Spy Out the Land (25 page)

‘I mean, sir, that there was a detachment to him – a certain coldness, shall we say. I never felt that he fully confided in me, but we had some form of understanding.’

Borzunov picked up an ugly bronze paperweight in the shape of Sputnik from the table, turning it in his hands. ‘Did that understanding extend’ – his voice was now a soft purr
– ‘to your collaborating in falsifying his death?’

Proshin felt a little queasy.

‘I have no idea what you mean, comrade.’

Borzunov placed the paperweight back on the baize and gave a broad smile. His teeth were small, sharp and yellowing. He rummaged in the dossier and took out a slim black-banded file. He held it
up with two fingers, as though it were contaminated.

‘This is the report on Operation ROOK you wrote at the time, in which you claimed that you shot him and left his body in the Finnish archipelago.’ He placed the file on the table,
flipped it open, and started to read aloud. ‘. . . When it became clear INDEPENDENT was determined to fight to the bitter end, I shot him in the stomach and he fell to the ground. My radio
operator, Lieutenant Cherneyev, took his pulse and determined he was dead, after which we carried my father’s body to the helicopter and left the area. We crossed the border at 0300
hours.’

He glanced up at Proshin.

‘But he is evidently
not
dead.’ There was a brief, loaded, silence. Then he took a sheet of paper from beneath the folder and spun it round with his hand. It was a
photograph of a middle-aged man with long hair and a beard.

Proshin recognised him at once. He felt a crawling sensation in the crown of his head, like a tumour suddenly blooming in his brain, and for a moment he thought he might black out. He looked up
to see Borzunov speaking into the intercom device on the table, and he heard the doors behind him swing open and the sound of heavy footsteps thudding against the hardwood floor, then softer as
they reached the thick carpet. A fair-haired man in camouflage fatigues came into view. He walked up to the table and saluted.

Proshin did his utmost not to show his distress, but the blood was drumming in his ears and he could feel his heart jolting madly beneath his shirt. It was Cherneyev. He had been in his early
twenties at the time of the operation, but in the years since his face had taken on a harder look: his cheekbones were now more pronounced and his blueish-grey eyes seemed deeper set and more
penetrating. From the uniform, it seemed he was now a member of the KGB’s Directorate A, the counter-terrorism
spetsnaz
group Andropov had set up the previous summer. It looked like
they’d lifted him straight off the parade ground at Kirovograd.

Borzunov smiled at the newcomer.

‘Thank you for coming here at such short notice, Dmitri Ivanovich. We would like to ask you a few questions about Operation ROOK in Finland. Do you remember it?’

Cherneyev nodded. ‘Yes, Major.’

Borzunov smiled. ‘No need to stand on ceremony, Cherneyev – “comrade” will do here. We’re just having a friendly discussion.’ He looked back down at the file.
‘According to this report, the British agent was shot in the stomach, and you then checked him for signs of life.’

‘Yes, comrade. I felt no pulse at all.’

‘How strange.’ He indicated the photograph of Dark. ‘So this is someone else, then, do you think? An identical twin, perhaps. Or does the man have supernatural powers, to rise
from the dead like this? What is your explanation?’

Cherneyev looked at the photograph, but didn’t flinch. ‘I was clearly mistaken. I remember that he had no pulse at that moment, but perhaps if I had tried again some seconds later it
would have returned.’

‘And why did you not do just that?’

‘I was following orders, sir. I asked Comrade Proshin if I should dispose of the body, meaning I should throw it into the water, and he told me to leave the man there for the birds to feed
off. So I did, and we left immediately after.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant-Colonel.’

Ivashutin trained his eyes on Proshin.

‘Well, comrade? Do you dispute this account?’

‘No, but you heard what he said – he felt no pulse. What would anyone think in such a situation other than that the man was dead?’

‘Did you not think to simply wait a few moments and check again? It was rather unprofessionally done, surely.’

He considered lying, suggesting that he had made Cherneyev carry out a further test, but decided it was too risky – it was his word against the other man’s but these men
weren’t fools, and if they didn’t believe him things might become very difficult for him indeed. Better not to risk angering them further and simply play as contrite as possible.

