Who Dares Wins (33 page)

Sam approached the chair. ‘I’m going to untie you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your gun and mine. One of them will be pointing in your direction all the time.’

The Russian sneered.

‘I mean it, Dolohov. You won’t even be able to take a shit without me being there. Just in case you had any plans to play silly buggers.’

‘To play what?’

‘Just do what you’re told, Dolohov. If you want to make it through the day, that is.’ Sam walked round to the back of the chair and untied the flex. It fell from around Dolohov’s body. The Russian raised his arms and for the first time looked at his hands. They were a mess. The skin was stained and smeared with blood and the stumps where his fingers used to be glistened painfully. Dolohov looked bilious.

‘Count yourself lucky you didn’t go the way of the red-light runners, Dolohov,’ Sam told him, pointing his gun nonchalantly in the Russian’s direction. ‘But there’s still time, so let’s not fuck around. Where’s your computer?’

Dolohov looked towards the main doors of the room, out on to the hallway. ‘In my bedroom,’ he said.

‘Get moving.’

The Russian pushed himself weakly to his feet. He was unable to walk in a straight line as he staggered out of the room with Sam following behind – close, but not too close. The guy was a trained assassin, after all.

The bedroom was large and high-ceilinged. It was dominated by a big iron bed with an elegant patchwork quilt. There was a fireplace in this room, too; and next to it, against the wall, a large oak desk with a laptop computer neatly placed upon it.

‘Sit down,’ Sam instructed. ‘Open up the computer.’ Dolohov did as he was told. Sam paused as a thought hit him. ‘If you send e-mail from here, is it secure? Can anyone tap in?’

Dolohov shook his head. ‘Of course not. I have a virtual private network. I can communicate with Moscow, or anyone, without the risk of my communications being intercepted.’ He placed his wounded hands flat on the table. ‘I assume from your question,’ he said shrewdly, ‘that you are not involved with the security services.’

Sam remained dead-eyed. He put his gun against the back of his captive’s head. ‘Just do what you’re told, Dolohov. Write it now. Request a meeting. As soon as possible.’

He watched as Dolohov slowly and painfully used one of his remaining fingers to type a message. With each stroke of the keyboard he winced, leaving a moist trail of red where the stumps brushed against it. The message was short and to the point.
MEETING NEEDED. URGENT. REVERT WITH TIME AND PLACE. DOLOHOV
. The Russian slid one finger over the mouse pad, inserted an e-mail address into the address field, then directed the cursor towards the send button.

‘Stop,’ Sam said.

Dolohov froze.

‘Put your hands on the table. Both of them.’

Sam removed the gun from the back of Dolohov’s head, walked round to his side and pressed the weapon against the back of the Russian’s right hand. Dolohov looked up at him in horror.

‘You think I’m stupid?’ Sam growled.

‘What do you mean?’ Dolohov’s voice was little more than a breath.

‘I think you might have forgotten something,’ Sam pressed; and from the way Dolohov jutted out his jaw involuntarily, he could tell his suspicion was on the money. Dolohov would have some way of raising a distress signal in a situation like this. A phrase to be inserted into any communication or, more likely, a phrase to be omitted. ‘Are you going to alter that message so that it doesn’t raise any alarms?’ Sam demanded. ‘Or are you and I going to start talking about how useful your thumbs are again?’ He pressed the gun down harder. ‘It’s up to you, Dolohov. But I think you know I’m not fucking around.’

A pause. And then, slowly, Dolohov’s free hand slid once more to the keyboard. At the beginning of the e-mail he typed an extra sentence:
ALL IS WELL AT THE UNIVERSITY
. His breath was shaking as he waited for further instruction from Sam.

Sam gave it a few seconds. Then he raised the gun and put it to the side of Dolohov’s head. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, his voice grim.

Dolohov’s body slumped. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Either he was a brilliant actor, or Sam had scared all the remnants of duplicity out of him.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Send the thing.’

It looked to Sam as if it took all of Dolohov’s energy to raise his hand again. But he did it and with what looked like a superhuman effort, he moved the cursor once more to the send button.

