Rough Justice (7 page)

Chekhov didn’t even try to resist. “Of course, Comrade President.”

As if by magic, the door by which Chekhov had entered opened again, revealing the GRU lieutenant. Chekhov understood that he was being dismissed. As he stood up again, Volkov said, “One more thing. I know you’re angry about being shot. But I don’t want you going off on any personal revenge mission against Salter or Ferguson’s people when you get back. That’s our job. They’ll be taken care of eventually.”

“I hope so,” Chekhov said with some feeling, and went out.

Putin turned to Volkov. “Keep an eye on him, Volkov. He’s all right for now, but he strikes me as a weak link. Just like those traitors we lost: Igor Levin, a decorated war hero, of all things, a captain in the GRU; Major Greta Novikova; even this Sergeant Chomsky of the GRU. I still can’t understand what happened with them. What are the British doing with them?”

“Our people at the London Embassy inform me that all three have been transferred for the moment to teach a total-immersion course in Russian to agents of MI6. Ferguson was reluctant to let them, but Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, persuaded the Prime Minister to order it.”

“Did he indeed?” Putin’s smile was enigmatic. “Well, much good it’ll do them. So, Ivan, anything else? Otherwise, I’ll get to the gym.”

“As a matter of fact, there is, Comrade President. An unfortunate incident has just taken place in Kosovo, involving the death of an officer commanding a special ops patrol from the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards....”

 
 
WHEN HE WAS FINISHED,
Putin sat there, thinking. Finally, he said, “You are absolutely certain it was this Miller, no possibility of error?”

“He announced his identity when he challenged Captain Zorin. Zorin’s sergeant confirms it.”

“And you can definitely confirm the other man was Blake Johnson?”

“The sergeant heard Miller call him Blake, and people on the ground traced the inn where they’d spent the previous night. The landlord had taken their passport details. He told our people that they didn’t arrive together, but seemed to meet by chance.”

“That doesn’t sound too plausible.” Putin shook his head. “Blake Johnson, the President’s man.”

“And Harry Miller, the Prime Minister’s. What do we do?”

“Nothing. Zorin’s unit wasn’t supposed to be there and so we can’t very well complain, and if anybody says they were there, we’d have to strenuously deny it. I don’t think we need to worry about the wretched Muslim peasants in those parts. They’ll keep their heads down. And as for the U.S. and Britain, their attitude will be the same as mine. It’s not worth World War Three.”

“A pity about Zorin. He was a good man, decorated in Chechnya. His mother is a widow in poor health, but his uncle . . .” Here Volkov looked at his papers. “. . . is Sergei Zorin. Investment companies in Geneva, Paris, and London. What do I do about him?”

“Just explain to him that for the good of the State we can’t take it further. As for the mother, say Zorin was killed in action, died valiantly, the usual nonsense. Tell her we’ll arrange a splendid funeral. And make sure the regimental commander confirms our story.”

He stood. “We should do something about Miller, though. Are you still in contact with this mystery man of yours, the Broker?”

“Our link with Osama? Certainly.”

“You might want to give him a call.” And he left.

An excellent idea, Volkov thought. He dialed a coded number and had a quick conversation. Then he phoned Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians and gave him his orders, which left him with Sergei Zorin. He phoned the great man’s office and was informed that he couldn’t possibly see anyone else that day, his appointment book was full. Volkov didn’t argue, simply told the secretary to inform Zorin that President Putin’s chief security adviser expected to meet him at the Troika restaurant in forty-five minutes, and put the phone down.

 
 
SERGEI ZORIN
was already there when Volkov arrived, and squirming like all of them, frightened to death that he’d done something wrong. “General Volkov, such an honor. Unfortunately, the headwaiter says they don’t have a table available, only stools at the bar.”

“Really.” Volkov turned as the individual concerned approached in total panic.

“General Volkov—please. I had no idea you were joining us today.”

“Neither had I. We’ll sit by the window. Caviar and all that goes with it, and your very finest vodka.”