But his professional pride needled at him. Why
had
he left Dark there and not simply kicked him into the sea? Or, better still, simply leaned down and shot him through the forehead? It
hadn’t crossed his mind. Cherneyev had told him he couldn’t feel a pulse, so he had presumed he was dead. He had been fatigued, freezing cold, and he had just witnessed the devastation
of his father’s death, and he had wanted to leave the place as soon as he could.

But it was unforgivable nonetheless – he accepted that. You never leave a loose thread. He wondered if he had perhaps subconsciously wanted to leave Dark alive. But no, that was absurd: he
had most definitely wanted him dead. He had wanted him dead for some time.

Ivashutin spoke. ‘I won’t waste words, Alexander Stepanovich – this operation gives a very poor impression. You were this man’s case officer, and yet he escaped from
London without you even alerting anyone at our Station there of that fact. He then escaped from you in Italy, and once again here in Moscow. Finally, you tracked him down to Finland, where you
claim you killed him. And yet he is still alive. So the question troubling us both is whether you were merely incompetent – or if you made sure this man could escape? Perhaps you are not
working for us at all, but another intelligence service.’

‘Comrades, what can I say to prove my innocence? I’ve served this agency all my adult life, as did my father before me.’

Borzunov frowned in mock-disappointment. ‘Please, Alexander Stepanovich, save us the impassioned pleas. You spent a great deal of time in the West. You speak fluent English, you attended
the opera in Covent Garden, you even had a suit made for you in Savile Row.’

‘That is a lie! I bought a suit during my first year in London, yes, but it was not made for me, and it was at the request of the ambassador!’ The two men looked down at him, their
eyes devoid of any sympathy. Proshin thought rapidly – the key to surviving any interrogation was to change its focus. An idea flashed through his mind. He gestured at the photograph of Dark
on the table. ‘Where is the photograph from?’

Borzunov sneered. ‘You think to challenge its authenticity? There can be no doubt it is him. This is from an intercepted Interpol alert.’

‘No, it is clearly genuine. But why has Interpol placed an alert on him now – he must have done something.’

Borzunov glanced at Ivashutin, who nodded. ‘This is not of your concern, comrade, but it appears that since you “killed” him, the Englishman has been living in Stockholm, and
he has a girlfriend and young son. They were kidnapped yesterday by a group of black nationalists. The girlfriend is African.’

Proshin took this in, thinking. He wondered who the Interpol source was in Stockholm for them to have such detail – he didn’t know of any such agent, but then it would be
compartmentalised, probably something for the Fifteenth Department. More significant was the African connection.

‘How has it been established that she’s African?’ he said. He was gratified to see a look of puzzlement cross Borzunov’s face – Ivashutin’s expression
remained unchanged.

‘She has a Zambian passport, although it appears to be forged. Do you have intelligence relating to this woman, Proshin? If so, I advise you to speak up now.’

He had used his surname. This was a good sign, as it meant he was interested enough to have forgotten they were all meant to be having a little tea party together.

‘I don’t know anything about her,’ he said. ‘But as you’ve just read the dossier on INDEPENDENT, perhaps you remember that he confirmed our earlier intelligence
about a conspiracy within the British Service.’

Now Ivashutin’s eyes glittered, and he leaned forward. ‘You are referring to the faction at the top?’

Proshin nodded. ‘What if that group is involved now?’ he said. ‘Could they not have arranged for the kidnapping of the girlfriend and son in order to draw INDEPENDENT out of
hiding? By using a team made of Africans, or at any rate blacks, that would provide them with cover.’

He knew at once he’d hit his mark. He could almost see the two of their minds turning over his suggestion – they had forgotten all about his supposed failings. He remembered a
favourite expression of his father’s: ‘To an officer, fresh intelligence is like a drug. We will chase it to the ends of the earth, even if it is false.’ He hadn’t provided
fresh intelligence so much as a sketch of a theory built on the foundations of old intelligence, but the drug was taking hold nevertheless.

‘Please leave us for a moment, comrades.’

