‘… and eventually he came across Keen’s name because of his work for Divisar?’ Taploe said.
‘Almost certainly,’ Dulong replied. ‘Not that Kukushkin knew anything about it.’
Quinn sensed they were concealing something, and challenged them on it.
‘You said Kostov was under surveillance.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Who from? Moscow law enforcement?’
Dulong bought herself some time by wiping her nose on a small white handkerchief concealed in her bag. McCreery looked uncertainly at the floor and knocked his wedding ring against the table. Quinn realized he had found the lie. Their eyes had gone.
‘Come on, out with it. Who’s watching him?’
‘ We are.’ McCreery spat the confession as if it had been taken under duress. ‘SIS are watching the apartment block.’
‘He’s not under police arrest?’
‘No.’
And thus the full picture emerged. All loose ends tied. Quinn’s mouth slackened in disbelief as he recognized that McCreery’s little problem had been resolved with a grim sleight of hand.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he whispered. ‘Fuckin’ hell. Six have talked to Kukushkin, haven’t they? You’ve struck a fucking deal.’
Dulong balled the handkerchief under the sleeve of her blouse and indicated to McCreery that she would be prepared to answer the question.
‘We have channels in Moscow,’ she said. ‘The quid pro quo involves Kostov’s handover…’
But Quinn did not let her finish.
‘In return for what?’
‘In return for the conditions we have already outlined. Prosecution immunity for Tamarov, d’Erlanger, Macklin and Duchev. Total withdrawal of UK operations. Surely the latter is of some comfort to the Service after all your hard work?’
Taploe stepped between Quinn and Dulong as if he felt a professional obligation to speak on behalf of MI5. Quinn looked up at his pale, exhausted features — a man failed now, surely beyond redemption — and felt that his whole future would depend on Taploe’s response. If he caved in to the SIS plan, he would quit; if he showed some semblance of disgust, they could at least walk away with a moral advantage. Taploe briefly touched his moustache.
‘I have to say first and foremost that I don’t admire what has happened here today.’ This seemed encouragingly unequivocal. ‘To negotiate with criminals, to strike deals with members of a recognized organized crime syndicate makes me feel very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed.’ Quinn inched forward. Perhaps it was going to be OK; perhaps there were standards after all. ‘Nevertheless, I can understand why such a decision has been taken and, although I do not condone it, I recognize that, at the very least, the Kukushkin organization cannot now, at least in the medium to long term, flourish on the UK mainland…’
For a large man Quinn stood with surprising speed, his hands raised up as if to blockout Taploe’s charade. Twisting to gather his notes, he folded them under one arm and moved towards the door.
‘Paul? Where are you going?’ Taploe said.
‘Into the private sector.’
‘What?’
There were shadows of black sweat under his arms.
‘You really think Kukushkin is just going to hand Kostov over, friend or no friend? You really think he’ll keep his side of the bargain, let him get to court?’
The tone of the question was at once mocking and profoundly serious.
‘That’s the quid pro quo,’ Dulong answered uncertainly.
‘You don’t believe us?’ McCreery said. ‘You still remain sceptical?’
Quinn shook his head.
‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t believe you, Jock. It’s not that I don’t believe you.’
‘What, then?’
He was stepping through the door.
‘It’s the thing I knew would happen.’ He was muttering the words, almost to himself. ‘The thing I feared. The compromise.’
‘Paul?’ Taploe said again.
Quinn looked up. His face might have been that of a man who has been informed of a tragedy: washed out, shocked, yet oddly indignant.
‘Yeah? What is it Stephen? What is it you’re going to say?’ He was in the corridor now, eyes accusing them, looking back as if on a lost innocence. ‘You think I got into this business to listen to what you just said?’
‘You have to understand that…’
But Quinn had walked away. Dulong, McCreery and Taploe were left staring out into an empty corridor. After a time, McCreery said, ‘Temper, temper,’ and Dulong had the nerve to smile. Taploe, however, felt a greater sense of shame than he had ever experienced at any point in his career.
‘So it’s settled, then?’ McCreery said.
‘It’s settled,’ Taploe replied, after a long delay. His voice was very low.
‘And you, Elizabeth?’
‘Settled,’ said Dulong.
‘Good. Then we move on. I’m not sure I want to spend another moment of my life worrying about Dimitri bloody Kostov.’
49
The Russian is sitting alone on the back seat of a brand-new Audi A4. Smooth, cushioned upholstery, a smell of leather and artificial pine. It is dusk in the suburbs of Moscow, banks of low white clouds bringing late spring snow to the capital. Through the back window of the vehicle, nineteen storeys up, he can make out the balcony of the flat where he has lived for the past eleven days, his latest refuge in a long line of hotel rooms and apartments. The flat, belonging to an associate of Viktor Kukushkin, has a single window looking out on to five grey, deserted breeze-block towers, each of them defaced with structure cracks and graffiti. Kostov is not going to miss that view. He is looking forward to the house in the country.
Three hundred metres from the car, across a flat expanse of buckled concrete randomly interrupted by weeds, two young boys are playing football against a white brick hut. It is below freezing and the light is failing all the time, but their eyes must have adjusted to the pre-dark gloom because the yellow ball cracks regularly against the wall. If he strains for it, Kostov can hear the rubber contact of their shoes against the asphalt, voices echoing amongst the buildings, the sudden gasps and shouts.
He adjusts his position in the back seat and leans on a large canvas bag containing most of his clothes and possessions. A man of sixty-three with his whole life in the back seat of a car. Kostov grimaces at the thought. There are aches in every part of his body — in the back of his head, along the sciatic nerves of his thigh, behind his knees — and the temperature inside the vehicle only makes this worse. This is not the cold of London or New England; it is the bone chill of Russia under snow. He raps on the window and urges the driver inside.
Leaning on the roof, Juris Duchev finishes his telephone call and steps into the car, bringing with him an odour of sweat and impatience. Like Kostov, he is also wearing a black winter coat and thick gloves, one of which he removes in order to light a cigarette.
‘You want one, Dimitri?’ he asks in Russian, turning to the back seat.
‘Not for me,’ Kostov replies. ‘Not for me. Just turn on the fucking engine. Get me some heat in here.’
The smoke now deep in his lungs, Duchev turns the key in the ignition and the engine hums into life. Fans pump blasts of cold air into the car through vents in the dashboard and floor.
‘It’s fucking freezing,’ Kostov complains.
‘Just give it time,’ he is quietly told.
Do they know? Have they found out about Keen and Bone? Kostov lives with this persistent doubt, the paranoia of imminent discovery. He watches the eyes of Kukushkin’s people all the time for the tell of sudden betrayal. For days he has suspected SIS of following him around town, two skinny foreigners with the look of British diplomats. Somebody, someday, will put two and two together. Somebody, someday will find the link between Kostov and Christopher Keen.