“I have no opinion on the rights and wrongs of it. A decision has been made that they need to die. The file has been given to me to action, and that’s what I’ll do.”
“You don’t think about them beyond the fact that their names are in this file?” Fry tapped his finger against the sheet of paper. “You don’t think about the fact that they might have families? Loved ones who would miss them? You don’t consider that they aren’t traditional combatants? That they have no idea that they have just a few days left to live? That they’ll be unarmed?”
“No, I don’t. Let me put it to you like this: I’m a weapon, Doctor. That’s all I am. I’m pointed at a target and I take that target out. I leave the soul-searching to those who give the orders. It isn’t my concern.”
“I see,” Fry said, scribbling on the file. He looked up. “What’s your Jewish folklore like, Captain?”
“I’m sure I could always stand to learn a little more,” he said.
“There’s a famous story,” Fry said. “The golem of Prague. There was a rabbi in the sixteenth century—Judah Loew ben Bezalel—who created a monster made out of clay from the banks of the Vltava River and brought it to life through rituals and incantations. He instructed the golem to defend the Prague ghetto from anti-Semitic attacks and pogroms. But the rabbi worried that he would lose control of his monster, and eventually he took away the golem’s power until it fell to pieces.” Fry stared at Milton across the table. “I know that is a clumsy metaphor, but some people would see you and the others as golems. There is the worry that something might happen that would mean we might lose control of you. I’ve seen it happen to your predecessors, Milton. Your work is toxic. There’s only so much of it you can take. And that’s why it is important that we have these regular discussions.”
Milton stood. “Thank you, Doctor. Is that all? I have a train to catch.”
“For now. But I would like to schedule regular meetings for when you get back from France. My secretary will be in touch. We’ll spend a little longer next time. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you in more depth.”
He stood and extended a hand. Milton shook it; Fry’s grip was limp.
“Happy hunting, Captain.”
Milton took a cab across London to St Pancras. He was travelling on the Eurostar, and his train was due to depart in an hour. He had time to kill and found himself drifting into Searcys, the restaurant on the upper concourse that boasted the longest champagne bar in Europe. It ran alongside the Eurostar platform for nearly a hundred metres, separated from the trains by a glass partition. The platform dropped away to afford guests a spectacular view of the trains as they rolled by. There were smart wooden booths and stools for a hundred and twenty people. Milton took one of them and beckoned to the bartender.
“Yes, sir? What can I get for you?”
“A glass of Krug Grande Cuvée, please,” he said.
“Certainly, sir.”
Milton dropped his bag on the floor next to his stool. It contained the things that he would need for his trip to France: his legend, a change of clothes, directions to the chalet in Chevaline that had been rented for him. His legend cast him as a tourist visiting the area for a cycling holiday; it would give him the opportunity to scout the area and the spot that had been selected for the assassination. He had asked for an HK53 for the operation, and the quartermaster had arranged to leave the carbine and its ammunition at the dead drop in three days’ time.
“Here you are, sir.”
The bartender put the flute down on the bar. Milton took a long sip as a train rolled out.
It had been a long day. He had been debriefed by Tanner before his meeting with the psychiatrist. Anastasiya Romanova had provided the data that she had promised and early analysis by scientists at the Ministry of Defence and the contractors who worked closely with the military suggested that it was at least as good as they could have hoped for, and perhaps even better. It had been decided that the information would be kept classified for now, but the intention was to share it with the United States and other NATO partners in due course. It was an intelligence coup of the highest order, and Tanner had reported that everyone—from the senior staff at VX to the mandarins in Whitehall and even Control—had been happy with the outcome of the operation. Milton trusted that was correct; indeed, he was counting on it. He knew that he had given Control reason to doubt him—the appointment with the shrink was evidence of that—and he hoped that some of the glow from the success of the exfiltration would distract from his own failings. He needed time to work out how he was going to leave the Group. He knew it would be difficult—dangerous—but, just the same, he knew that it was inevitable, too. He had made up his mind.
The bartender returned with the bill hidden in a small leather folder. Milton opened it, saw that it was for thirty pounds, took out his wallet and slid three ten-pound notes into the folder.
He felt someone next to him. Milton looked up and saw that a woman was standing there, smiling at him. “Is this stool taken?”
“No,” Milton said. “Help yourself.”
She sat down. “Getting the train?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Me too. Shopping in Paris. Haven’t been for years.”
Milton nodded and smiled.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Cycling holiday,” he said, slipping into his legend.
“Really? Where?”
“Around Lake Annecy.”
“Beautiful,” she said. “I’ve driven through there before. Stunning scenery.” She put out her hand. “Laura Wood,” she said.
“John Smith.”
She ordered a glass of champagne and talked at Milton while she drank it, a stream of pointless anecdotes about France, her life in Kensington and her job in Soho as an agent for film and television actors. She was monumentally self-absorbed and spoke relentlessly; all Milton had to do was make the occasional affirmative noise and she would continue on with another inane story. She finished her glass and, with a final air kiss that missed Milton’s left cheek by a clear two inches, she went to do a little shopping before the train departed.
Milton watched her go. The scent she was wearing had reminded him of Jessie Ross. Tanner had barely mentioned her during the briefing. She had been swallowed up by SIS, and would, he guessed, be interrogated for every last scrap of information about her recruitment by the SVR and about how she had worked for them for so long. They would want to know how much damage she had caused. Aleksandrov was just the most recent betrayal. They would want to know who else she had fingered for Timoshev and Kuznetzov’s malign attention. Milton had no idea what her future would hold. She would have to persuade her superiors that she could be trusted to work against the Russians, and that was assuming that she was able to persuade the replacement for the slain Primakov that she was still a viable source. Even if she was able to prove that she was worth the risk, she would still be kept on the shortest possible leash. The fates of her son and her parents would forever be held over her as she started to record entries on the opposite page of the ledger and begin the work to remedy the damage that her betrayal had caused.
Milton drained the flute, looked at his watch and changed his mind. He signalled the bartender.
“Sir?”
“I’ll have the bottle, please.”
The bartender was discreet, as if it were commonplace for a single traveller to order a two-hundred-pound bottle of champagne for himself. Milton didn’t know; perhaps it was. The man returned with an ice bucket and the champagne, and took the bill away so that he could update it. Milton finished the glass and poured himself another. He had a long trip ahead of him, and then he had to prepare for his assignment.