“You did very well, Boris. Thank you.”
Mitrokhin nodded, happy to accept the gratitude of his patron.
“The investigators were not too thorough, I hope?”
“Thorough enough,” Mitrokhin said.
He was underplaying it. He had been taken to the cellars beneath the Lubyanka and questioned for two days and two nights. Primakov’s secret operation to protect his sweetheart’s reputation had been uncovered, as had the fact that it had been compromised by a source within the Center. The Director was furious that he had been deceived by his deputy, but that was only part of it. Mitrokhin knew that the real concern was the leak: the president would not stand for it. Someone had sold Primakov out and they wanted to find out who.
“They have filed their report,” Nikolaevich said. “You are not suspected.”
“That’s good to know.”
“What did they ask you?”
“They wanted to be sure that I was not compromised.”
“And?”
“We spent many hours discussing my love for the Rodina.”
“I can only assume that you were persuasive.”
Mitrokhin stared at the general, watching, ready to assess. “They asked about you, sir.”
His face flickered with concern. “Really?”
“The investigation into the leak is broad. They know that there is a problem and they are intent upon fixing it. They wanted to know about Deputy Director Primakov. They were interested in his malfeasance—that he had lied to the Security Council and misled the president—but they were more interested in how the British agents were able to disrupt his operation against Romanova.”
“Of course,” Nikolaevich said.
“They asked about you, sir. They said that you had been in contact with Primakov.”
“And that is true.”
“They said your contact was more frequent than usual.”
“And?”
“I think it is likely that they will want to speak to you.”
Mitrokhin watched Nikolaevich, looking for a reaction. He was good at observing people. He had developed the skill during interrogations, the ability to spot the smallest tells that would give away someone’s true feelings: the way a man might rub his wrist when he was lying; the inability to hold eye contact; a glance up and to the right, the classic sign of dissembling. He looked at Nikolaevich now and saw a muscle twitching in his neck and a bloom of blood suffusing his cheeks.
“I’m the Deputy Director of the FSB,” he said, summoning indignation. “Are they really going to accuse me?”
“I thought you should know,” Mitrokhin said placidly. There was no sense in aggravating Nikolaevich, but his mind was made up.
The Deputy Director changed the subject. “Your meeting with Smith at the airport. What happened?”
“I told him about PROZHEKTOR, as you requested, and gave him the means to contact me. The others met me in Komsomolsk. There were two of them. They told me what they were intending to do and gave me the weapon that I was to use. I explained that they would need to shoot me once it was done.”
“What did you think of them?”
“Professional,” Mitrokhin said. “They worked quickly and efficiently. I was impressed. Can I ask if they were able to exfiltrate the women successfully?”
“They did. I imagine Romanova is being debriefed now.”
“And PROZHEKTOR?”
“We won’t hear from her for months,” Nikolaevich said. “The British will try and turn her back against us. It may work. The SVR see her as a valuable asset, and they will want her to be clean—it will blind them.”
There was a bottle of raki on the table. Nikolaevich opened it and poured out two measures. He held up his glass, Mitrokhin raised his and the two men touched them together. Mitrokhin drank his, the unsweetened aniseed flavour sticky on his tongue.
Nikolaevich poured again. “The deaths of Primakov and Stepanov opens a rare opportunity for you, Boris. Once you have been cleared to return to duty, you will assume Stepanov’s position. And Primakov will be replaced as First Deputy Director next week. Do you know Sharipova?”
“The rezident in Athens.”
Nikolaevich nodded. “She’s dour and uninspiring and close to retirement, but the Director wants a safe pair of hands after what has happened. Sharipova will keep the seat warm for you. I will see to it that you are well placed to assume the Deputy Directorship when she decides that the time is right to move on—that’ll be a year, two at the most.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you.”
“Your new position will allow you to furnish me with intelligence on foreign operations. You’ll have access that you don’t have now. That information will be valuable—for both of us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nikolaevich made no mention of what the operation meant for him, but Mitrokhin knew. Primakov had been a rival ever since the Academy, and, now that he was out of the way, the way was a little clearer for Nikolaevich to climb the ladder. Perhaps he was eyeing the Directorship of the Federal Security Service or the Foreign Intelligence Service. Mitrokhin didn’t know his plans other than that he was determined to do everything possible to scupper the president’s intention to resurrect the corpse of the Soviet Union, and that the higher he could climb, the better he would be able to do that.
Mitrokhin did not share his patron’s reforming zeal. Indeed, he found it childish; Nikolaevich might be able to inconvenience Vladimir Vladimirovich, but he could no more stop him than he could hold back the tide. He was wasting his time and, eventually, there would come a time when he himself was blown. Mitrokhin was concerned that day was approaching.
Nikolaevich looked at him and smiled. “I realise you haven’t been paid,” he said. “I wanted to wait until the investigation was complete.”
“And now it is,” Mitrokhin said.
“The money has been transferred,” Nikolaevich said. “It has been deposited in your Swiss account. And I’ve added a small bonus for a job well done. You performed flawlessly, Boris, and I feel bad about your leg.”
Nikolaevich’s driver took him back to his house on Mokhovaya Street. It was a grand property and had cost him more than €1.5 million when he had purchased it two years previously. It had reminded him then of a small castle, with façades built from limestone and brick and covered with Virginia creeper that changed colour with the seasons. He loved the different aspects of the property; from the river, it still looked to him like a castle on the top of a cliff, surrounded by a wall with towers and battlements; from the street, it looked more like a cosy mansion with a collection of outbuildings. There were six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a spacious living room, a music room, a billiards salon, a bar and a sauna.
“Here we are, sir,” his driver said.
“Thank you,” Nikolaevich replied, opening the door and stepping out onto the street.
He watched the driver pull away, climbed the steps to the front door, unlocked it and went inside.
The house was quiet. His wife would normally have the television on, but he couldn’t hear it tonight.
“I’m home,” he called out.
There was no response. That was strange. Maria was not due to be out this evening.
“Hello?” he called again.
There was still no reply.