The man called kyril, p.19
The Man Called Kyril, page 19
‘Cleanliness is not his strong point, that I grant you. But he’s a good man, I’m sure of it. I don’t actually remember recommending him, Valery, but he should do all right. He’s a natural-born killer, through and through. If anyone can liquidate Bucharensky it’ll be that little swine, right enough.’
Michaelov stayed sunk in thought for several moments, still only half-convinced.
‘They hate each other, you know.’
‘Mm?’
‘After that time in Paris. Bucharensky and Sikarov. They hate each other.’
Povin frowned. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing, Valery.’
Michaelov stood up, his fears somewhat allayed by Povin’s unshakeable calm. ‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time, old friend.’
Povin smiled. ‘I was glad to be interrupted.’ He held up the book which had lain in his hands since his chief’s arrival. ‘I’m trying to see why the Dublin referentura is so excited about this rubbish.’
Michaelov peered closer, and saw that the book was entitled A History of Christian Philosophy.
‘The author’s one of ours,’ explained Povin. ‘In Dublin University – what’s it called, Trinity? The Resident is worried he’s turning subversive.’
Michaelov shook his head, laughing. ‘The things we have to do for the Motherland. I’ll let you get on.’
But at the door he turned.
‘Loshkevoi.’
Povin looked up, surprised. ‘What about him?’
‘Had you ever heard the name before this?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing on file?’
‘No, I’ve looked and checked with London.’
Michaelov shook his head. ‘Then where the hell did the old man get the name from?’
Povin’s face set in a guarded look. ‘He’s playing a very deep game. I’m scared out of my wits, I don’t mind telling you. Always plotting away and never telling anyone. Take Sociable Plover, a good example. I’ve been thinking about that…’
Povin stood up and threw the book on to his chair. ‘Look, what have we got? You went to find out what was in the blue safe and you found Sociable Plover. We know that Kyril hasn’t got it. For some reason Stanov’s using Kyril as disinformation. I’ve been thinking what I’d do in his place. I’d have told Kyril that Sociable Plover doesn’t really exist. I’d lie to him, in fact. Then if he’s caught, SIS are going to be confused: does it exist or doesn’t it? In other words, I think we can forget about Sociable Plover. It’s a blind.’
‘But why go to so much trouble?’ Michaelov shook his head in exasperation. ‘He seems to be hell-bent on stirring us up, not the British. If anyone’s being fed disinformation, it’s us here in Dzerzhinsky Square. What is the point of it all?’
Povin lowered his eyes. ‘I told you what Kazin thinks.’
‘Aah, that’s a load of shit. I’ll believe a lot of things, Stepan, but not that the Chairman of the KGB is on the point of defecting to the West. Not this Chairman.’
‘Then… what?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m damn well going to find out. One thing at a time. First we liquidate Bucharensky and protect Royston. Then we go to work at this end. And no sleep for us until we know all the answers.’
Michaelov banged the door-jamb with his fist.
‘You’ve never been followed, Stepan. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s getting so I can’t sleep nights. I’ll never forgive him. Never!’
On leaving Povin’s office Michaelov looked at his watch. Five o’clock. As he walked back to his own room he became aware of a commotion at the end of the corridor. Stanov swept past the sentries, closely followed by Yevchenko, their faces black as thunder. The Chairman of the KGB seemed excited about something; his voice was raised and despite the distance which separated them Michaelov could distinctly hear the sound of a fist pounding wood. He ducked quickly into his own suite of offices and closed the door firmly behind him.
‘No calls,’ he growled to the young lieutenant who guarded the inner sanctum. ‘If the Chairman asks for me, I’ve gone for the night.’
Once inside his own room he relaxed a little. Sikarov was already forgotten. Most of the afternoon had been wasted and waste put General Michaelov out of sorts. There was a lot to do. He reached for the phone.
‘Get my wife… Hello? Nadia? Look, I’ll be working late tonight. Don’t wait up.’
