The Wolf at the Door (11 page)

 

Ivanov had been right
about the central research hall, but it was surprisingly quiet—disciplined, really—the occasional voice in the distance, a constant low hum from the machines. The office was fine, two desks, each with a computer.

“Most of the data obviously is on computer these days,” Ivanov said. “Even the old stuff has been transferred, but we can explore original documents if we want, it’s still stored elsewhere. Now, where do we start?”

“I’m interested by the speed at which events moved. Kurbsky arrives in London, he’s received at Holland Park, and then he’s out on the street, walking round and speaking to Bounine. Twenty-four hours after that, he’s in Mayfair and shooting some Chechnyan named Basayev with whom he’s apparently had history. He calls Bounine afterwards, tells him what he’s done, and says he’s returning to Holland Park. Bounine tells Luzhkov and Luzhkov tells Putin. And then Kurbsky vanishes, and, two days later, so do Luzhkov and Bounine.” Lermov stood, concentrating. “You have a look at all the traffic to and from the London Embassy, starting with the Thursday Kurbsky was received and the few days after. Transcripts of every kind. If a conversation looks odd or interesting, listen to the recording.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to find out more about Kurbsky.”

He switched on his computer and went quickly through Kurbsky’s life. In January 1989, Kurbsky, aged nineteen, had been staying in London with his aunt Svetlana, a famous Russian actress and defector, when news came of student riots in Moscow, blood on the streets and many dead, amongst them his sister, Tania Kurbsky. Their father, a KGB colonel, had used his influence to have her buried in Minsky Park military cemetery to cover his shame. Apparently too late for her funeral, Alexander Kurbsky’s response had been to join the paratroopers in the ranks and go to Afghanistan and then Chechnya, and then Iraq. He’d excelled. Then, Boris Luzhkov had recruited him for his mission to penetrate British intelligence. His bait? That Tania Kurbsky wasn’t dead at all but sentenced to life in the worst gulag in Siberia, Station Gorky. If Kurbsky cooperated, his sister would go free.

He sat thinking about it, and then, using GRU operational passwords, accessed prisoners’ lists and files at Station Gorky. When he tapped in the name of Tania Kurbsky, however, the screen said
Code 9 Restriction.
He turned to Ivanov, busy at his own computer, and asked, “What’s a Code 9 Restriction?”

“Ah, you’ve got to Tania Kurbsky. I ran into the same roadblock. It means above most secret, which, when I inquired of Major Levin out there in the end office, means you can’t have it, whoever you are and whatever it is.”

“We’ll see about that. Let’s go and have a word.”

Major Levin was impressed enough when faced with a full colonel of GRU to get to his feet. “Can I assist in any way, Colonel . . . ?”

“Lermov. I’m engaged in an essential intelligence matter, and my inquiry is blocked by the words
Code 9 Restriction.
”

“I’m afraid it would be impossible to help you, Colonel.”

Lermov took the envelope from his pocket, extracted Putin’s letter, and passed it across. Levin read it, eyes bulging.

“Of course, you could phone through to the Prime Minister’s Office in the Kremlin or you could simply unlock the information. Right here on your own screen would do.”

“Of course, sir, I’m most happy to oblige. If you would be kind enough to show me what it is you seek, I can insert the correct password.”

“Excellent.” Lermov turned to Ivanov. “You will oblige me, Captain? I wouldn’t look if I were you, Major.”

Ivanov’s fingers flew expertly, the prisoners’ lists at Station Gorky appeared with Tania Kurbsky’s name, again blocked. Major Levin scribbled a password and passed it over, and Ivanov tapped it in. The screen was filled with the sad, haunted face of a wretched woman looking about a hundred years old. It read: “Tania Kurbsky died of typhoid, aged 28, on March 7, 2000.”

“Have you got what you wanted, gentlemen?” Levin inquired.

“Yes, I think so.”

He got up, and Levin said, “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes, make sure you forget about this. It would seriously displease the Prime Minister if he heard you’d been uncooperative at first.”

They returned to the office, and Ivanov said, “I don’t think I’ll forget that face in a hurry. She was only seventeen when she went in. That means she endured that place for eleven years.”