And then he clicked. The window disappeared. The e-mail was sent.

It could be an hour before they received a reply. It could be a day. It could be a week. All they could do now was wait.

In the era of Communism, the huge, austere yellow-brick building on Lubyanka Square had housed not only the offices of the KGB, but also their prison. Many people who came to the attention of the secret police could expect to end up in this building, where torture and forced interrogation were commonplace. Not far from the centre of Moscow, it served as a constant reminder that the state would accept no dissent. Now, however, its reputation was less severe. It was still an administrative building, and no doubt it harboured many ghosts for those Muscovites who still remembered those dark days, but people could now walk past it without feeling a nervous chill that was nothing to do with the weather. Without feeling that the building itself was watching them.

Jacob Redman, emerging from the car that had been waiting on the tarmac for him at the airport, looked up at it. The car’s windows were tinted, so he squinted as the bright daylight hit his eyes. He’d managed to get some much needed shut-eye on the plane that had transported him directly from Baikonur to Moscow, under the watchful eye of the two Russian soldiers that had accompanied him. Even now they were escorting him from the car up to the main entrance of the building that now housed part of the FSB’s offices. Jacob walked briskly and with purpose. The heels of his shoes echoed on the hard floor of the cavernous entrance hall, which still bore signatures of its past – a lack of natural light and a kind of facelessness that hid the terrible things that had once gone on here. A suited official recognised him immediately and, with a nod first at Jacob and then at the two soldiers – an indication they were no longer required – he led the Englishman silently up three flights of stairs, along a corridor, which Jacob knew looked like every other corridor in this building, until they reached a door. The suit knocked, then held the door open and Jacob walked in. The door was closed tactfully behind him.

It was a large office, more comfortable than might perhaps have been expected given the basic nature of the rest of the building, but hardly luxurious. Thin carpet tiles on the floor. A leather sofa, but old. And a functional desk in the centre of the room, behind which sat a man. Nikolai Surov was a thin, sallow-faced man with sharp eyes and perfectly white hair. It was impossible to judge his age. Fifty? Sixty? Seventy? Any of these were possible. He was reading a report of some description; as Jacob entered, he raised his eyes. There was no expression in them, but that was usual. Jacob had met the director of the FSB enough times to know that he played his cards very close to his chest.

Surov indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk. ‘Sit down,’ he said. His English was thickly accented, but very good. Jacob took a seat as Surov laid his report on the table and gazed at him with his inscrutable eyes.

‘We had not expected to see you in Moscow for a long time,’ Surov said finally.

‘Thanks for the warm welcome.’

His sarcasm was lost on the director. ‘They did not offer you a shower and some clean clothes at Baikonur?’

Jacob was unshaven and dirty. ‘I guess they must have forgotten their manners. They told you what happened at the training camp?’

Surov nodded. ‘How can you be sure it was the SAS?’

‘I recognise their handwriting.’ He hadn’t mentioned Sam in his report. There were some things the man sitting opposite him
didn’t
need to know. ‘What happened to your Spetsnaz boys who were supposed to be keeping watch in case something like this happened?’

‘Dead,’ the director said shortly. ‘Along with all the recruits. Your former colleagues did their work well.’

Jacob remained stony-faced. ‘I told you a four-man unit wouldn’t be enough.’

The director appeared not to hear. He sat silently for nearly a minute before he spoke again. ‘Your agent in London . . .’ He scanned his desk for another piece of paper. ‘Jamie Spillane?’ His rendition of the name, couched as it was in his thick Russian accent, made it almost unrecognisable.

Jacob nodded.

‘He has been activated. We have supplied him with what he needs. You are sure he is . . .’ Surov’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are sure he is fitted for the task?’

‘As well as any of them,’ Jacob said shortly.

‘He will be discreet?’

Jacob shrugged. ‘Who knows? As discreet as any of them can be. Once you hand him over to the Georgians, he can be as indiscreet as he likes.’

‘And you are confident he believes he is working for MI5?’

‘He has no reason not to.’