They were seated at the necessary table, Zorin terrified. Volkov said, “Calm yourself, my friend. People always treat me like Death in a black hood, like something from a Bergman film, but I can assure you that you are guilty of nothing.” The vodka arrived in pointed glasses stuck in crushed ice. “Drink up and then another. You’re going to need it. The news is not good, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing you have been part of something that has served Mother Russia well.”

Zorin looked bewildered. “But what would that be?”

“Your nephew, Captain Igor Zorin, has died in action while taking part in a highly dangerous and most secret covert operation. I had the unhappy duty of conveying this news to our President a short while ago. He sends his condolences.”

“Oh, my God.” Zorin tossed back the vodka, then poured another. But was that a certain relief on his face? Yes, thought Volkov. “What terrible news. When did this happen?”

“Within the last few days. His body is already here in Moscow at the military morgue.”

“Where did it happen?”

“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information. However, he died honorably, I can assure you of that. There may even be another medal.”

“That won’t help my sister. She’s been widowed for years and her health isn’t good.” The caviar arrived, and more vodka.

“Try some of this. A man must live, my friend.” Volkov spooned some of the caviar himself. “Your sister is here in town at the moment?”

“Yes, she lives alone with her maid.”

“Would you like me to be with you when you go to see her?”

The relief on Zorin’s face was even greater. “That would be too much to expect, General.”

“Nonsense, I’m happy to do it. Now eat up. It will do you good. Then you can take me to your sister’s house and we’ll break the bad news.”

Zorin was pathetically grateful, strange when you considered his stature, and yet dealing with such a wealthy man gave Volkov no problem at all. The oligarchs, the billionaires, those Russians who preferred the delights of English public schools for their children and townhouses in Mayfair for their residences, still had enough to contend with back in Moscow. In the old days, the KGB had kept Russians of every level in line, and now it was the FSB, Putin’s old outfit. Putin was hugely popular as President—which meant that he, Ivan Volkov, didn’t need to be. Fear was enough.

 
 
THE ZORIN APARTMENT
was in a grand old block with views over the river and looked as if it hailed from tsarist times. The bell echoed hollowly and the door was opened by an old woman who answered to Tasha, grim and rather forbidding, her hair bound by a scarf, her face like a stone, dressed in a peasant blouse and a long skirt.

“Where is she?” Zorin demanded.

“In the parlor,” she said, and with the privilege of an old servant asked, “Forgive me, but is this bad news?”

“It couldn’t be worse. This is General Volkov from the President himself to tell us of her son’s glorious death in action against our country’s enemies.”

His sense of theater was poorly received. She glanced at Volkov briefly, obviously not particularly impressed, but then she looked as if she had lived forever. She had probably been born during the Great Patriotic War, the kind of woman who had seen it all.

“I will speak to her first,” she said. “If you gentlemen would wait here.”

Simple, direct, it brooked no denial. She opened a mahogany door with a gold handle, went in, and closed it behind her. Zorin shifted from foot to foot, very uncomfortable.

“She’s very direct, Tasha,” he said. “Peasant stock from the family estate.”

“So I can see.” There was a dreadful keening from inside the room, a wailing that was quite disturbing, followed by sobbing. After a while, Tasha opened the door. “She will see you now, both of you.”

They entered, and Volkov found himself in a room that was a time capsule from another age: tall French windows to a terrace outside, a distant view of the river, old-fashioned mahogany furniture, wallpaper with paintings of rare birds, an Indian carpet, the grand piano covered with family photos. There were green velvet curtains, a musty smell to everything. It was as if nothing had changed since the 1920s, and even the clothes that the brokenhearted mother wore seemed antique.

She was sitting in a chair clutching a photo in a silver frame, her hair bound with a gold scarf, and Zorin embraced her.

“Now then, Olga, you mustn’t fret. He wanted only to be a soldier since his youth, no one knows that better than you. See, look who I have brought you. General Ivan Volkov, with words from President Putin himself extolling the bravery of Igor.”

She stared vacantly at Volkov, who said, “He died for the Motherland. There’s talk of a medal.”