“I agree. So Luzhkov was lying when he said she was still alive.”

“Do you think the Prime Minister knew?”

“I’d like to think he didn’t, but who knows? The real question is this: what would Alexander Kurbsky do if he found out? The fact that his old bastard of a father had lied when he said she was dead in the first place must have deeply shocked him, but to discover the awful truth about his sister and realize how cruelly he had been duped . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t think angry would be strong enough to describe how he would feel. And how he would react is anyone’s guess.”

“Do you think that perhaps he did find out?” Ivanov asked.

“That’s what we need to discover. Did you come across anything else?”

“Just one thing. You remember the Big Four meeting the other month?”

“Of course.” The American Vice President had unexpectedly flown in from Paris for top secret talks with the Prime Minister, the Israeli Prime Minister, and the President of Palestine to broker a deal on Gaza.

“You remember they met on a large boat on the Thames? Well, according to some reports, it got a little dangerous out there in the mist. Some small riverboat exploded, an overheated gas tank or something.”

“And the point?”

“It was the last day anyone at the Embassy saw either Luzhkov or Bounine.”

“Interesting,” Lermov said. “You think it was related?”

“You said to look for anything odd,” said Ivanov. “And here’s another thing. Apparently, Luzhkov
knew
the Vice President was flying in. I found a message about it from the Paris Embassy at approximately midnight on the night before. It was received by a junior lieutenant named Greta Bikov—and signed for by Boris Luzhkov.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t really tell us anything, though. Tell me, who’s been holding the fort for GRU in London since the disappearances?”

“A Major Ivan Chelek. They sent him over from Paris.”

“I know him, he worked for me in Iraq some years ago. Slow but sound. You speak to him, explain you’re acting under my orders. Find out what he’s been doing to investigate, and inquire about Greta Bikov.”

“Any special reason?” Ivanov asked.

“Because she was there, Peter, received that transcript as night duty officer and conveyed it to Luzhkov. What was his reaction? Was there anyone with him? Bounine could have been there, for all we know. You were right to bring this matter to my attention.”

“At your orders, Colonel.” Ivanov produced an encrypted mobile, and Lermov got up and wandered outside.

There was something here, just below the surface of things, he was certain of that, and that feeling tantalized him. An old woman with her head in a scarf and wearing a white coat pushed a tray along the walkway as he leaned on the rail and smoked an American Marlboro. There was a samovar on the trolley that looked as old as her, and sandwiches and pies. She paused and looked at him, a leftover from another age.

“You’re not allowed to smoke here, comrade.”

“Just give me a hot cup of tea with lemon,
babushka,
and a currant bun, and you can have these. They’re American. I shouldn’t be smoking them anyway.”

She smiled. “You’re a good man, I like you.” She pocketed the cigarettes, gave him what he’d asked for, and pushed her trolley away. Lermov ate the bun, which was excellent, and was drinking the tea when Ivanov found him.

“You might have got me one.”

“Never mind that. What did he say?”

“No sign of any of them. He’s even had assets we can rely on in the London underworld to check the morgues, but they’ve gotten nowhere. He congratulates you on your elevation to Head of Station and says please come soon, as he misses Paris.”

“And Greta Bikov?”

“It seems she was very upset by the whole business of Luzhkov and Bounine. She took it badly, cried a lot, and went round looking stressed and anxious. Other staff said she was a favorite of Luzhkov, and the general opinion was that he was having it off with her.”

“How delicately put,” Lermov said. “Did you speak to her?”

“I couldn’t, she wasn’t there. She got very depressed, so the Embassy doctor decided to place her on sick leave.”

“And when was this?”

“Four days ago. She’s right here in Moscow. Her mother is a widow. Lives in an apartment on Nevsky Prospekt, overlooking the river.”

“Some fine old houses there,” Lermov said. “Okay, let’s say she was a naughty girl and Luzhkov’s bit of skirt, as her colleagues seem to think. She was used to being overfamiliar with her commanding officer, in and out of his office, putting up with the older man’s indifferent kiss, the quick grope.”

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” Ivanov said. “Bad things happen, the boss disappears, a lot of pressure and questions coming your way.”

