Actually, that suited Richter just as well. Despite Simpson’s abrasive manner, sarcasm and frequent rudeness, he still believed his short-term boss was straight — or at least as straight as anybody else in the murky business he had become involved with. Richter would rather Simpson controlled the situation from his Hammersmith offices than take the risk of involving officers or facilities from any other branch of the British intelligence machine.
They arrived just after nine-thirty by taxi, and were ushered through the main entrance by two bulky security guards. Richter’s Browning semi-automatic created a Christmas tree of lights as he walked through the metal detector situated a short distance inside the building.
‘I’ll take that,’ one of the guards announced, stepping forward.
‘In your dreams,’ Richter snapped. ‘I’m hanging on to this pistol. If you don’t like it, call Simpson and get his approval.’
While his companion watched the two new arrivals carefully, the guard picked up an internal phone and held a short conversation. Then he nodded and turned back to Richter.
‘Right,’ he snarled, clearly irritated. ‘Follow me, both of you.’
He led the way to an inner hallway, and across to a pair of lifts with silver grey doors. The right-hand lift was already at their level, with the doors open, and the guard immediately stepped inside, Richter and Raya following close behind. He pressed the button for the third floor, and a few moments later they stepped out of the lift again and he escorted them down a narrow, cream-painted corridor towards a set of double doors at the far end.
He knocked twice and opened the door. Inside the room was a long table, around which were arranged about a dozen chairs. Two of them were occupied by men Richter had never seen before, both of whom stood up as he and Raya entered. On the table were sheets of writing paper and pencils, and a high-quality digital recorder to which were connected two microphones on table stands. There were also several cups and mugs, three insulated coffee pots, and a couple of plates displaying a somewhat limited selection of biscuits.
‘You must be Raya Kosov, right?’ one of the men said, extending his hand, and Raya nodded. ‘My name’s David Walters. We were really glad that you managed to get out of Italy.’
‘I had some help,’ Raya explained, glancing at Richter.
‘And you’re Richter, obviously,’ the other man said. ‘You’re the guy who’s been causing our boss such grief, not to mention leaving a trail of devastation halfway across Europe. I’m Masterson, by the way, Jeff Masterson. We’re the debriefing officers, at least for the first phase of this operation, because both of us speak and read Russian.’
‘I think “trail of devastation” is putting it a bit strongly,’ Richter protested, shaking hands with both men. ‘About all we did was blow a few tyres off a handful of police cars, though in fairness we did wreck an expensive chopper.’
‘How did you do that?’ Masterson asked.
‘We had an SAS sniper with us, watching our backs, who popped a bullet down one of the engine intakes. That was all it took, so I think maybe the French need to take another look at the design of the Eurocopter, if they’re ever expecting it to survive a real live firefight.’
‘OK,’ Walters said briefly, ‘why don’t you both grab a seat, pour yourselves a cup of coffee, and then we’ll get started.’
A few minutes later, he started the recorder going, and made an opening statement.
‘My name is David Walters and my colleague is Jeff Masterson. This is the debriefing of Raya Kosov, formerly in the employment of the Russian SVR, who has voluntarily sought asylum in the United Kingdom. Also present is Paul Richter, who is currently on attachment to this unit.’
He paused and glanced at his notes but, before he could say anything else, the door of the conference room swung open. Richard Simpson marched in, nodded to the four people already seated there, and took a seat at the far end of the table.
‘Carry on, Walters,’ he urged. ‘I’m just here as an observer.’
Walters leaned towards to the microphone again, and added: ‘Also now present is Richard Simpson, Director of Foreign Operations.’
He checked his notes once more, then gazed across at Raya. ‘Let me just explain the way this is going to work,’ he said. ‘This is just an initial interview, the first of many, so today all we’re going to do is cover the basics. There will be in-depth interviews later, to discuss specific aspects of whatever you tell us. Basically, we have to do three things.
‘First, we need to establish that you are who you claim to be. To do that, we’ll ask you a number of questions about the SVR and about Yasenevo in particular. We’ll also discuss your career and your precise employment in Moscow.
‘Second, we have to satisfy ourselves that you are a genuine defector. As I’m sure you’re aware, in the past the GRU and the KGB, and latterly the SVR, have occasionally sent one of their employees to the West as a purveyor of disinformation. Obviously, we have to be sure that this is not the case here. Only when we have satisfied ourselves on these first two points can we then look confidently at the information you’ve brought out with you, and analyse its worth to us. Do you understand all that?’
Raya nodded.
‘And, thirdly, would you be prepared to submit to a polygraph examination — a lie detector check?’
Raya nodded again. ‘I have no problem with that.’
‘Good. Now, are there any questions you’d like to ask me or my colleague before we begin?’
‘No, I’m happy to start right away.’
For the next ninety minutes or so, Walters and Masterson alternated in firing questions at Raya, and took copious notes of her answers to supplement the recording. Two things quickly became obvious to Richter: the level of British knowledge of the internal workings of the SVR was quite extensive, but Raya Kosov very clearly knew an awful lot more than either of them.
‘Now, Raya, obviously we’ll need to run some further checks on your statements over the next couple of days, but personally I’m satisfied with your knowledge of Yasenevo,’ Walters conceded. He looked towards the far end of the table, where Richard Simpson was still sitting in silence. ‘Have you any questions, sir?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Simpson shook his head. ‘You two are the experts and if you’re now convinced she’s the real deal, then I’m happy with that assessment.’
‘Fine,’ Walters said. ‘Let’s take a short break and then start on phase two.’
He ordered fresh coffee and, as soon as it had arrived, the questioning started again.
‘So far so good, Raya,’ Masterson began. ‘I think we’re agreed so far that you were the Deputy Computer Network Manager at Yasenevo. What we have to do now is find out why you’re sitting here in West London instead of working at your desk on the outskirts of Moscow. This is a very simple question, but I suspect the answer might be quite complex. Why, exactly, did you defect?’
‘Actually,’ Raya replied, ‘the answer is just as simple as the question. I did it for revenge.’
Walters looked up with interest. ‘Revenge for what — and against what? Do you mean you were rebelling against the state itself, or just against the SVR?’
Raya shook her head. ‘A bit of everything, really. I was trying to hit Mother Russia, I suppose, because of the totalitarian system there. To use the SVR as a tool seemed almost poetic, because that organization essentially applies the system. But, most of all, I was seeking revenge against one man — one who to me represented an instrument of that system.