Red Star Falling: A Thriller (22 page)

‘What was that?’ Birkitt frowned, struggling to keep up.

‘Showing us how completely, because of the Gulf success, your people trusted Lvov,’ said Irena, close to patronizing. ‘Through Lvov we drip-fed all sorts of changes and watched them being fed to the media: picked a lot up intercepting your station-to-station chatter, too. We couldn’t believe how easily it was all turning out.’

‘I’d like to make a comparison test,’ said Birkitt. ‘Could you make a list?’

‘I’ll try to remember as much as I can.’

‘That would be great,’ encouraged Birkitt, pushing a yellow legal pad across the table towards her.

Irena carefully began her list, frequently pausing for apparent recollection. During one hesitation, she said, ‘I don’t suppose Charlie knows his unhappy band of tricked travellers have been freed.’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Birkitt.

Charlie did.

*   *   *

‘A prime example of Russian compassion,’ declared Mikhail Guzov, turning off the portable DVD player with which he’d arrived at the dacha an hour earlier.

‘And a far more important example of a very effective use of propaganda,’ conceded Charlie. ‘What about my consular access?’

‘I’ve already told you about that but it was you who made that propaganda possible; we should really make some gesture to thank you, shouldn’t we?’ goaded Guzov. ‘I’m having the London press conference recorded for you to watch later. From what I heard in the car on my way here, you really aren’t their favourite person.’

‘I’m rarely anyone’s favourite person.’

‘Make yourself mine,’ urged Guzov. ‘Tell me from the very beginning everything that passed between you and Irena Yakulova, right from the moment of her anonymous telephone call to the contact number you set up at the embassy after the murder.’

Was that a guess? wondered Charlie. Or a test? The truth as much as possible, the intentional disinformation in the finest threads, Charlie reminded himself. ‘She staged it brilliantly,’ he began, settling in the rough wood chair.

13

Was this her chance? wondered Rebecca Street, as she approached the Hertfordshire house: maybe, even, her last chance? Or was she misjudging this as she’d probably misjudged other ways out, too frightened of the absolute commitment. Maxim Mikhailovich Radtsic’s refusal to deal with anyone but her sealed in stone the now-unconcealed enmity of Gerald Monsford. And she’d virtually disclosed to Jane Ambersom the existence of James Straughan’s precious record. But none of the inferred promises of protection from Jane overcame the insurmountable fact that she identifiably featured on that snugly nestling chip that would destroy her as effectively as it destroyed Monsford if it became public. As well as further destroying the reputation of James Straughan, whose incontrovertible link to a known active FSB agent had strengthened Monsford’s claim of MI6 penetration. And which she could not dismiss even though she found it difficult to conceive the man was a traitor. The overwhelming—practically automatic—likelihood was that Monsford had connived that incriminating contact, as he was conniving everything else. But…? But what? Was she showing acceptable, reasonable professional caution? Or was she using Rome as an excuse to do nothing, say nothing, as she suspected Jane Ambersom believed? Twenty percent acceptable, reasonable caution against an eighty-percent excuse for remaining silent, Rebecca calculated.

The protracted, alerting security precautions at the Hertfordshire safe house gave ample time for Harry Jacobson to be waiting in his supervisor’s office by the time Rebecca reached the protection compound. He remained behind his desk, not bothering to rise at her entry, the greeting restricted to a curt nod.

‘London said you’re moving in?’ opened Jacobson.

‘For a couple of days, seeing how things go,’ generalized Rebecca. She noticed Jacobson’s lip-concealing moustache needed trimming, like the rest of his normally more tightly clipped hair. All the wall-mounted CCTV was functioning but Rebecca couldn’t see Radtsic or Elena on any of the monitors.

‘I thought we were anticipating his debriefing in terms of years?’

‘We are, if he tells us all we want to hear. I’m here to decide how genuine this promised co-operation is going to be.’ This conversation was being televised, too, Rebecca realized, consciously stopping herself looking around for the operating camera.

‘Best of luck. You’re going to need all—and more—that you can get.’

Was
it being recorded? Rebecca abruptly wondered, caught by Jacobson’s attitude. She understood the takeover animosity but didn’t imagine that later analysts would. Gesturing to the wall displays, Rebecca said, ‘I can’t see Radtsic or Elena?’

