The Blind Spy (4 page)

‘When is the prime minister arriving?’ Viktorov asked, looking down on Golubev from the high seat. Golubev fidgeted uncomfortably. Viktorov was a big, muscled man, despite his age, and he took care about his appearance and his physical fitness. His eyebrows were artfully shaped to eliminate the wild-growing hairs that age unleashed and the skin of his face had a polished, pampered appearance. General Antonov, on the other hand was ruddy in complexion and had allowed the hairs of his advancing age to grow like weeds in an abandoned courtyard. The one general affected a modern, careful appearance, while the other seemed to seek the virtues of a rugged lack of vanity.

‘You’ll be meeting with some colleagues, first,’ Golubev said. ‘The prime minister has been detained.’

‘Colleagues?’ Antonov queried. ‘For how long?’

‘
Patriotiy
,’ Golubev replied almost mutely, as if embarrassed at the mention of this informal, almost underground group which was definitely not part of his modern Russian vision. ‘We are waiting for the prime minister’s call,’ he added.

‘Ah,’ Viktorov said. ‘Our
Patriotiy
friends. That’s the reason for the map, then.’ He was pleased to be meeting with fellows and, no doubt, old colleagues too from the
Patriotiy
.

Golubev didn’t reply. But the generals relaxed into their seats as the nervous ministry man ordered coffee to be brought.

The
Patriotiy
were the core, Viktorov ruminated as he waited for the coffee to arrive. They were the promise. They were like a rare seed preserved in one of Russia’s frozen storage units that guarded the planet’s ecological and agricultural future. Like these rare seeds, the
Patriotiy
were the guardians of Russia’s past and the hope for its future. They were the only ones left with any power who were true to the memory of their own people where Russia’s former might was concerned. And for a moment Viktorov felt a brief affinity for the GRU boss Antonov, a veteran like himself of Afghanistan.

The
Patriotiy
consisted mainly of these veterans from the Afghan war which had ended so bitterly for the Soviet Union and damaged its self-image so catastrophically ever since the 1980s. Most importantly in this all-but-secret society of the new Russia, members of the
Patriotiy
didn’t believe that the loss of empire was anything other than a temporary historical mistake. In any democratic country, they would have been way outside the political process, on some semi-lunatic fringe. In the Russia of the twenty-first century, however, they were at the centre of power, though invisibly so to all but a few. Afghan veterans like himself and Antonov, who had risen in Putin’s Russia through the organs of the security services, the
Patriotiy
were now in control of several intelligence departments and government ministries and had brought their grudges of lost empire with them.

Coffee arrived, delivered by an attractive woman in uniform whom Viktorov smiled at with an avuncular look that didn’t – and didn’t intend to – disguise the lust that lurked behind it. And then the room began to fill up with a dozen or more men in their sixties or seventies and a few younger men. Most of them were in uniform; lesser generals, colonels, retired or not retired. Greetings were exchanged, old links renewed. Two more uniformed female assistants had now materialised to help Golubev distribute files to all the men. Viktorov gave his trademark smile to the woman who approached his table. He took a file and slipped a pair of reading glasses over his nose. The title in bold Cyrillic on the cover was:
Reappraisal. The Weakness of Ukraine – Political, Economic, Ethnic and Military
.

Viktorov and the others leafed through their files without yet reading them closely. ‘Who wrote this?’ Viktorov snapped at Golubev.

‘A think tank at the Ministry of the Interior,’ was the reply. ‘Along with some of your own intelligence staff, General.’

Behind my back, Viktorov thought. The prime minister’s mind games had begun. But he snorted loudly and confidently, though whether at the words ‘think tank’ or the fact that Interior people were in part the authors was unclear. Not that he despised the Interior Ministry. The Interior Ministry was one of several important ministries now controlled by the
Patriotiy
and its chiefs shared the same aims as people like the group in the room.

For a moment, Viktorov removed his glasses and looked across the large room. He stared hard with unfocused eyes. So it was him. He thought he’d recognised him and he’d been right.

It was his son, Dmitry. Or Balthasar – though only the two of them knew him by the latter name. He saw that Balthasar was talking to an older man – an officer in the Alpha Group, Viktorov thought. Viktorov couldn’t take his eyes away from his son.