* * *
For several minutes after his boss had left the office Povin remained motionless before the fire, the book forgotten. He stared into the middle distance, a half-smile on his lips. Then, like a man who has done with a daydream, he put down the book and walked over to the cupboard under the window. Inside was a bottle of petrovka. He uncorked it and poured himself a generous measure, which he downed in one before pouring another and drinking it more slowly. After he had put away the bottle and the glass he swept a strand of hair from his forehead. His hand was shaking so badly that he had to do it twice.
Chapter 22
‘We always thought Kyril was only a moderate performer. But he’s good. He’s very good indeed.’
C stood at the window looking out over the Thames, his spectacles dangling loosely in his hands. He seemed distracted. Royston bit his tongue and refrained from snapping at his chief. ‘I know that,’ he wanted to shriek. ‘I don’t need an old fool like you to tell me that we’ve lost him, perhaps for ever…’
Royston had not been sleeping well. His doctor prescribed a course of Tuinal, and at first the tablets helped. Now Royston was almost back to where he started: a period of sleep between midnight and two, followed by a long drift into wakefulness and uneasy dreams. Jenny was concerned. So was Royston.
‘You could step up surveillance on the Bradfield woman,’ said the Head of the Inquisition. ‘She’ll be out of hospital tomorrow.’
Royston turned smouldering eyes on him, but remained silent. In the good old days, if the London Station-Chief had a good idea he’d go along for a chat with Maurice Oldfield, who’d be as likely to talk about cricket as anything else and make him feel in ten minutes that it was worth £2700 a year. Christ, thought Royston savagely, to think we used to live on that. No London weighting then… and no bloody kitchen cabinets, either; no interminable discussions, always ending with a reference back to Accounts and Audit…
‘And this other man, Loshkevoi,’ put in the Senior Planner. ‘If Nidus is right in supposing that Kyril wants to see him, for whatever reason, I was wondering whether it might not be a good idea to propose a joint venture to someone with superior capacity… the CIA, now…’ Royston twisted sharply in his chair and the Head of the Inquisition tut-tutted. Only Sir Richard Bryant did not move or say anything, but continued to stare out of the window.
‘I think that Edward’s well-known preference for liaising at every level with the Cousins should not be allowed to cloud the fact that this is, ah, essentially a domestic matter.’
‘I agree,’ said Royston, mildly surprised to find himself supporting the Head of the Inquisition for once.
‘And so do I.’
C’s voice was very gentle.
‘There’s been far too much noise as it is. Soviet agents under trains… Once we invoke the Cousins we’ll find them wanting participation rights. It’s happened before.’
He turned to face the room and Royston saw that his face was dark with trouble.
‘You probably do not know – there is no reason why you should – the terms on which Nidus is reimbursed. He is a man of some principle. At his own request, his monthly stipend is paid directly into a numbered UNICEF bank account in Geneva. For reasons into which I have never inquired, dollars, in any shape or form…’
C’s voice was at its most austerely chill.
‘…are not acceptable. No, gentlemen: leave the Americans out of this.’
C resumed his seat behind the desk.
‘Bradfield and Loshkevoi: they are your immediate targets. Watch them and eventually Kyril will cross your line of sight.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Damn the expense; take what you need.’
He nodded to indicate that the meeting was over, and two of the other men present at once stood up. Royston remained stubbornly rooted to his chair. C raised an inquiring eyebrow and tilted his head slightly.
‘I need a few moments with you alone, please.’
Royston felt that in his present exhausted state he would have had to submit to anything C said or did. The relief he experienced when Bryant waved the other two out found tangible expression through all the taut muscles of his aching body.
‘If we’re going to get him… I mean, get him properly, nail him down… I need a nugget.’
‘Yes. I thought it might be that.’
‘Nugget’ was a Service euphemism for a lure. It could take many forms: a woman, money, political asylum.
‘Kyril was very high,’ Royston continued, keeping his eyes fixed on C’s face. ‘Stanov’s man. I need something he can identify with – a piece of information only the Chairman or his assistant would be likely to know. Something… rare.’