‘It’s scarcely surprising. They’re walking in the grounds.’

Irritation swept through Rebecca at the man’s studied disrespect. ‘Being filmed, of course?’

‘It’s standard regulations.’

‘Do they often walk in the grounds?’

‘Proper exercise is also a standard regulation.’

Rebecca only just held back from the anger-flared pomposity of insubordination. Instead she said, ‘Has every exercise walk been filmed, according to standard regulations, for lip-read translation and interpretation?’

Jacobson stirred at the demand, straightening slightly from how he was slumped behind the desk. ‘A complete, comprehensible translation has not been possible.’

‘Not from
any
of them?’

‘Not according to the lip-reading specialists here.’

Rebecca let the silence build. ‘Where are the films?’

Jacobson vaguely gestured to a bank of filing cabinets to his left. ‘Here.’

A decisive opportunity, remembered Rebecca. ‘Is the Director aware of their existence and their retention here?’

‘Exercise periods are always logged in daily reports,’ recited Jacobson, anxiously. ‘It’s—’

‘Standard regulations,’ cut off Rebecca, impatiently. ‘I want every film you’ve retained here, together with their attempted deciphering, no matter how incomprehensible or incomplete, packed up today and couriered, again today, to London for forensic audio enhancement and segmented analysis by additional Russian-language lip-readers. I also want a personal memorandum, from you, with a copy to the Director, explaining why this hasn’t automatically been done, according to standard regulations, since Radtsic and his wife have been here.’

‘They’ve refused co-operation until now,’ defended Jacobson, awkward in his belated concern.

‘All the more reason for us to know whatever might have passed between them when they believed themselves beyond our internal cameras, which I know from watching that internally recorded footage they are very much aware of,’ crushed Rebecca.

‘They haven’t committed a crime: you’re treating them like suspects.’

‘I’m treating them as they properly should be treated, people who still need to prove themselves.’

‘Are you replacing me as head of this protection operation?’ Jacobson’s challenge was spoiled by the falter in his voice.

‘Of course I’m not!’ irritably rejected Rebecca, at once. ‘I’m here specifically—and
only
—to begin the debriefing of Maxim Radtsic: again, hopefully, to elicit something from which we can judge the man. The day-to-day supervision and security remains your responsibility or that of anyone chosen to replace you.…’ There was scarcely a pause as the disquieting possibility occurred. ‘You must be looking forward to the change, although you weren’t in Moscow that long, were you?’ she tried again.

‘Long enough. The Bolshoi was Moscow’s only saving grace and I had to enjoy that in its temporary premises because of all the delays rebuilding their proper theatre.’

‘At least you’ll be spared that now.’

‘Even the best of what’s available in Paris won’t match the Bolshoi, even in temporary accommodation.’

The poor fool actually imagined he could trust Monsford, Rebecca recognized. ‘I suppose there isn’t any reason for your hanging around here. Why don’t you raise your reassignment with the Director?’

‘I will,’ said Jacobson, positively.

‘
After
you’ve done what I’ve asked about the exercise films,’ Rebecca qualified, heavily.

‘I can do both before the day’s out,’ insisted the man.

‘Best of luck: you’ll need it,’ said Rebecca, throwing the man’s earlier arrogance back at him.

*   *   *

They were, predictably, in the conservatory but the french windows were fully opened onto the veranda upon which Elena had arranged her reclining chair. Radtsic was in his accustomed place, his liquor tray within reach, but Rebecca couldn’t see a glass in use. Elena rose to go back into the room at Rebecca’s entry but Radtsic didn’t move.

Rebecca said, ‘We were very glad to get your reply.’

‘You gave us an undertaking we’re expecting you to honour, unlike other assurances we’ve been given,’ said Radtsic.

‘I will honour every undertaking I gave, which I expect you to match with the co-operation we discussed,’ persisted Rebecca, putting herself opposite the man. ‘Each is dependent upon the other, which is not my issuing an ultimatum. Moscow has to be convinced of the agreement we’ve reached if they’re to agree some communication between you and Andrei.’