Proshin got to his feet and followed Cherneyev into a waiting room encased in lacquered wood panelling. They sat there in silence on a low sofa that needed upholstering. After ten minutes, the
intercom sounded on the secretary’s desk and she waved at them imperiously to go back in.

Borzunov was still seated at the table, a self-satisfied look on his face, but Ivashutin had taken his jacket off and was standing by the window. He spoke with his back turned away from them,
gazing down into the courtyard that nobody ever used.

‘Operation ROOK was a disaster, and the two of you are to blame. It needs to be finished, and it needs to be done quickly. Our latest intelligence is that INDEPENDENT is currently on his
way to Brussels. If it is the case that the British are involved in kidnapping his family, we must intervene.’

He turned on his heels and looked directly at Proshin. ‘I want you to go there and complete the work you should have done six years ago. You know the man, and you know at least some of his
ways. But as you’re not to be trusted on this alone, Cherneyev will go with you. I would like to see this man dead within the next twenty-four hours. If you fail, there will be consequences
for you both. Your flight leaves in precisely –’ he looked at his wristwatch – ‘forty-seven minutes. A car is waiting for you downstairs with further
instructions.’

He nodded to indicate they were dismissed, then poured some tea from the samovar into his cup and took a sip.

Proshin and Cherneyev took the lift together, both men staring sightlessly at the dulled metal of the doors as they closed in front of them.

‘Did you bring any other clothing with you?’ said Proshin. ‘I suggest you change before we get in the car.’

The other man didn’t answer.

‘Did you hear me, comrade?’

Cherneyev slowly turned his head and looked at him with his hard grey eyes. ‘Oh, I heard you, old man. Now you hear me. I don’t appreciate being fished out of my unit because you
weren’t thinking straight six years ago, and I don’t intend to risk my neck on your say-so again. I’m making sure Dark is killed this time, and you’re not going to stop me
with your effete little ways. So I’ll be giving the suggestions from now on, are we clear?’

His hand shot out and grabbed Proshin by the throat.

‘I said, are we clear?’

Proshin nodded, and the hand relented.

Sunday, 24 August 1975, Salisbury, Rhodesia

Ian Smith waited for his wife to climb aboard the Command Dakota before following her up the ramp to take a seat next to her. Once they were securely in place, the pilot
pressed a button that sent a prepared encrypted message to Air Force headquarters: ‘DOLPHIN 3 DEPARTING’. Then he ran through one last check of his controls.

A few minutes later, the Dakota was in the air and heading for Victoria Falls.

The DC-9 skidded onto the runway at Zaventem at a quarter to ten. The cabin lights came up and Paul Dark joined the crush of passengers hurrying down the staircase. A thin veil
of fog swirled across the tarmac and the sky spat rain. Dark had the urge to turn up the collar of his jacket, but that was one thing you never did when trying to remain inconspicuous – even
a glance at a distance could have people humming the tune from
The Third Man
.

At the foot of the staircase a stewardess was pointing passengers towards a bus parked about fifty yards from the plane, which was waiting to take everyone to the arrivals terminal. Dark stepped
onto the tarmac and leaned down as if to tie his shoelaces, but his peripheral vision was waiting for the fraction of a moment he needed. After several agonising seconds, it came – the
stewardess turned away from him to answer a question from a young woman holding a baby in her arms. Dark, still crouched down, scuttled his feet backward like a spider until he was under the
fuselage. He closed his eyes so the whites of his eyes wouldn’t be visible in the darkness, and held his breath, expecting to hear a call from the stewardess any moment to ask him what he was
doing. But it didn’t come, and after a few seconds he heard her speaking to another passenger.

He had spent most of the flight wondering about his options on landing in Belgium. He’d made it through passport control and security at Arlanda without any trouble, but he knew that the
agency or agencies searching for him wouldn’t have given up simply because he had managed to evade them once. They would have people working around the clock, glued to computer screens,
searching for any sign of him in the haystack of radio-waves and electronic communications. And if any of those worker bees had managed to figure out which identity he was using in the three hours
since he had boarded the flight in Stockholm, the authorities here would have been alerted and ‘Henrik Jansson’ would be picked up the moment he showed his passport.