‘Rare in the sense of precious. Quite so. A shibboleth.’
Royston’s eyes widened. He had not expected such a sympathetic hearing. ‘Yes, that’s it. Something to show we’re two of a kind.’
C said nothing. That look of trouble had returned to his normally placid face. Royston became conscious of a hollow, faintly nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t face breakfast these days, not since it first crossed his mind that during his recent spell in Dzerzhinsky Square Kyril might have learned a lot more about a man called Royston than C ever knew.
‘Did you have anything specific in mind?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact. There used to be an executive arm of the Kremlin on which we could never get any hard information. Maybe things have changed since my Moscow-watching days, I don’t know. Some kind of inspectorate. The members had to swear a special oath of allegiance to a plenary session of the Politburo. Strictly for officers only. It went under several names. The one I remember was Kremlin Kommandant.’
‘Used to be…?’
This response puzzled Royston. Why was C prevaricating?
‘Still is, I’m sure. If my contact-man could persuade Kyril that he’s a member of the Kommandant…’
C stood up and turned his back on Royston. The air of restless trouble had now overlaid his entire manner. Royston’s puzzlement grew. What was wrong? For Christ’s sake, what did they know? What did Kyril know?
‘The Kremlin Kommandant still exists, yes; nothing has changed. Brezhnev’s personal inspectorate: the spies who watch the spies. Their powers are almost unfettered. But you’re asking a lot. There is only one source for a secret of that magnitude. If it became known that a western intelligence agency had penetrated it, well…’
Royston leaned forward.
‘But if that source you mention was himself in danger… if the Chairman of the KGB was on the point of capturing a man who could unmask him…’
C wheeled round.
‘You underestimate Nidus,’ he said curtly. ‘We cannot dictate to him. He helps me in fits and starts, at his own pleasure, and usually only in the gravest of emergencies. I doubt very much whether personal considerations would play any part in his decision to give or withhold the information you seek.’
‘You seem very sure of that…’
Royston made no attempt to keep the cynicism out of his voice. The two hard points of C’s gaze dissolved, went hazy and out of focus.
‘Yes,’ he said. Then, after a long pause – ‘I am very sure.’
Royston stood up too quickly and suffered a momentary penalty of giddiness. For a scintilla of time he wanted to say, ‘By the way, just who is Nidus?’; then sanity returned. If he ever chose to ruin everything he could do it in much finer style than that.
‘I will do my very best for you,’ said C. ‘I understand your point of view. I regard it as having validity.’
He nodded dismissively. On his way out Royston heard him say, ‘This is not a time for illness. I need fit men. Try to take a day’s leave.’
A holiday, thought Royston as he rode down in the lift.
That’s what I need. Twenty years in which to think things over…
Chapter 23
Sikarov timed his arrival to coincide with the middle of the trans-Atlantic rush-hour. Four Jumbos had disgorged their human cargos in the last 30 minutes and the Russian had no difficulty in finding a package-party to join. Passengers and immigration officers all looked equally haggard.
As he approached the high, sloping desk a man in a dark grey suit materialised beside the immigration clerk for no apparent reason. While Sikarov’s passport was checked this man stood behind the clerk’s shoulder, his impassive stare never leaving Sikarov’s face. The Russian gazed stonily back at him. As the clerk stretched out to give him back his passport the man in the grey suit took it and examined the open page. Sikarov felt no qualms. It had been made in East Germany and was of the first quality. It proclaimed him to be Pietr Gablenz, an Austrian businessman on his way from Paris to London, and the visas were authentic.
The man in the dark grey suit handed Sikarov back his passport with a smile.
Once in the taxi Sikarov used its darkened rear window to observe the traffic without himself being seen. Before they reached the end of the motorway spur he knew that he was being followed and had identified the vehicle.
He frowned. He had crossed enough frontiers in his time to know the power of coincidence, but this looked suspiciously like a prearranged tail. The MI5 officer at the immigration desk had a reason for being there at the precise moment when Sikarov presented his passport. But it was unlikely that Five were having him followed on mere suspicion.