Radtsic hesitated, as if he were about to reply, but instead he reached into the side of his chair and brought out two folded sheets of paper, rising at last to offer both. ‘You have sufficient Russian?’

‘Yes,’ assured Rebecca, scanning both sheets before actually reading the script. Radtsic’s Cyrillic was in an open, almost childish hand, Elena’s postscript by comparison in the hurried, academic scrawl, more difficult to read. Conscious of the concentration from both Russians as she read the letter, Rebecca held herself rigidly against its surprise that she was sure Radtsic expected. Rebecca said, ‘We never understood that episode in Moscow when you told Jacobson, without being asked, that you knew nothing about the Lvov scheme.’

‘At that time I hadn’t fully decided who to go to, you or the Americans,’ replied Radtsic. ‘I was very uncertain who would be best: the safest. America would have had the most to offer but the CIA had exposed themselves too much to us, which they hadn’t realized but would have done if I told them everything: I felt there was danger, physical danger, in approaching them. But that day with Jacobson I wasn’t satisfied with how things were going. Jacobson was frightened—too frightened. I thought he was a weakness. I was actually thinking of how to approach America when I said what I did, spoke aloud what was going on in my head, which was stupid.’

Rebecca fluttered the paper. ‘But here’s your admission.’

Radtsic allowed a smile. ‘That’s what I want the Lubyanka to know I’m prepared to talk about unless they let me have my son.’

Rebecca held up a warning hand. ‘Let’s take this a step at a time, Maxim Mikhailovich. What do you know about Lvov?’

Radtsic’s disbelieving frown came with a snort of derision. ‘How can you ask me that!’

‘I can ask you because so far I don’t understand this conversation or what you’ve written in this letter. So, a step at a time. What do you know about Stepan Lvov and the long-established plan to install him as president of the Russian Federation, from which he was to manipulate a CIA who believed him to be their committed spy?’

‘I was the executive director, the overseer and ultimate controller of operations of the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. I was the man who approved the Lvov infiltration at its inception! What other reason is there for my being purged, as I was about to be purged? Within the FSB, I
was
the Lvov operation. Your blundering Gerald Monsford was surely able to work that out without being told!’

‘There has to be a proper, sensible understanding between us, Maxim Mikhailovich,’ stressed Rebecca, forward in her seat, her concentration and her intention entirely professional, nothing any longer personal. ‘You’ve crossed to us: sought our protection, which we’ve provided and will continue to provide. But the arrangement isn’t going to work on assumptions or surmises or working things out. You have to
tell
us, very clearly and in the closest possible detail. Are you following what I’m saying?’

‘Of course I understand what you’re saying!’ said Radtsic, angrily. ‘Don’t patronize me!’

‘Let you and me reach a personal agreement, here today, Maxim Mikhailovich. Let you and me undertake not to patronize or in any other way talk down or be discourteous to each other,’ demanded Rebecca. ‘Let’s be—and behave—as we’re trained to be, professionals.’

Radtsic stared steadily across at her for several moments. ‘You are accusing me of being arrogant!’

‘I am proposing that we behave towards each other in a way and in a manner that achieves, properly and amicably, what we’re both working towards.’

For the first time Radtsic looked towards his wife, who’d come farther into the room. He said, ‘I’ve been rebuked! Told to mend my manners and behave myself!’

Elena said nothing.

Turning back to Rebecca, Radtsic said, ‘I think it would be a good working relationship to establish between the two of us.’

‘I think so, too.’ Rebecca smiled. Allowing the shortest of pauses, she demanded, ‘You were in charge of the Lvov operation from its inception?’

‘I chaired the internal operational planning committee. Irena Yakulova was a member: I brought her down with me from St Petersburg. She’d established herself as equally capable at forward planning and active field work. The actual concept, of convincing the CIA they had the eventual Russian president as an asset, was that of Irena Yakulova: I ensured she received the highest commendation, even for the idea. There was a lot of opposition. There were arguments against the amount of time it would take, the very impracticality of the whole idea, and then at the time, with the ascent of Gorbachev to power, the KGB itself—which we then still were—came under scrutiny. There were even preliminary discussions of greatly reducing its size, particularly with the dissolution of the Soviet Union into its republics.’