Curious, he took off his jacket and made his way into the living room. The house was silent, with just the dripping of a tap from a nearby bathroom. He dropped his jacket over the back of his armchair and went to the bar. He took down his favourite bottle of vodka, opened it and poured out a measure into a crystal tumbler.
He was about to sip it when he sensed movement behind him.
Too late.
Hands reached over his head and pulled back hard, a wire garrotte biting into the flesh of his neck. He tried to struggle, but it was no use. The person behind him was stronger, and the more Nikolaevich fought, the tighter the wire cut into his skin.
The tumbler fell from his fingertips and smashed on the floor. Nikolaevich stumbled backwards, and, as he looked up into the mirror behind the bar, he saw the face of his assailant.
It was Mitrokhin.
Nikolaevich reached up and tried to slide his fingers between the garrotte and his throat, but it was impossible. The wire was too tight. Blood was running down his neck, dripping over his shirt front and onto the floor where it spattered onto the crystal shards.
Nikolaevich tried to speak, but all he could manage was a hopeless gargle.
“I’m sorry,” Mitrokhin said, his voice calm despite the effort he was expending. “You are compromised. I can’t take the chance that you will compromise me, too.”
Nikolaevich felt the strength ebbing away from his legs, and he fell down onto his knees. Mitrokhin followed him, maintaining the pressure on the wire. Nikolaevich tried to speak again, tried to get his fingers beneath the garrotte, but his breath was almost all gone. As darkness began to gather at the corners of his eyes, he felt his arms go limp and then there was nothing.
London
2
The psychiatrist assigned to Group Fifteen had an office on the top floor of the Global Logistics building. It was a pleasant, if uninspiring, space: two sofas that faced one another; a table with a vase of flowers between them; bookshelves that held medical texts; a standard lamp that cast a warm glow from the corner of the room. Milton was sitting on one of the sofas and the psychiatrist, Dr Fry, was sitting opposite him. Milton had made an effort this afternoon. He had visited a barber in Chelsea and enjoyed a shave with hot towels and a trim. He was wearing one of his better suits, together with a polished pair of leather brogues and the Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch that he had inherited from his father. Fry, on the other hand, was a little shabby. His suit was shiny at the knees and elbows and the caps of his leather Oxfords were scuffed.
“Thank you for coming, Captain Milton.”
Milton nodded.
“You know why you’re here?”
“Control sent me.”
“Yes. But do you know why?”
Milton sighed. “It’s unnecessary.”
Fry looked down at his notes. “Headaches, isn’t it? I understand you’ve been suffering from them?”
“Now and again,” Milton said. “It’s nothing, really.”
“That’s probably right, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to have them checked out. There’s no mention of headaches on your file. It’s probably tension, but it could be something else. Do you feel tense?”
“No more than usual.”
“Your job can be stressful.”
“But I’ve been doing it for a long time.”
“How about depression? That can cause a headache. Do you feel depressed?”
“No,” Milton said. “Couldn’t be happier.”
Fry looked up at him, gave a chuckle to indicate that he knew Milton was joking, and jotted a note in his file.
“How’s everything else?”
“Fine.”
“Drink?”
Milton flinched. “No more than usual.”
Fry looked up. “Really? Your last three toxicology tests all came back with elevated blood alcohol levels.”
“As you say, it’s a stressful job. I have a drink at night sometimes to help me switch off.”
“A drink?”
“A couple of beers.”
“Every night?”
“No, not every night. I don’t have a drink problem, Doctor, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“How about drugs?”
“You know—you prescribed them.”
“Yes. Gabapentin for nerve damage and oxycodone for general pain relief. Not them. I meant recreational drugs.”
“Of course not. Please—move on. Ask your next question.”
He looked down at the notes and made a show of reading them; Milton knew that Fry would be familiar with everything, and that this was all part of the show. “Your last assignment, in Russia. How do you feel you performed?”
“I met both objectives. Romanova and Ross were both exfiltrated successfully.”
“They were, but not without a surprise or two along the way. Let me ask you about Ms. Ross.”
Milton spread his arms. “Fine.”
“You spent a lot of time with her. You didn’t suspect she was working for the Russians?”
“No,” Milton said. “Are you saying that I should have?”
“I’m just asking—”
“I didn’t notice, and neither did anyone else. And she’d been playing us for a lot longer than I knew her.”
“What about the elektricheskiy pistolet?”
“Sorry?”
“She had a lipstick pistol in her pocket. They found it when they debriefed her. Single shot, with one 4.5mm Makarov round. You didn’t know she had it?”
Milton frowned and shook his head.
“Don’t you think you should have known? She could have shot Romanova. Or you.”
“I was more concerned with getting out of the country.”
“Yes, I’m sure. But, still—don’t you think you were lucky? You were alone in the car with her for hours. It would have been easy for her to take that out and shoot you.”
“But she didn’t.”
“Do you think you would have noticed that five years ago?”
“Maybe. What are you saying? I’m losing my touch?”
“No, not at all. Your work is generally excellent.” Milton heard the qualifier and let it go. “I’m just concerned that there’s something that’s bothering you. Your drinking—”
“I don’t have a problem with drink.”
Fry ignored the interruption and went on. “The mistakes at the house in Kings Worthy—losing the two Russian illegals—and then the errors with Ms. Ross. Those are not the sort of mistakes that I would expect of an agent with your operational experience. You’re Number One for a reason, Milton. You’ve reached that plateau precisely because you don’t make mistakes.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure I try harder,” Milton replied with a truculence that he couldn’t resist.
Fry held up a manila folder. “I understand Control has given you another file to action.”
“He has.”
“Two targets this time. A husband and wife.” Fry opened the folder and took out a copy of the briefing that Milton had received yesterday. “Ah, yes, here we are. Yehya al Moussa and Sameera Najeeb. An atomic research scientist and an expert in microwave technology. You’re due to action the file in France.”
“That’s right. In four days’ time. And I’d like to be on my way as soon as I can. I have to prepare.”
Fry ignored the not-so-subtle hint. “What do you feel about them?” he said. “How do you feel about them as targets?”
“Do you mean will I be able to do my job?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“But one could argue they haven’t done anything wrong. They have jobs to do, after all.”