The translator, p.36
The Translator, page 36
Meanwhile, the FSB agent in bib C207 was bent over, gasping, his eyes fixed on Marina. Suddenly the polar bear bounded forward and took C207 by the hand and started to dance to Isaak Dunayevsky’s ‘Sports March’, which was blaring from the loudspeaker. The FSB tail tried to shake off these unwelcome advances, but the bear would not leave him alone, bobbing up and down right in front of his face, making it hard, even impossible for him to keep Marina Volina in his sights.
Still holding her silver warmer tight around her shoulders, Marina walked over to a white-haired lady with smooth cheeks standing behind the barrier and holding up a hand-painted sign: PLANET BEFORE PROFIT. On her head she had a Happy Birthday Moscow cap, and over her shoulder, a backpack.
Then came the crash. A section of the barrier tipped over under the weight of screaming schoolchildren as they rushed forward to mob their teachers. Marina and the elderly lady were almost knocked to the ground. Oxana steadied herself, took off the backpack and handed it to Marina, who had lost her silver warmer in the crush and was penned in on all sides. Somehow Marina was able to pull a tracksuit jacket from the backpack, zip it over her marathon bib and take the cap from Oxana’s head. Suddenly, she looked like everyone else in the crowd. The two women exchanged looks, then, with surprising force for a lady her age, Oxana burrowed her way back into the raucous crowd.
The second crash was even louder than the first. As another part of the barrier fell, hundreds of children were suddenly rushing forward, spilling onto the track just beyond the finish line. Marina caught sight of a banner with the slogan: THE CLIMATE IS CHANGING! WHY AREN’T WE?
Then a new chanting began. It was almost a song, surging upwards with magnificent force, “Save our forests! Save our Russia! Save our planet!”
Suddenly a cry went up, and the schoolchildren broke off their singing and made way for a stretcher. A white-haired lady in her seventies had fainted right at the feet of Lieutenant Mishin, who was asked to move out of the way by Sergei, the medic.
By now General Varlamov was tired of being pushed and jostled by the crowd, and so he took refuge in the BMW and summoned Mishin and his other FSB agents to join him. He studied the flushed face and fearful eyes of the agent in the C207 running bib and reminded him that his job, his only job, was to tail Volina.
“What makes me think you lost her?” asked the general.
“Sir, I’m really sorry, but there was this fancy-dress polar bear in my face, and then the stampede…”
The FSB agent prepared himself for a dressing down. Instead, the general went quiet. In moments of genuine crisis Varlamov did not explode; on the contrary, he became ice cold and had absolute clarity of thought.
Varlamov turned to Mishin. “The girl with red hair?”
“She’s under arrest, sitting in a police car.”
“Good,” he said. “Through her, we’ll get the criminal, Ivan. As for Volina, she can’t get away. Her passport is biometric, and all her personal details are on there, including her security status, which doesn’t allow her to travel abroad unless it’s authorized by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She needs official clearance. There’s no way she can leave the country.”
“Unless she takes a train to Minsk on her internal passport.”
Varlamov looked at Mishin, whose pupils seemed enormous through the thick lenses.
“Good thinking,” said the general. “Send an immediate alert to Belorussky station. Tell the guards to be extra vigilant. And circulate Volina’s photograph. Make sure it’s everywhere. At all railway stations and airports, and with the traffic police. Volina will be trying to get on an aeroplane, or a train, or sitting in a car, and we are going to find her. Tell the head of security at the station that I want our transport police to board every train going to Belarus, and tell them to carry out a second round of checks once the passengers are in their seats. Tell the head of the transport police that he can have all the reinforcements he needs. The next few hours are crucial.”
Mishin had pulled out his phone and was already stabbing at the screen.
“If she makes a dash for Simferopol and her villa,” said Mishin, “we can pick her up at Sheremetyevo this evening.”
“Put a trace on her mobile.”
“I have.”
Varlamov decided he could not wait; he needed to get to Serov right away and expose the bitch, Volina. Even without a confession, his case against her was overwhelming. He decided to take Lieutenant Mishin, who might be useful.
