The agenda for the meeting had been distributed in advance, and copies were set out on blotters around the table. Primakov picked up the sheet of paper on his own blotter and glanced over it. His report had been scheduled as the first item; he would be expected to leave as soon as that point of business had been concluded.
The doors at the end of the room were opened by uniformed officers, and the president stepped inside. His chair was flanked by the flags of the Russian Federation and, as he stepped forward, his aide drew back the chair for him to sit down.
The president opened the meeting. He was curt, avoiding pleasantries, and moved straight to the top of the agenda. Primakov started to speak but found that his throat was dry; he reached for a glass and filled it with water from a carafe. He was painfully aware that everyone was watching him. He swallowed the water, ignoring the clammy sensation beneath his arms and in the small of his back, and cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Mr. President. I realise that not everyone has been briefed, so I will summarise what has happened today. Ten years ago, a former GRU colonel who was convicted of spying for the British was exchanged for several Directorate S agents who were arrested by the Americans. This man—Pyotr Ilyich Aleksandrov—was relocated in the United Kingdom. We recently received intelligence that Aleksandrov was seeking to sell classified information to MI6. The president authorised Directorate S to mount an operation against Aleksandrov and that operation was successfully concluded today.”
“I’ve received a briefing,” said major-general Alexei Nikolaevich, the First Deputy Director of the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii, or FSB, the internal security service. “The means deployed were unusually… flagrant.”
“That is correct,” Primakov said. “We didn’t see the point of disposing of him stealthily.”
“Even though this will bring attention to us?”
“The decision was taken that we should make a point. We want our involvement to be deniable, of course, and my colleagues in Line PR are already seeking to cast doubt on our involvement, but it will be obvious to those who need to know. The British, for one. The other Western governments who need to be reminded that we are not a country to be pushed around. And, most importantly, the other dissidents and defectors who have settled in the west. We want them to know that the SVR has a long reach, and that there will be no forgiveness for continued treachery. We believe that this will have a sobering effect on anyone who might otherwise have sought to follow Aleksandrov’s example. Our course of action was agreed to in advance, of course.”
He glanced at the president; his face was as impassive as a Sphinx. His pale blue eyes were locked onto him and, once again, Primakov felt that his lies were being stripped away like the skin of an onion, layer by layer by layer.
“This intelligence,” the Minister for Internal Affairs said. “What was Aleksandrov trying to sell?”
Primakov swallowed and fought the urge to look back at the president. He needed to be convincing.
“Aleksandrov told his old handler at MI6 that he was in possession of a list of all of the SVR’s active agents in Western Europe.”
“And did we believe him? Where could he have come across such a document?”
“We do not know,” he said. “It is possible that he made contact with a source within the Center.” The president was watching him with those limpid eyes, seeing everything. “Line KR has initiated an operation looking into that as a matter of the utmost importance.”
“Thank you, Deputy Director Primakov,” the president said, his voice as smooth as silk. “There will be political repercussions from this operation, but I am satisfied that the benefit outweighs the cost.” He smiled, just a little, his mask shifting.
“Who carried out the operation?” Nikolaevich asked.
“Directorate S agents,” Primakov said. “They remain in place. We will monitor the investigation. If we feel that there is a risk that their involvement has been detected, we will recall them to Moscow at once.”
“Where I shall be delighted to meet them,” the president said. “They have performed a great service for the Rodina today. They are to be commended. Thank you, Deputy Director.”
The president said no more, and, instead, looked down at his agenda. Primakov knew that the ordeal was at an end. He slid his chair away from the table and stood, noting, to his alarm, that his legs were weak. He nodded his acknowledgements to the colleagues around the table; Nikolaevich smiled and gave him a wink. Primakov buttoned up his jacket and made his way to the exit. He held onto the balustrade as he descended the staircase and hurried to where his chauffeur was waiting for him. He had forgotten his umbrella and was quickly soaked in the growing downpour that hammered against his car and on the cobbles of the courtyard. His chauffeur opened the back door and Primakov collapsed inside. He closed his eyes and scrubbed the rain away from his face. The driver swung the car around and they passed through the Borovitskaya Gate once more. Primakov looked back at the tower, layered like the sections of a cake with a spire topped with a single red star. They had plotted to kill Brezhnev here. Assassinations. Death. Primakov couldn’t keep such thoughts from his mind.
He wondered what the council was discussing now that he was gone. Primakov thought that he had done enough, but there was no way to be sure. The president sometimes appeared omniscient, and, despite his compliments, Primakov could not help but harbour doubts.
He thought of Natasha. He had taken a grievous risk for her. He had risked his career. His life. He had done it because he loved her, because he was old and she made him feel young. And now he wanted to see her and tell her that her problems were at an end, and to enjoy the gratitude that he knew she would feel.
Southwold
18
They arrived over Southwold. Milton saw the black expanse of the sea, the twinkling lights of big oil tankers laid up a mile offshore, and then the brighter lights of the town itself that glowed up at them through the deepening dusk. The lighthouse stood over the town, casting a golden finger of light that flicked out over the frothing waves. The pilot told them to hold tight as he brought them down on The Paddock, a grassy area that formed the inner part of Southwold Common on the town’s southern boundary. The wheels bumped once and then settled.
Tanner opened the cabin door, slid it back and hopped down onto the grass. Shah followed, then Ross, then Milton. The downdraft was strong, disturbing rubbish from a nearby bin and forcing them to duck their heads as they scurried away. Milton stayed close to Ross as they followed Shah to the man who was waiting for them just outside the stone wall that marked the boundary of the United Reformed Church. The two men shook hands and exchanged words before Shah turned back to them.