Then Balthasar broke away from a brief exchange with the officer and began to make his way through the throng. He walked with expert precision around three tables and paused to nod a greeting and say a few words to two or three other men. He looked assured, smooth in his movements, somehow modern, Viktorov thought, in that his proper deference to senior men was never at the expense of his personal pride and individuality. He was a colonel – also in Department S – and was now thirty-eight years old. But in this room he was a junior.

Viktorov watched Balthasar to see that he was clearly making his way towards him. With one hand he was lifting up a chair that was in the way, while with the other he shook greetings with colleagues. He looked directly into people’s eyes.

Amazing – even now it amazed Viktorov. Such extraordinary power Balthasar had. Nobody who didn’t know him would ever have guessed that he was blind. And, knowing that he was blind, nobody would have dreamed that he could be Russia’s most senior and most-decorated intelligence field operative in all of the Muslim countries. Amazing, there was no other word for it. Sometimes his son’s strange abilities discomforted Viktorov – but there was no denying Balthasar’s extraordinary, if uniquely bizarre, powers. For not only did he have an unerring geographical relationship with the people around him and with his surroundings in general – sensing the chair, moving it easily, knowing precisely where there was a hand to be shaken, understanding exactly where were the eyes his own sightless ones needed to ‘look’ into – but also, despite all of this supernatural power, to Viktorov’s mind, Balthasar’s real value was not that he could ‘see’ physical objects without seeing. It was that he could do what no eye and no electronic device could do – no matter how sharp or sophisticated. He had the ability of seeing inside the minds of those he was with. He had a sixth sense and maybe – who knew – a seventh and an eighth.

Viktorov cast his mind back thirty-nine years. The brothers of Balthasar’s mother who he, Viktorov, had rescued him from all those years ago had said he’d had a defect. They’d interpreted his blindness as being cursed by God. This ‘defect’ had turned out to be a most precious, a most unique weapon. God had given him something far greater than normal sight. As it turned out, God had blessed, not cursed him.

Balthasar approached his father and, with the same direct accuracy, shook his hand, ‘looked’ in his eyes, and exchanged a welcome. To Vikorov, he seemed to be in some official position in this room – that was what his son’s demeanour suggested. He appeared to be at the heart of the purpose of the strange meeting. Viktorov wondered why he hadn’t known before about Balthasar’s presence. He was the chief of Department S, for God’s sake.

So. This morning was the prime minister’s party and his own position could be, and often was, usurped by Putin and a few others. Yet what did Balthasar have to do with the message on the table? The map? Ukraine was an Orthodox Christian country. Not Balthasar’s area of operations at all. Balthasar was in Islamic operations, pure and simple. Ukraine was the birthplace of Russian Orthodoxy, the origins of old Rus. Ukraine was Russia’s spiritual heartbeat.

‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing at the map, and then immediately felt foolish to be using a word that assumed working sight.

‘I know.’ Balthasar smiled, ignoring the mistake. He put his hand on the map, as if he could actually feel the terrain it represented. ‘Ukraine,’ he said simply.

If Viktorov thought he would draw out his son’s reasons for being here by referring to the map of Ukraine, he was unsuccessful.

A trolley was now brought in by the two women who had distributed the files. It was 6.45 a.m. and there were several bottles of flavoured vodka and shot glasses on it. Not Golubev’s idea of the right time for a drink and the ministry man was showing it with anxious glances. Not Putin’s idea either, for that matter, so perhaps that was why Golubev looked so uncomfortable. But the glasses were distributed solemnly – like some sort of pseudoreligious, regimental ceremonial – by a one-legged
spetsnaz
hero who was apparently determined to show his infirmity made no difference. The toast, when it was raised by a fellow SVR general, was to ‘Historic Russia’. All present drank and placed their glasses back on to the trolley which was wheeled away. One drink for the toast, that was it. The party, such as it was, was over. And they all knew that historic Russia meant Kiev, the capital of a Ukraine which had been independent from Moscow now for twenty years, after centuries of occupation.

Golubev’s phone rang. He walked away from Viktorov and Balthasar, who reminisced in quiet voices. When he returned, he looked only at the generals, Viktorov and Antonov.