She shook her head, bewildered. “A medal? He’s got medals. I don’t understand. Where are we at war?” She clutched at Zorin. “Where was he killed?”

Volkov said, “On a mission of the greatest importance to the State, that’s all I can say. You may remember him with pride.”

She held up the photo of Igor Zorin in a bemedaled uniform, and Volkov took in the handsome face, the arrogance, the look of cruelty. Then she seemed to come to life.

“That’s no good to me, General. I want my son alive again, and he’s dead. It’s turned my heart to stone already.”

She burst into a torrent of weeping. Tasha held her close and nodded to Zorin and Volkov. “Go now,” she said. “I’ll see to her.”

They did as they were told, went out into the street, and paused beside their two limousines.

“I can’t thank you enough for coming with me,” Zorin said.

“When I spoke to Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians, we agreed on the funeral for the day after tomorrow, ten o’clock in the morning, the Minsky Park Military Cemetery, so your nephew will be laid to rest with some of Russia’s finest soldiers. We will see what we can do about the medal. I can certainly promise a letter with Putin’s name on it.”

“I doubt whether even that will cheer her.” Zorin got in his limousine and was driven away.

“Just another day at the office,” Volkov murmured, got into his own limousine and was driven back to the Kremlin.

THE FUNERAL
at Minsky Park was all that could be desired. There was a company of soldiers from the Fifteenth Siberian’s training camp outside Moscow, plenty of mourners in black, family and friends. The coffin was delivered on a gun carriage, lowered into the prepared grave, and twenty soldiers delivered the correct volley at Colonel Bagirova’s shouted command.

Olga Zorin stood with her brother, a few relatives behind, Tasha on the end of a line. Zorin held an umbrella, his sister sobbed, the regimental bugler played a final salute. Volkov stood some distance away wearing a military coat of finest leather and a black fedora, an umbrella over his head. The crowd dispersed to their various cars and Zorin came toward him.

“It was good of you to come. The family are very grateful.”

Volkov, who had observed the furtive glances coming his way, smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re more worried than anything else. This coat always makes me look as if the Gestapo actually got to Moscow.”

Zorin obviously couldn’t handle such levity. “The reception is at the Grand. You’re very welcome.”

“Duty calls, I’m afraid. You must make my excuses.”

“The letter from the President, which came yesterday, was a great comfort to her after all.”

“Yes, it was intended to be.” In truth, he’d signed it himself, but that was no matter.

Olga Zorin sobbed as relatives helped her into the backseat of one of the funeral cars and Tasha followed her.

“A mother’s love,” Zorin said piously. “I’m a widower with no children, you know. Igor was my only heir.”

“Well, he isn’t now,” Volkov said brutally. “You’ll get over it. We know what you oligarchs get up to in London. That bar at the Dorchester, the delights of Mayfair, the ladies of the night. Oh, you’ll cheer yourself up in no time.”

He walked away smiling, leaving Zorin with his mouth gaping.

SHORTLY AFTER HIS RETURN
from America, Ferguson received a call to visit the Prime Minister, where they discussed Miller and the Kosovo affair at length.

“So what do you think, Charles?”

“I’ve no quarrel with Miller’s actions regarding Zorin. But I’ll be frank with you, Prime Minister, I thought I knew him and I find I didn’t. The stuff he was engaged in all those years, Titan and Unit Sixteen. Remarkable.”

“Especially when you consider that even people as knowledgeable as you had no idea. No, I’m very impressed with Harry Miller.” He got up and paced around. “Miller has done many excellent things for me, great on-the-ground reporting. He has a brilliant eye and a gift for a tactical approach to difficult situations. You’d find him very useful, Charles.”

Ferguson could see how things were going. “Are you saying you think we should get together?”

“Yes. I know there’s always been a fine line between what you do and his more political approach.”

“And the fact that the two might clash,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, but I believe Harry Miller is a kind of hybrid, a mixture of the two.”

“I’ve no argument with that. So what are your orders?”

“To get together and sort things out, Charles.” The Prime Minister shook his head. “What a world. Fear, uncertainty, chaos. It’s a war in itself. So let’s try and do something about it.”