The general was about to tell his driver to take them to the Senate Palace when he heard the loud and unmistakable ringtone of the Russian national anthem. Varlamov looked down at his phone, and only then did he see that he had five missed calls from his wife. The general got out of the car and, shielding himself from the screaming teenagers, pressed the iPhone to his ear. Raisa was hysterical. She didn’t know how to break the news, but someone had hacked into her bank account and taken all her money. All his money. One million dollars. Last Wednesday.
“Last Wednesday!” shouted the general. “And you only notice four days later?” Raisa fought back: of course she didn’t check her bank account every day. Who does? In fact, she barely checked her account at all. Why should she? It was always full of money.
Varlamov shouted at Raisa, called her an idiot and threatened divorce as he ended the call.
A strange feeling came over the general. He realized that he was being hunted like an animal. He slipped his iPhone into his pocket, and the tips of his fingers touched a scrap of paper that had not been there before. It was the torn-off end of a marathon flyer with a message scrawled in capital letters: THERE’S NOWHERE TO HIDE.
The general could feel beads of sweat breaking on his forehead. He pulled out a perfectly ironed white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, and, as he did so, all sound fell away: the raucous shouting and clapping from spectators, even the whirring blades of a helicopter overhead – all this evaporated as he stood in his own silent world. And in that moment, he understood, with perfect clarity, the immediate danger he faced. His enemy was a vigorous young man, a black belt in the martial arts of cyber warfare, out to destroy him.
Varlamov felt himself alone in space, floating, with nowhere to go. He was, for the first time in his life, lost, desperate, unable to defend himself. He stared blankly at the ambulance – an old GAZ, siren blaring – as it shuddered off into the city.
While hundreds of children were chanting slogans to save the planet, Marina had slipped unnoticed into the back of the ambulance where she found herself alone with Oxana, who was lying on the stretcher. Marina kissed Oxana’s hand, then she changed into a tracksuit and was reunited with her passport, her wallet and her phone. She looked out of a window to see where she was. At that moment Oxana sat up, her face flushed with excitement, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Marina stopped her.
“Make me a promise? If I save your job, you’ll give up smoking. Is that a deal?”
Oxana’s eyes filled with tears.
“You’re going away, aren’t you?”
Marina banged hard on the small partition window through which she could see the driver, Lena. The ambulance stopped opposite the crenellated red brick walls of the Kremlin, and Anna opened the back door.
“Anything wrong?”
Marina looked straight at Anna. The raw animosity was gone. There was something new in her eyes: suspicion, perhaps, but also curiosity.
“This is where I get out,” said Marina.
“But this isn’t Belorusskaya station.”
“I’m not taking the train.”
“You can’t fly to Minsk. They’ll arrest you.”
“I’m not going to Minsk. Change of plan. Thanks for everything.”
Anna stared hard at Marina, then reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t know what your plan is,” said Anna, “but good luck, my once-upon-a-time friend.”
“Keep this for me, will you?” Marina said suddenly, pressing her marathon medal into Anna’s hand.
Anna stood by the ambulance and watched as Marina disappeared into the underpass and re-emerged the other side, where she showed her pass to the security guards at the Borovitskaya Tower. Then she passed under an arch, which reminded Anna of a mouth: a gaping Kremlin mouth that had just devoured Marina.
34
The corridors were quiet. It was Sunday after all. Marina walked right past her office door. At the end of the long corridor, the gilded doors were shut, and two FSO guards were standing to attention. She recognized one of them; his name was Bogdan.
“Could I see Lev Lvovich, please?” she said to Bogdan. He smiled and opened the gilded door. In a corner of his office, Lev was sitting on the floor, meditating. Marina coughed loudly.
“Lyova, I have to see the president. I have to see him right away. It is of the utmost importance.”
“Did you finish?” Lev asked, jumping to his feet. “Yes? Bravo! Are you sure you want to see him? He’s in a filthy mood… But then, you can’t really blame him. His pet project has just blown up in his face. Then Romanovsky brought even more bad news just now. I don’t suppose you’ve got any glad tidings? No? I didn’t think so. You look exhausted. How did the Englishman do? Does the boss have his photo?”