Someone had talked, then. In Moscow or, more probably, here in the London referentura. Sikarov’s lips curled back from his prominent teeth in the snarl that passed, with him, for a smile. Well, he would have a bit of fun. A short holiday before getting down to business.
He directed the cab driver to Piccadilly, and Fortnum & Masons. A large tip secured a promise to wait while the fare picked up some parcels. As he went inside Sikarov glanced to right and left. The tail vehicle, a brown Capri, was stuck behind a bus in the slow lane. Sikarov had a fleeting impression of an irate driver straining over his shoulder to find a gap in the impenetrable traffic. Excellent.
For the next five minutes the staff of Fortnums were kept very busy. Box after box was handed out to the street, there to be piled into the back of the cab by an obliging doorman. After a while there were so many parcels in the taxi that the driver had to get out and start rearranging them, putting some in the front compartment, and some in the boot. Just as everyone was starting to wonder where the fare was going to sit a number of things happened simultaneously. A policeman came up and demanded to know where the hell the cabbie thought he was, in the garage at home? The driver realised that he had not yet been paid for the trip from the airport. The shop-girl who had been kept busy taking Sikarov’s order woke up to the fact that he had not, as promised, left his American Express card with her while he went out to supervise the loading. The driver of the brown Capri collected a ticket. But Sikarov went clean into London – and disappeared.
After his initial and unexpected brush with MI5 Sikarov was forced to rethink his strategy. He felt isolated. It was time to invest in a little insurance.
When he reached the embassy later in the day it was to find everything at sixes and sevens. He learned that Kyril had been seen at the house of Vera Bradfield, but then there had been a balls-up which resulted in the death of a schpick and the target escaping surveillance. A full-scale cover-up was in progress. Sikarov grunted. He was too used to this kind of error for it to worry him. As long as he had the girl’s address he would manage somehow.
On the pretext that his gun was jamming he visited the armoury on the third floor and handed it in for a quick service. While the armourer was working on it Sikarov leaned over the counter and with a gloved hand picked up the Luger that was lying on the shelf.
‘What’s wrong with this?’
‘Faulty trigger-setting. It’s mended now.’
Sikarov weighed it thoughtfully. The armourer was coming over.
‘Should be all right. There was some dirt caked round the pin.’
Sikarov nodded. He had put it there.
‘Want to try?’
‘Sure.’
‘We’ll have to go down to the cellars, then. That’s where the range is.’
Sikarov pretended to hesitate. ‘All right. But it’ll have to be quick. Can I try the Luger?’
‘Sure, why not.’
A few minutes on the range revealed that Sikarov’s gun was now in perfect working order. Then he loosed off six shots from the Luger. It felt fine.
‘Thank you. I still prefer my own though.’
The armourer shrugged. ‘We don’t use them much now. That belongs to someone in Department V. He won’t part with it.’
Sikarov’s body was between the armourer and the table on which the guns lay. It was the easiest thing in the world for him to switch holsters.
‘I left my bag upstairs. I’ll carry these up for you.’
While the armourer turned off the lights Sikarov buttoned down both holsters firmly. Now it was impossible to tell which was which, unless you knew.
On his way out Sikarov wondered whose fingerprints would be on the Luger with which he killed Colonel Ivan Yevseevich Bucharensky. Not that it mattered. Nothing was going to mar his enjoyment of this mission, not while Kyril still owed him for what happened in Paris. And anyway, the boys in A2 enjoyed a joke.
Chapter 24
Povin nearly always woke up early, even at weekends. This Sunday he opened his eyes to find a bar of sunlight lying across his face and he blinked, surprised; did that mean spring would be early this year?
He slid out of bed and went to stand at the window whence he could look out over his neighbours’ roof-tops. Povin had long ago become entitled to occupy a larger flat on the second floor but he preferred the tiny suite of rooms tucked under the eaves for what in any case he regarded merely as a pied-à-terre. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue. He opened the window and took a deep breath of fresh air, cold as ether.