‘You’ll have to read it on the road,’ Golubev said to the two generals, nodding at the document, and he clicked the mobile phone shut. ‘The prime minister is delayed. He asks you to come to his dacha.’

As the Mercedes swung out of the gates and took the autoroute back to the ring road, Viktorov thought that none of this – the apparently pointless trip to Balashiha, the meeting with the veterans and even the enforced shared trip with Antonov – was unplanned. Clearly he would be expected to work with Antonov and the meeting at Balashiha was in the style of an underground regimental get-together, something like Nazi SS officers meeting in secret at inns in the depths of the Harz forest after the war. Except that here it was official and government backed. The
Patriotiy
were the establishment.

They were met at the imposing gates of Putin’s dacha by a Kremlin car which would take them up the drive to the dacha where Putin worked, swam and practised judo. His family dacha was hidden further into the forest.

Inside the high reception room the two generals stood. Still they didn’t talk. Finally after nearly half an hour, they were summoned to a long, lavishly furnished office the size of a small ballroom where Putin was sitting at a desk under the Russian eagle. He motioned them to seats in front of the desk, then, without preamble, leaned on his elbows with his hands clasped together and stared his blank, unblinking stare.

‘We need greater co-operation,’ he said. ‘This war between two great services has to stop.’

Viktorov shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The latest skirmish between the SVR and the GRU had occurred just three weeks before, in Germany. The SVR had betrayed two agents of the GRU to the German intelligence service. Their reason was – from the SVR’s point of view – that the GRU was transgressing on its own patch.

‘We have important work to do,’ Putin said. ‘And I need full co-operation. Your jobs are at stake. Russia’s future is at stake.’

The generals inclined their heads. Putin didn’t seek a reply. Then he leaned in closer. ‘The report,’ he said. ‘Read it closely. Elections in Ukraine take place in just over a week’s time. The final run-off is three weeks after that. But the elections are irrelevant. Whoever wins, we want to make our arrangements with our friends in Ukraine. Redress the balance.’ He looked severely at them and Viktorov wondered, not for the first time, if Putin actually didn’t have any eyelids, if he was like a snake. Putin leaned back in his chair and stared at the two generals. ‘You know, of course,’ he said with finality, ‘that Ukraine is not even a state.’

 

T
HE HEAD RESTED gently between two reinforced glass clamps on the glaring white surface of a disinfected plastic tabletop. The table had gleaming, skeletal aluminium legs protruding beneath it and its aluminium wheels were locked in place at the bottom of the legs in the unlikely event that the trolley might roll away on the perfectly level, spotlessly clean, white floor.

The chill in the laboratory storage facility at the CIA’s Forensic Investigation Department in Langley, Virginia was almost as great as the freezing winter temperatures outside the building and the two men and one woman who stood closest to the trolley table were still wrapped in the thick winter coats they’d worn for the short walk across the car park to the building. Three white-coated laboratory workers who stood behind them like pagan ceremonial guardians of the severed head wore Arctic thermal wear in here, for the greater freedom of movement of their arms.

The head was indeed like the graven image of some ancient god. Though it was a thing of flesh, it was not a thing of blood. Its dull, lifeless, fish eyes in the grey, dead flesh seemed to bring the temperature down still lower, as if temperature were a kind of mood that fitted the sombre circumstances.

The head had a plump face which showed a round-cheeked man, with bristling black eyebrows, slightly frosted from the deep frozen drawer that had contained it until the visitors’ arrival. The bloodless lips were generous, the ears looked almost enormous. There was a scar on the left cheek that looked more pronounced without any blood flowing beneath the skin around it. The neck, foreshortened by a jagged cutting instrument, was jowly and flabby and the wild thick black hair that topped the head seemed frozen in a concoction of swirls and curlicues, as if the head were a still photograph of a man captured in a high wind.

It looks like a sculpture, Burt Miller thought – though he was thinking, not of a stone god, but of one of the modern pieces the British artist – something-or-other Quinn, he seemed to remember – made and which consisted of a plastic head filled with the artist’s own blood. But the colour of the flesh, Burt mused with an art historian’s appreciation, was more like the grey, dead-looking humanity to be found in a Lucian Freud, one of whose works Burt owned – at a cost from Christie’s in New York of something in the region of ten million bucks.