“No,” said Marina. “But I’ve brought him something much better than that. A head on a plate.”
“That should cheer him up,” said Lev. “He’s called a national security meeting in an hour.”
“I need ten minutes.”
“He’s all yours.”
Lev followed Marina into the president’s office and took up his usual place in the corner. Serov was staring out of the window.
“What is it, Marina?” Serov said, turning around, with none of the usual warmth in his voice. Marina took a deep breath.
“Nikolai Nikolayevich,” she said, standing before the president, keeping this as formal as possible. “As you know, I have always steered clear of internal politics and intrigue. But when you asked me to help with your investigations, I was happy to oblige. However, I now find myself in possession of many disturbing facts and… well… I could never live with myself if I didn’t tell you what I know about General Varlamov.”
The president listened in silence as Marina laid out her case against General Varlamov. She was very methodical.
“Let’s start with the man himself,” she said. “He’s got fingers in many pies, as you know well. First: fraud. He’s been stealing from Russia; he’s been stealing from you, Nikolai Nikolayevich. The general helped himself to a billion dollars from the World Cup Development Fund. He had partners, of course, but he was the main beneficiary. The money went into an account in the British Virgin Islands, and from there it went to Panama. I have the details. Second: extortion. He acts as protection for a dozen businesses, including Boris Kunko’s nightclub, collecting several hundred thousand dollars a month from each client. Again, I have all the details. Third: security. There’s a video of him having sex with his girlfriend, Dasha; as of this morning, it’s been widely distributed. He’s definitely a security risk.”
“I know about the video,” said Serov. His voice was thin, tired. “I’ve seen it. Romanovsky was here earlier. He also told me that Grisha’s email has been hacked.”
Marina dropped her voice. This was the moment.
“Nikolai Nikolayevich, all of this is secondary to a deep suspicion that I feel honour-bound to share with you. I do not have definitive proof, but I swear on my father’s life that I believe your friend Grisha is the mole. And what’s more, he wants your job.”
Serov scowled and moved away from the window towards his desk. He spoke quietly and deliberately.
“What makes you think that?”
“Operation Hades is aborted. Forgive me, Nikolai Nikolayevich, but in the eyes of your own senior ministers, you have failed. Before long, the general will suggest that perhaps you should consider retiring, and that it would be logical to designate as your successor your old and trusted friend, Grigory Mikhailovich Varlamov.”
Marina stopped speaking and let the room fill with silence. Lev was staring at her, and so was the president.
“From the outset, I believe the general did not want Operation Hades to succeed, in order to discredit you. He had endless opportunities to meet with the British political counsellor and resident spy, Oswald Martindale. In fact, two weeks ago they were together in your villa when you met with the British prime minister. But, in my opinion, the general used a different route. He passed classified information about Operation Hades to your enemy and oligarch in exile, Sergei Yegorov, who was living in England and who passed this information on to the British. General Varlamov and Sergei Yegorov were working together against you. When the general felt he had given the British enough to go on, he had Yegorov killed under the pretext he was a danger to you. Am I right it was the general’s suggestion to eliminate Yegorov?”
“It was very much Grisha’s idea. He said the man was undermining my authority.”
Lev kept his eyes on Serov.
“There’s one more thing,” said Marina in a low, deadly voice. “It comes under the heading of ‘deception’. General Varlamov is a major shareholder in that bogus Professor Tabakova’s longevity company. You didn’t know? Really? Nikolai Nikolayevich, my point is that Grigory Mikhailovich is not what he seems.”
Serov was now sitting behind his desk, the tips of his fingers drumming on the shiny mahogany surface against the background ticking of the ormolu clock.
The intercom buzzed on the president’s desk. Lev lurched forward and picked up the receiver.
“It’s General Varlamov,” said Lev.
“Send him in,” said Serov, sitting upright in his chair.