‘Good. This is a very important operation for the continuing security of the Russian people. There will be a medal for you.’

‘I’m not interested in medals. Just the money.’

Surov nodded. ‘There will be that, of course. The assassination will be the last operation for your students. Now that the British know what is happening, I am ordering the immediate elimination of all unactivated agents in the field.’ He smiled. ‘All except Jamie Spillane, of course.’

Jacob remained expressionless. ‘Sounds like Dolohov’s going to be busy.’

Again Surov nodded. ‘Dolohov. Yes. We need to speak about Dolohov. You have received a communication from him.’ For a split second Surov’s eyes showed signs of amusement at Jacob’s flicker of surprise. ‘You did not know that we monitor your e-mails? Of course we do.’

‘Of course,’ Jacob replied flatly. ‘What does Dolohov want?’

‘To meet you.’

Jacob raised an eyebrow in suspicion. ‘Bit of a coincidence?’

‘It is worrying. We can rest assured that Dolohov does not know the details of the Georgian operation. But it is unusual for him to make any contact with us at all.’

‘Any distress signals?’

‘On the contrary, he included his identification code with the message. It’s definitely from Dolohov.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ Jacob replied. ‘If
I
wanted to get him to do what I said, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.’

The director looked perplexed. ‘Tricks up your sleeve?’ he asked before shaking his head in momentary annoyance at his lack of understanding. ‘There is,’ he said, once he had regained his composure, ‘every possibility that Dolohov has been compromised.’

‘Then you need to take him out,’ Jacob said. ‘Now.’

Surov’s eyes narrowed. He put his arms in front of him and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Dolohov is a valued agent,’ he said. ‘He has worked for this service – and the service that preceded it – for many, many years. Even before glasnost and perestroika.’ He smiled. ‘
Especially
before glasnost and perestroika. In the days of the old regime, he was a most committed patriot. That is not a quality you value highly, I know . . .’

Jacob gave him a dark look. ‘Patriotism’s a two-way street, Surov.’

‘Dolohov performed many . . .’ He inclined his head. ‘Many
operations
.’

‘Perhaps he just likes killing people.’

‘Perhaps,’ Surov acknowledged. ‘But he continues to be of great use to us even now. If he has truly been compromised, then yes, I would agree that action needs to be taken. But we owe him the courtesy of finding out. As you say, patriotism is a two-way street.’

‘Fine,’ Jacob said shortly. ‘Good luck.’

The director looked at him meaningfully. ‘Dolohov is an unusually skilled operator,’ he continued. ‘If he has requested a meeting with you, then a meeting with you is the only thing that will satisfy him. Anything else will scare him off. The Georgian operation will reach its conclusion in five days’ time. And with the end of your operations in Kazakhstan, it would seem that you are available to us for other purposes. Assuming, that is, that you remain committed to helping us?’

Jacob looked away for a moment. He felt the muscles in his face tense up. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Surov didn’t take his eyes from him. ‘Go to England,’ he said. ‘Determine whether Dolohov has been compromised. If not, speak to him. If he has, in that case you know what to do.’

‘So much for your two-way patriotism,’ Jacob muttered.

The FSB director answered immediately. ‘We are at least giving him a chance. That is more than the British government ever did for you, is it not?’

Jacob stood up. Already his mind was turning over. Getting to England would not be child’s play. He didn’t want to risk a fake Russian passport with UK immigration. If the alert had gone out about him, his likeness would have been distributed to all the ports of entry. No. He’d have to do something different. Get entry to another country using false papers and make his own arrangements from there.’

‘Can you get me to France?’ he asked the director.

‘Of course,’ Surov said mildly.

‘Then tell Dolohov I’ll meet him. Three days from now. 10 p.m. The statue of Eros in Piccadilly.’ He stood up and made to leave.

‘Sit down, please.’ A hint of steel in Surov’s voice.

Jacob hesitated, then retook his seat.

‘You have not been to the UK for some time.’

‘Six years.’

‘Many things change in six years. We informed you of your mother’s death. You were wise enough to stay away, not to let sentiment cloud your judgement.’