours, he supposed. The noise hit him like an express train. It was definitely party time, and a heavy, ornate screen meant that he could hear but not see. So, private, too. The laughter and good-time voices screamed excess, while the sickly sweet smell of cannabis took him back to his student days at Kazan State University. Christ, you could get high just from standing in the hallway. No wonder Rigov’s off-duty plans didn’t include him.

There were two security men just inside the second set of doors. On liaison protections Karl generally fell back on the halting English of his early years in London and showed his warrant card only when absolutely necessary. He spoke on the move, giving his imitation of the driver with time on his hands and coffee in his bladder.

‘I am with Mr Rigov,’ he said, heading in the general direction of the rumpus and pointing. ‘Rest room this way? Refreshments?’ Blanking Karl’s smile, the smaller of the two directed him down a spiral staircase to the basement.

He found himself in what was probably the old kitchen. There were already three or four drivers gathered around a flash coffee machine and water cooler, one still with Bluetooth bolted to his ear. Ex-Royal Military Police and Special Forces, he guessed, going to seed while they reminisced about better days. They fell silent for the split second it took them to sense he did not belong, then resumed their talk of good times in Africa and great limousines in London. There was no way in, so Karl settled by the American fridge in the corner of the room to the left of the staircase. As he reached in for a Diet Coke the room went quiet again.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ The request was heavily accented because it came from Russia.

‘Sure.’ Out of good manners, because the voice behind him belonged to a woman, Karl stepped back and held the door open. No, not Russian. The beautiful woman who stood before him was definitely from Romania – he could tell by the high cheekbones. Her skin was pale, with no trace of blusher, in beautiful contrast to the bright red lipstick; in the white light from the fridge it looked almost translucent.

‘I need more champagne.’ Elegant and perfectly cool, she was smiling as she leant past him. Karl caught the scent of flowers, then glimpsed the dark valley between her breasts. Her fine chestnut hair shone with vitality, and he felt a sudden urge to release it from its sparkly clasp. He watched her reach inside for a bottle of Krug, then a Diet Coke. For a split second he imagined her naked, shaking her hair free.

She put the champagne on the counter, expertly popped the can and held it out to him, ignoring the gawpers but letting him know she had caught his eyes all over her body. This time she spoke in Russian. ‘I imagine you’re having to drink this stuff, yes?’

‘Only while on duty,’ murmured Karl.

‘From Kazan, I think? You were born east of the Volga River, yes? Very special, you see, I could tell.’ She had intelligent green eyes, and they were smiling at him, too. ‘Already we know each other, wonderful, and you are come to save me. One moment.’

She turned to the men behind her, their faces still fixed on the vision in basque and stockings. Shrugging, palms outstretched, she signalled the show was over. ‘Come, boys, you will have lots more important things to talk about. What would your wives say?’ When she had finished staring them down she opened Karl’s Coke for him, then leant against the fridge, her legs loosely crossed. ‘I know you are not with these voyeurs,’ she said quietly, her eyes flitting to the pin in Karl’s lapel. ‘I say you are an officer, yes? Protection duty, it is obvious.’

Karl said nothing.

She thrust out her hand, bracelet rattling. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘My name is Olga, and it is very nice to meet you.’ She had long, manicured fingers and the grip was dry and firm. She held him a moment longer than was necessary, changing from party girl to poised business professional. Karl saw a woman who was intelligent and perfectly groomed, complete except for pencil skirt and jacket, and it completely disarmed him. He had not visited Kazan for eight years, but Olga had made him think of home.

‘Karl,’ he said.

She reached to the pin on his lapel. ‘And you are from Scotland Yard, I can see. Looking after the embassy man, I expect?’

‘And you are having to keep him occupied?’

‘I go nowhere near any of them.’ Olga nodded at the spiral staircase. Halfway down, demure in a lime green summer dress, stood a young girl. She had olive skin and, despite her makeup, much heavier than Olga’s, looked in her mid-teens. She held onto the highly polished brass handrail with one foot on the higher step, as if ready to scamper back upstairs. ‘Tania and I are here to serve the drinks and be decorative,’ she continued. ‘Nothing more. Do we look ridiculous to you?’

Karl glanced at the staircase again. Rebuffed by Olga, the clutch of drivers had turned their eyes on the girl. They were smiling now, not leering, perhaps thinking she was young enough to be their daughter, but the attention seemed to intimidate her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Quite the reverse.’

He felt her shrewd eyes fixed on him. ‘May I?’ she asked quietly, reaching for his Coke and taking a sip. ‘I tell you, they will send your man back to his hotel by midnight. Then you will be off duty.’ Karl sensed renewed interest from the direction of the coffee machine. ‘Tell me, Karl, what do you drink after work? Or do you go straight home to your wife?’

‘Not exactly.’

They gazed at each other silently, until she tore off a strip of kitchen roll and reached into his jacket for his pen. ‘I think you still like to drink vodka, for old times’ sake?’ She scribbled her mobile number, then held out the pen and paper to him. ‘The secret drink, which leaves no trace,’ she murmured. ‘Perfect for the man from Scotland Yard.’

‘Provided we are both off duty?’

Olga laughed. ‘Oh, how I love Tartar men. You always think you are a gift from God.’ She reached out and deftly stroked his cheek, then sighed and picked up the bottle of champagne. ‘Now I have to spread more sunshine, but only for a little longer,’ she said, lowering her voice again, as if their audience could suddenly understand every word. ‘Then we should enjoy life for ourselves.’

With that, she shimmied from the room, blowing a kiss in the general direction of the water cooler.

In fact it was close to one-thirty when Anatoli Rigov finally detached himself from Karl outside his suite at the Dorchester. He did not go straight to bed but told Boris to await further instructions, then ordered a light supper and nightcap from room service. While he was waiting, he stood by the window overlooking Hyde Park, deep in thought. Rigov was a carefully calculating man, and the evening’s unexpected turn of events had presented him with an opportunity. When he had worked out his plan he sank into one of the deep sofas and rang his most trusted associate in London, ordering him to test it for every possible contingency. Within ten minutes, they had agreed the proposal was workable.

Rigov’s next call, much briefer, was to the Russian ambassador, who made no complaint at being woken in the early hours. Before retiring to his four-poster bed, Rigov settled at the ornate desk and wrote a message on Dorchester notepaper, handing it to Boris for immediate delivery to the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens. The ambassador was to have it translated into diplomatic language and sent to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office first thing on Saturday morning.