"And what did you hear Luzhkov say?"
"He was very angry and threatened to have them transferred to a penal regiment. Bounine asked him if he believed the man in the hood was Dillon, and Luzhkov said that Dillon was famous for shooting off half an ear."
"And that's all?"
"Absolutely."
Lermov nodded, thinking about it, then said, "That will be all-for the moment anyway."
Suddenly, her anger flared. "You're not putting me into a cell overnight?"
"Lieutenant, you are a serving officer in the Russian Army. We may not have penal regiments for females, but there are other things that could happen to you, so take care."
"I'm sorry," she said desperately.
He ignored her. "Take her."
She went out, totally dejected, between the two sergeants.
Ivanov said, "What now?"
"Check with London again. I'd be interested to know if Oleg and Petrovich are still on the roster."
"We should be able to get that on our computer staff records, Colonel. It will only take a minute."
He hurried out, and Lermov sat there, thinking about it. Things were certainly coming together, but of course you always needed luck in any kind of investigation, and he got exactly that a few minutes later when Ivanov returned.
"Excellent news, Colonel, Oleg and Petrovich were transferred from London two months ago. Indifferent fitness reports. They're right here in Moscow, attached to the field infantry training school on general police duties."
"And still GRU?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Something of a comedown, I would have thought. Go and arrest them, Peter, and, if anyone objects, use this." He produced the Putin letter and passed it over.
"My pleasure, Colonel," Ivanov told him, and rushed out.
7
A little later, Ivanov called in. "I've got them, Colonel, a thoroughly unpleasant couple. Greta Bikov was right to describe them as moronic."
"Did they give you any trouble?"
"Not really, they've been drinking and they're generally surly and cocky. The duty officer at the training school was only a lieutenant, so as I outranked him, he accepted the situation without fuss. I didn't have to use the letter."
"Where are you?"
"Almost with you. I'm in a standard military police secure van. I'm up front with the driver. I've put them in the rear with two police sergeants, and they thought that was a great joke. It's the booze, of course."
"Well, let's try to wipe the smiles off their faces. I'll wait for you in the interrogation cell we used for Greta Bikov."
He went out on the walkway and found the old tea lady pushing her trolley towards him. She stopped and poured a glass of tea from the samovar without a word. He accepted it and gave her a banknote.
"I can't change that," she said.
He drank the hot tea gratefully. "That's all right, babushka, maybe you still have a cigarette to spare from that packet I gave you."
She produced the pack of Marlboros from her smock pouch and extracted one carefully. "They won't like you smoking it."
"Then they can lump it, babushka, I'm a colonel, a full colonel."
She produced a plastic lighter and flicked it on for him, and, as he blew out smoke, she smiled for the first time since he'd known her. "I like you, tovarich," she said.
"And why do you like me, babushka?"
"Because the truth about you is that you don't give a toss."
"Absolutely right, babushka." He was laughing as he walked away.
When he went into the interrogation cell, he found a police sergeant on either side of the door and Oleg and Petrovich sitting behind the table, still handcuffed. Ivanov was sitting near the door and jumped up.
"Prisoners present as ordered, Colonel."
They were so drunk, they started to laugh, and Oleg said, "Is he taking the piss? I mean, this has gone far enough. We're lieutenants in the GRU, or hadn't you noticed?"
Lermov walked around the table slowly, the cigarette still in his mouth, and stood looking down at them, then gently stubbed it out, and said to the two sergeants at the door, who were looking grim and flexing their clubs, "The left leg first on each of them, if you please."
They moved in, clubs swinging, and both of the men howled and went down. The sergeants pulled them on their feet. Ivanov had seldom seen two drunks sober up so fast. Oleg was actually sobbing.
"Let's get one thing clear. The sergeants will be quite happy to move to your right leg and then each arm in turn, but I detest violence, so listen carefully. Captain Ivanov, if you please!"
Ivanov read the letter. When he was finished, Lermov said, "My warrant from Prime Minister Putin gives me total authority over your destiny. I shall now question you on certain matters relating to your service in the London Embassy that involved you. If you do not tell me the exact truth about what happened, you will be reduced to the ranks and posted to a penal regiment."
They stared at him dumbly, total dismay on their faces. Lermov held up the Putin letter. "This warrant from your Prime Minister gives me the power to do this. I have no more time to waste. Give me your answer."
"Anything, Colonel," Petrovich mumbled.
"That's right, sir," Oleg joined in. "Just tell us what you want to know."
"Then sit down and let's get started."
From then on, it was easy, and they fell over themselves to pour out the truth. Colonel Luzhkov had offered them this very special job to kidnap an American, Blake Johnson, who had just arrived in town and was staying in a top-floor suite at a hotel in Mayfair. A truck that did laundry pickups in the area was available to them, and uniforms to go with it. They explained how they'd gone up in a service elevator, abducted Blake Johnson, returned to the truck, hid him in the rear, and driven away, their destination a private airfield at Berkley Down, where a Russian Falcon was waiting to fly him to Moscow and onwards to Station Gorky.
Then came the business of the truck being forced to stop, an unexpected passenger in the rear, the man in the black hood, who spoke the kind of Russian you'd expect from a Mafia lowlife, who shot Petrovich in the hand and blew away half of Oleg's right ear, then drove off with Blake Johnson in the truck and left them to phone the Embassy for help. Luzhkov had been furiously angry, had referred to the man in the black hood as someone named Dillon, because this Dillon had a reputation for shooting half an ear off people who offended him.
So that was it, all there, a perfect piece of the jigsaw. They sat there, broken and humble, and Lermov didn't even feel grateful. Animali, the Italian word for "scum," was the only way to describe them. Blake Johnson was the enemy, and Lermov knew him only by reputation, but that didn't mean one couldn't feel distaste for what had been planned for him.
He considered it all, then stood and said to the sergeants, "Take these men to a holding cell." He turned to Ivanov. "Put the necessary documentation in hand for their demotion to the ranks and transfer them to an appropriate penal battalion."
Both men gasped in disbelief. "But you promised, Colonel, that if we told you the truth, we'd be all right."
"Yes, I lied, but you thoroughly deserve it." He went to the door, which one of the sergeants opened for him, and walked out.
Back in the corner of the officers' bar, he sipped tea and reviewed the situation. It was certainly all coming together, thanks to patient questioning and sound detective work. They were almost there, and then Ivanov came in and sat down opposite him, an edge of excitement to him. He put a transcript on the table.
"Just in from London. Excellent stuff, so I spoke to Major Chelek to confirm."
Lermov poured another glass of tea. "Just tell me."
"GRU computer experts said the London Embassy can access Scotland Yard files, and no one named Ali Selim has a criminal record. The computer checked on other people of that name resident in London and found several, but one seemed particularly interesting-because he was dead."