General Varlamov strode into the room, but when he saw Marina in her tracksuit, he stopped dead. His eyes jumped from Serov to Lev, then came to rest on Marina.
“So,” said the general, “she’s got here first. Let me guess… Marina Andreyevna’s been making up lies to discredit me. Am I right? Yes? Can’t you see she’s doing this to save her skin?” Varlamov then pointed a finger at Marina. “This woman is a traitor. She told the Englishman, Clive Franklin, about Operation Hades, and Franklin told the British ambassador, who passed it on to London.”
The president stared at Varlamov.
“General, you seem to forget that she had no access to classified information. She was at none of our meetings.”
“She was on board the Moskva. She even passed through the confidential compartment.”
“We were all on board the Moskva. And Marina was never alone.”
“Maybe it wasn’t on the Moskva. Maybe it was at some other social occasion… She’s always by your side, Nikolai Nikolayevich. Thanks to you, Marina Volina moves in the highest circles and has every opportunity to gather this intelligence… All that I know is that somehow she found out about Operation Hades,” Varlamov said emphatically. “She found out and passed it on.”
“Maybe it was you,” said the president, staring at Varlamov. “Maybe you told your girlfriend, and your girlfriend told the British. I’ve seen the video, Grisha. It’s quite something. I see it’s been forwarded to a great many of your email contacts. Including your wife.”
Varlamov checked his phone and saw that the video had indeed been sent three minutes ago to dozens of his contacts. Already there was a WhatsApp message from his sixteen-year-old daughter, his beautiful Veronika. “I hate you,” she had written, in words and without her usual emojis. “I never want to see you again.”
Varlamov kept his voice steady.
“I don’t deny I have a girlfriend. But she doesn’t even know my name.”
“I don’t care about the video!” Serov said in a burst of anger. “You betrayed me! You betrayed Russia!”
Varlamov was about to speak when Lev stepped forward to show Serov something on his phone.
“The icing on the cake…” said Serov, in a trembling, high-pitched voice. “Your hacked emails are all over WikiLeaks. Posted four minutes ago… Can you see how ridiculous this makes us look? The FSB? Russia? And me? I’m a laughing stock…”
The president picked up the receiver and murmured a terse instruction. Two armed guards arrived in the room and saluted.
“Arrest the general.”
The soldiers looked stunned. Varlamov stared at Serov, his eyes full of reproach. Serov stared back, unforgiving. Already, Varlamov could hear his daughter shouting in his ear, in her high-pitched voice, full of fury: “I hate you. I never want to see you again.”
General Varlamov reached inside his jacket and pulled out his Makarov. For a split second, he pointed the barrel of the gun at the president, then swung the gun towards Marina. He fired. Marina fell. And so did Varlamov.
Lev had pulled out his own Makarov, aimed at Varlamov’s head and shot the general dead. At the sound of gunshots, more soldiers burst into the room, their guns pointing wildly, only to stop dead when they saw the body of General Varlamov sprawled out on the floor, legs twisted, and Marina, unconscious on the ground, blood pouring from her neck.
“An ambulance… Get an ambulance!” the president shouted at Lev, who was crouching on the ground beside Marina, pressing his handkerchief to her wound. Lev could feel warm blood on his hand.
“Please, Marina Andreyevna,” he whispered. “Hang on.”
That same afternoon, at an emergency meeting of the security council, General Varlamov’s chair was empty. The president, pale and clearly shaken, announced that there had been a terrible accident. General Varlamov had been cleaning his new pistol and the loaded gun went off by mistake. It was a tragedy, a terrible loss to the nation. There was a buzz of astonishment at the meeting, but no one dared to question the information. The president, barely able to get the words out and trembling with emotion, admitted that he was devastated to lose such a close and devoted friend.
Eventually, President Serov mastered his grief and addressed the national security meeting.
“We are gathered here today,” said Serov, “to discuss how to deal with the current crisis. Three fibre-optic cables under the Atlantic have been disabled somewhere off the southern coast of Cornwall. We don’t know how, but already the United Kingdom is pointing the finger at Russia.”