“Leading to considerable stress of the sort induced by fear, so you show that face to the doctor, who puts you on sick leave.”

“And sends you home to Mummy and all the comforts of home.” Ivanov grinned. “But what is it she’s afraid of?”

“I would imagine her overfamiliarity with Luzhkov led to her sticking her nose into things she shouldn’t. She may have enjoyed having him on a string, leading him on, if you like.”

“Taking advantage of an aging fool who couldn’t keep his fly closed?”

“And now with this strange business of his disappearance, she’s seriously worried about her misdeeds, whatever they are, surfacing.”

“Then it’s time to find out what they are.” Lermov took the Putin letter from his pocket and passed it to him. “Go down to the cell block, order the commanding officer to provide you with two military police sergeants, women, but the type who look like prison officers. Proceed to Lieutenant Greta Bikov’s home. You will remind her she is still an officer in the GRU and that duty calls. The sergeants will assist her into her uniform, if necessary.”

There was a kind of admiration on Ivanov’s face. “Of course, Colonel.”

“I’ll give you an hour, then I’ll present myself in the cell block and start her interrogation. So get on with it.”

Ivanov went away, almost running, and the old tea woman came back along the walkway. She paused, “Another tea, Colonel, you look stressed. What’s wrong?”

“It’s the acting,
babushka,
it always takes it out of me playing somebody I’m not,” Lermov told her.

“What you need is another glass of tea.”

“I don’t think so.” He smiled. “But you can give me one of those cigarettes, if you like.”

 

 

 

The house overlooking
the river was definitely tsarist in origin, as Ivanov had expected. The Bikov apartment was on the top floor and served by an ancient lift with a metal lattice door. Before going up, Ivanov gave his two forbidding-looking women police sergeants instructions.

“I doubt if you will ever handle a matter of greater importance than this.” He produced the Putin letter, opened it, and held it before them. “We are here at our Prime Minister’s bidding to arrest a serving officer of the GRU who needs to answer grave charges, one Greta Bikov.”

Neither woman showed any emotion, not a flicker on the face. The senior said, “How do we handle the matter, Captain?”

“No need to get too physical, Sergeant Stransky. Let’s just frighten the hell out of her, put her in the right frame of mind for her interrogation.”

The bell sounded like a distant echo from another time, but the maid who answered it was young, dressed in jeans and a smock, rubber gloves on her hands, obviously engaged in cleaning. A look of dismay appeared on her face.

Sergeant Stransky barked with infinite menace, “Lieutenant Greta Bikov.” She moved straight past the girl and led the way along a short corridor. Which opened into an arched entrance with drapes on either side and, beyond, a large sitting room.

There was a piano, a fine carpet, too much old-fashioned furniture, and wingback chairs. Having studied Greta Bikov’s service record, Ivanov knew that the woman in the wheelchair beside the fire was the mother, crippled with rheumatoid arthritis in spite of being only fifty years of age. Greta was sitting opposite her, wearing a bathrobe and what looked like pajama bottoms. She’d been holding a cup in both hands and, in scrambling to her feet, spilled some of its contents. Her face was wild with fear.

Her mother cried out, “Who are you? What do you want?”

Peter Ivanov saluted with infinite courtesy. “You must excuse the intrusion, madam, but your daughter must return to duty.”

“This is nonsense,” Mrs. Bikov told him. “She is ill.”

To Greta, confronted by Ivanov in that magnificent uniform with all the medals, it was as if the Devil himself had come to fetch her.

She said desperately, “I’m on indefinite sick leave.”

“Terminated on the orders of Colonel Josef Lermov, now Head of Station for the GRU in London.”

“No, surely it cannot be?” she said faintly.

Ivanov took out the Putin letter, unfolded it, and held it up in front of her. “The Prime Minister himself requests your presence.”

She seemed to stagger, clutching at the back of her chair. Ivanov nodded to Stransky and her partner, who came forward and took an arm each. “Don’t be alarmed. These women are simply here to assist you to dress. You must make your appearance in uniform. Go with them now.”

They took her away to her bedroom. Her mother had started to weep, holding a handkerchief to her mouth. She said brokenly, “But what has she done?”