The Moscow Sleepers

9

‘That’s one hell of a coincidence if you ask me.’ The image of Andy Bokus loomed over the video feed from Langley, a look of outrage on his face, while Miles Brookhaven watched from a secure conference room in the CIA suite in the Embassy in London. Miles could just make out the bulky frame below the large head, currently clothed in a khaki-coloured summer suit, white shirt and royal blue tie.

When Bokus had been Station Head in London several years before and Miles had been a junior officer, the two had never got on. Now Miles had succeeded him and it rankled with Bokus. Bokus was a former American football player, the grandson of an immigrant, and a Midwesterner; Miles was East Coast, Ivy League and a classic ‘preppy’. They were oil and water – socially, politically, personally. When Bokus disagreed with Miles, Miles knew that it was often out of instinctive antipathy rather than from any actual difference of opinion.

The best way to deal with Bokus’s aggression, Miles had learned over the years, was to punch back hard. He said sharply now, ‘What’s your point?’

Miles could see Sandy Gunderson, the Director of Counter-Intelligence and Bokus’s boss, sitting next to him. His face was a study in bland neutrality. Miles thought there was something bloodless about the man; he was entirely unlike his predecessor, the legendary Tyrus Oakes, who had been a much-admired character, a wry, diminutive Southerner with gentle manners that belied a will of steel and a penchant for writing copious notes during meetings on old-fashioned yellow legal pads. Gunderson, by contrast, kept his notes strictly in his head, and his desk and office were almost fanatically tidy, and as neutral as his expression now.

Across the Atlantic, Bokus sat back in his chair. ‘I’m not making any point,’ he snapped. ‘Just questioning the timing of all this. We tell the Brits we don’t want to contact Mischa since we’re trying to get a fix on his brother, and then lo and behold, up pops Mischa himself, demanding a meeting. Not with us, but with the Brits, no less.’

Miles was shaking his head. ‘If you’re suggesting this is a put-up job, I can’t agree. Until now, the Brits hadn’t heard from Mischa any more than we had. I saw the postcard Mischa sent. It’s legit.’

‘A postcard from Berlin,’ Bokus said scathingly. ‘It wouldn’t take Einstein to manufacture that.’

Gunderson’s expression remained impenetrable. Miles said firmly, ‘I’ve worked with the Brits before – almost as long as you, Andy. It’s not the kind of stunt they’d pull. And Liz Carlyle is a straight-shooter. Even you have to admit that.’

Bokus looked ready to dispute this, but then thought better of it. He sat back, lips pursed like an unhappy bullfrog.

Gunderson spoke at last, his voice roughly half the decibel count of Bokus. ‘You say that Mischa wrote to Miss Carlyle specifically?’

‘That’s right. She met with him in Tallinn, if you remember.’

‘Does she have any idea what he wants?’

Miles said, ‘No more than we do. But she’s determined to go herself, and given that he wrote to her, I think she’s right. You have to remember that Mischa has lived in Britain; he was at college here. He’s met Liz Carlyle and he must trust her as he wants to meet her again. If we sent one of ours instead he might well abort the meeting. We’d probably lose him for good then.’

‘You can’t be sure of that.’ It was Bokus again.

Miles nodded. ‘You’re right; I can’t. But then we can’t be completely sure of anything about this. It could be a set-up but I think it’s very unlikely.’

Was there the hint of agreement on Gunderson’s face? Miles hoped so, but it was impossible to tell, especially with the flickering feed of the video. Whatever Gunderson decided, both Miles and Bokus would have to accept it.

‘Gentlemen, I can see you’ve got a difference of opinion.’ He turned to Bokus. ‘Andy, we have no reason to distrust the Brits. If they say this is a legitimate approach, I’m sure it is. Miles has seen the communication and knows the circumstances of its arrival. If Mischa wants a meeting he must have something to say; so we should listen. It may be directly relevant to his brother’s position and if so we need to know what it is.’ He turned back to the camera to look at Miles. ‘Tell the Brits we have no objection to this meet. Offer them backup in Berlin if they want it, which I doubt, and make sure you get briefed by them pretty damn quick after Carlyle sees the guy. OK?’

‘Yes. Many thanks,’ said Miles as Gunderson stood up and moved out of camera range. As the video feed terminated and the picture faded, all Miles could see was the angry face of Andy Bokus.