The Geneva Trap

Chapter 25

Bern, a quietly pretty city, determined not to draw attention to itself, was a fitting home for the country’s Security Service. In the nondescript, modern building, Doctor Otto Bech’s office was no larger than her own, but through the window Liz had a view that could not be matched anywhere in Thames House. In a park, a line of poplars bent like bows in the breeze, and further off, across the wide river valley, a range of snow-capped mountains glittered in the morning sun.

Otto Bech’s appearance matched his low-key office. With his tweed jacket and flannels, ruffled grey hair and thick spectacles, he could have been an academic. Indeed before he joined the police he had spent several years at Lausanne University, his doctorate awarded for a dissertation on the historical development of international financial protocols. Russell White had asked for Bech’s help in identifying the person Sorsky had referred to as ‘a colleague’ – the man who had told him of the third-country penetration of the British Ministry of Defence. The previous day Bech had responded, saying the Swiss had some information which might be useful. Liz had come in person to hear what it was, with White accompanying her.

In Bech’s office a dour-looking youngish man, standing by a small conference table, was introduced as Henri Leplan. Bech explained that Leplan had been at the airport when the stretchered Russian had been flown out of Geneva. He motioned for the younger man to continue.

‘We have made some progress,’ Leplan announced as he pushed across the table a pile of photographic stills for Liz and White to look at. The top one showed a small private jet parked near a terminal building. It had Russian markings. In the second, the door of the plane was open and a short ladder had been dropped down. In the third an ambulance had drawn up beside the plane. As Liz and Russell White leafed through the sheaf of photographs the drama unfolded: two attendants were carrying a stretcher up the steps into the plane; then they had disappeared. The only other figure in the photo was a man in a dark suit, medium height and broad-shouldered, watching from the tarmac, his back to the camera. In the final photograph he had turned towards the terminal and his face was clearly visible.

Seen full on, the man had dark short hair, fleshy, slab-like cheeks covered with a five o’clock shadow, and a wide jutting chin. His eyes were so deep-set that in the photograph they looked black.

Leplan continued: ‘The man in the suit is Anatole Kubiak. Officially he’s a Commercial Counsellor in the Russian Trade Delegation in Geneva.’

White said, ‘But he’s actually the senior SVR officer here – Head of Security for the whole Russian mission.’

Bech smiled grimly. ‘An unpleasant character, we gather.’

‘Then he would have had the authority to send Sorsky back to Moscow,’ said Liz.

Bech nodded. ‘Kubiak must have given Moscow enough evidence to justify forcibly repatriating the man, though what happens to Sorsky now will be out of Kubiak’s hands. He’ll probably be recalled to give evidence if there’s a trial, but I expect the outcome is already fixed. Even in these “democratic days”, the Russian Special Services don’t tolerate traitors.’

Liz stifled a shudder. She was wondering how Sorsky had been detected. She felt confident it had not been through any slip on her part. She’d followed his instructions to the letter. But what about Russell White’s team – or the Swiss themselves? She glanced at White, who looked on edge, probably because he was having similar thoughts. Dr Bech’s face betrayed no emotion at all.

She said, ‘What I really need to know is who Sorsky worked closely with at the Russian Residency, so we can identify the colleague he called Boris.’

‘Russell White has explained that, and I think we can help you,’ said Bech, and nodded at Le Plan who leaned forward to put more photographs on the table. These were hazier than the first lot, having been taken off a CCTV camera – the date and time were digitally marked in a lower corner of each photograph.

The pictures showed a small stretch of a street at night-time, etched by a contrasting mix of shadows and pale light from the street lamps. The lens was focused on a building across the street, which had an awning in front that was adorned by white letters in italic script. Peering at the photograph, Liz could just make out the words PussKat Club. The place where Sorsky and his colleagues had gone after their celebration dinner.

‘Since we didn’t know exactly which night we were looking for, it took us some time,’ Leplan explained. ‘But eventually we found this.’

He picked up one of the photographs and handed it to Liz. Russell White looked over her shoulder. It showed two men coming out of the club, with a uniformed doorman just behind them. One of the men was Sorsky – Liz recognised the receding hairline, and his sharp features. He was supporting the other man, who was slightly shorter, but much broader. His face was half in shadow.

‘Who is it?’ asked Liz, though she thought she knew.

‘That’s Kubiak,’ Leplan replied. ‘The man at the airport. Head of Security.’

Liz’s head was already spinning with the implications. ‘You mean, he told Sorsky of the infiltration plot and then shipped him back to Moscow? Perhaps Sorsky’s contact with me wasn’t blown. Maybe Kubiak just realised that, having given the information to Sorsky, he had put himself at risk. So he set him up.’

‘That’s possible,’ said Russell White, looking relieved. Turning to Leplan, he asked, ‘Do you know where Kubiak is now?’

Bech replied. ‘He’s in the Trade Delegation. That’s where his office is, the Security Department must be housed there. He went in at nine this morning and he’s still there. We’ve had a static observation post on the office and on Kubiak’s flat. He lives in the business district of Geneva. You see, we have our own interest in Kubiak. One of our officers was killed last month in an accident some distance from Geneva. We have reason to believe that Kubiak was involved. Until we can prove it, we want to know where he is.’ He sighed. ‘Though even if we can prove it, we won’t be able to arrest him – he’s got diplomatic immunity. But at least we’ll be able to expel him. Until then I’m not going to let him out of our sight.’

‘Good,’ said Liz. ‘Sorsky said that Boris or rather Kubiak has been making regular trips to Marseilles. Could you liaise with the French if he crosses the border? It would be very helpful to have him followed there.’

‘Yes, we’ll certainly do that. I don’t want this fellow to slip out of the back door. If he was involved in the death of Steinmetz, I want to pin it on him.’

Liz turned to Russell White. ‘Would you ask your Service for a Look Up on Kubiak, and I’ll do the same with mine? We need to know if he’s crossed our radar anywhere else.’

White nodded. ‘Will do.’