It all looked to be in order; Pope put the envelope back, zipped the bag up, took it out of the locker, unhooked the garment carrier and closed the door. He put the bag over his shoulder and, instinctively checking the aisle in both directions, made his way back to the entrance and the concourse outside.
Pope made his way to the Romanovsky Obelisk in Alexander Garden, close by the walls of the Kremlin. The monument had originally been erected to commemorate the Romanov dynasty, but Lenin’s propagandists had altered the obelisk so that it now paid homage to revolutionary thinkers: Marx, Engels, all the others.
Pope recognised Number Twelve from the description that Tanner had given him. He was waiting for him on the steps near the obelisk. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and thin and dressed in jeans, a shirt and a light jacket that he wore undone in the pleasant weather. He had a rucksack slung over his shoulder.
Pope nodded at Twelve as he approached. Twelve drew alongside and matched his pace.
“Good evening,” Pope said.
“Evening.”
It was a short ten-minute walk to the Four Seasons. They set off through the gardens. Pope glanced over at Twelve. He was looking left and right, eyes open for possible repeats that might suggest that one or both of them had brought surveillance with them. Pope had been watching, too, and had seen nothing. He saw nothing now, either.
Pope glanced over at him. “Do you have an update?”
“The operation is authorised. They want it done tonight. Do you know where they are?”
“The Four Seasons,” Pope said. “It’s not far.”
“Did you get the equipment?”
“I did. A keycard to get in, two uniforms for us, two pistols.”
They passed a couple sitting on a bench and Twelve was silent until they were out of earshot.
“Is this your first operation?” Pope asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “But I have experience.”
“I’m sure you do,” Pope said. “But this is my job. I’m the senior man. That going to be all right?”
Twelve looked across at him, his face impassive. “Of course.”
There was something about Twelve that Pope did not like. His tone, his coldness; it was difficult to put his finger on it, but he decided that he would need to be careful with him.
57
Primakov and Natasha had met at the safe house earlier that evening. Primakov had made them cocktails and then they had retreated to the bedroom for an hour. Primakov had fallen asleep and, when he awoke, it was to the smell of cooked liver. He showered, dressed, and padded through to the kitchen on bare feet.
Natasha was preparing a midnight snack of toast and pâté. She was an excellent cook, and it was his favourite of the dishes in her repertoire.
“Are you well rested?” she said, smiling at him.
“I am,” he said. “I needed it. It’s been a long week.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I know it’s my fault.”
“No, no,” he said, worried that she might think that he had rebuked her. “I don’t blame you, not at all. You were unfortunate.”
“And yet fortunate that I had you to take care of it for me.”
He stepped behind her and massaged her neck. He was happy to accept her gratitude. He stepped closer now so that her back was pressed against his chest and watched over her shoulder as she worked. She had caramelised chicken livers and pancetta, and then deglazed the pan with a slug of brandy. Now she was chopping parsley, capers and shallots, the knife slicing down with impressive speed and accuracy as she prepared the ingredients.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.
“YouTube,” she grinned.
“Smells good,” he said.
She reached up with her left hand and held his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Nikolasha,” she said, using the diminutive that he liked so much.
“For what?”
She turned her head so that she could kiss him on the lips. “For helping me. Thank you for everything.”
She added the chopped ingredients to the pan and then added lemon zest, lemon juice and a tablespoon of oil. The aroma deepened and Primakov’s mouth began to water.
“Five minutes,” she said.
He had left his phone on the dining table and he heard it buzzing with an incoming message. He went over to it, saw that it was an encrypted text, and waited for the algorithm to decrypt it.
He frowned. It was a message from PROZHEKTOR.
WE NEED TO MEET. USUAL PLACE. MIDNIGHT. PLS CONFIRM.
“Chyort wozmi,” he said. Shit.
“What is it?”
He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty.
“Nikolasha? What’s the matter?”
“It’s work,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Now? Why? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t want to tell her that it was PROZHEKTOR, and that this was likely to do with the British and his attempt to clean up the mess that she had made with Anastasiya Romanova.
“I can’t say,” he deflected. “It’s probably nothing—nothing that you need to worry about. Will the pâté keep?”
“I can put it in the fridge,” she said, pouting a little. “But don’t be long. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”
He put on his socks and shoes, took his coat from the back of the sofa and shrugged it on. “Give me an hour,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
58
Pope and Twelve found the hotel and split up so that they could scout the area independently of each other. The Four Seasons was next to a colourfully decorated arch that opened onto a neat communal square. The street was busy, despite the hour, with cars hurrying in both directions. There were a few pedestrians out and about, although Pope saw nothing to suggest that he was being surveilled.
They had agreed to meet at eleven-thirty. Pope found the entrance that led into the hotel garage and then, in turn, to the hotel’s staff entrance. Twelve was waiting for him there.
There were no security staff posted at the garage and they were able to enter without being seen. They found their way inside until they reached the staff door. Pope took out the keycard that he had been given and held it against the reader next to the door; the device emitted a satisfied beep, a light shone green and the lock clicked open. Pope pushed the door and they both made their way inside. There was an antechamber inside the door with a notice board and a vending machine with drinks and snacks. A corridor led away from the antechamber, and, as Pope tested the doors to the left and the right, he found male and female toilets and a small canteen. There were two women in the canteen, smoking cigarettes through a window that opened onto a fetid corner where the big industrial bins were kept.
Pope backed away from the door before the women noticed that he was there and made his way back to the male toilets. There were two rooms for men and two for women, each with a toilet and sink and a storage locker. Pope stepped into the first men’s room. Twelve came in after him and Pope slid the bolt in the lock.
Pope opened the rucksack and took out the hotel uniforms. They both changed. One jacket had been intended for Milton, and Twelve was slenderer than him; the jacket was a little baggy, but it would still serve. Pope took out the pistols and handed one over. Pope put on the shoulder rig, double-checked the load on his weapon and pushed it into the holster, checking in the mirror to ensure that the jacket covered it. It did. Twelve did the same.