The Moscow Sleepers

25

After the two women had left, Abel Lamme went back to his desk and sat down heavily. He was angry, and worse than that he felt stupid. He had been outmanoeuvred by a couple of over-excited English girls and he didn’t like it. What’s more, he thought their case was ridiculous. He didn’t believe for a moment that there was some sinister Russian connection to a schoolteacher in Hamburg and the immigrant children she taught. The story of children being taught computer skills for evil ends sounded ludicrous to him. His colleagues would think he’d gone soft in the head if he made such a case for diverting scarce surveillance resources from counter-terrorist operations.

But he had to do something, having said he would. What was the minimum he could do to satisfy those girls and get them out of his hair? He sat drawing angry patterns on a piece of paper on his desk, reviewing the options. CCTV, he thought. That’s what we’ll do. If this Irma Nimitz woman does get a male visitor during the week, we’ll photograph him and his car. Then we can identify him and if he turns out to be her bit on the side, he need never know. If by any remote chance he’s a Russian, as the girls seem to think, we’ll recognise him and his car if he’s stationed here in Germany. In any case, if there is a regular visitor, we can set up some mobile surveillance next time he calls and find out where he comes from and what he’s up to. That will have to do, he thought grumpily, though I’ll bet even that is a complete waste of time.

So on the following Sunday the residents of the Nimitzes’ street would have noticed men from the telephone company up various phone poles along the street. If anyone had asked, which they didn’t, they would have been told that a fault had been reported and the lines were being checked. On Sunday evening Lamme was phoned and told that the system was in place and test pictures were being simultaneously received in the BfV operations room in Hamburg and at Headquarters in Berlin. They showed a wide-angle view of the street outside the Nimitzes’ house, and close-ups of the garden at the back and the entrance to the house. The cameras were programmed to trigger if a car stopped in the street outside or if the front door opened or anyone walked through the garden.

Lamme’s instruction to the operations room was that on Monday he wanted to see still photographs of the two occupants of the house, Dieter and Irma Nimitz. He then wanted to see a daily log of movements at the house, again with still photographs. If there was a male caller at the house who was clearly not a tradesman or the postman, he wanted to be told right away. What he didn’t tell the Ops Room is that he didn’t expect this to happen.

On the Monday morning Lamme was sitting at his desk looking at a set of photographs. In one, a rather plump woman in her early fifties was coming out of the front door carrying some shopping bags. Another, timed one and a half hours later, showed her unloading full bags from the boot of a car. There were also several pictures of a tall, thin, grey-haired man, presumably Dieter Nimitz, coming and going – the last one, timed at six that morning, showed him leaving the house carrying a small overnight bag and a briefcase.

Lamme rang Sally Mortimer at the British Embassy.

‘Good morning, Miss Mortimer,’ he said, his voice without warmth. ‘I have the first pictures from our little operation. They show the two main characters. Do you wish to have copies?’

‘Yes, please. I would like to see all the product.’ She paused and then added, ‘I am very grateful to you for your help in this.’ What no one saw was that after she had said it she stuck her tongue out at the telephone.

As the week wore on, the surveillance operation proceeded as Lamme had predicted. Each morning there was a packet of photographs on his desk showing all the usual comings and goings at any normal suburban house. Irma left every morning at about eight; the cleaning lady arrived at nine and left at one; the postman came every morning; once there was a delivery of what looked like a parcel from Amazon. Each day, Irma returned at about four thirty, once nearer five with shopping. In the evening all was quiet and no one came or went.

But on Thursday the pace suddenly changed. At two o’clock, the phone on Lamme’s desk rang. The Ops Room officer said, ‘Just heard from Hamburg. Your lady’s come home early. They’re wondering if she’s expecting a visitor.’

‘OK. I’m coming up to watch.’ He was curious despite his scepticism.

In the Ops Room one of the large monitors on the wall was blank. Nothing was moving at the Nimitz house so the cameras were inactive. One of the Ops officers brought up on another screen the feed from fifteen minutes previously; Lamme watched the figure he recognised as Irma hurrying up the path and opening the door with a key.

Nothing more happened for a time, and Lamme grew restless, and started pacing round the Ops Room. He had been sure the English girls had been imagining things. Was he going to be proved wrong? He waited, glancing from time to time at the blank screen, his jaw clenched.

The screen flickered into life, showing a black Mercedes saloon pulling up outside the Nimitz house. The digital clock in the corner of the screen read 14.45. The car door opened and a heavyset, dark-haired man in a leather jacket got out. He collected a briefcase from the passenger seat, slammed and locked the doors and marched up the path to the front door of the house. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and Irma Nimitz welcomed him inside.

‘Oh no,’ muttered Lamme under his breath. He knew who the man was. Igor Leonov, identified FSB officer, undercover as a cultural attaché at the Russian Consulate in Hamburg and the target of many an unsuccessful surveillance operation.

Whatever was going on at this house in Blankensee was bad news. And even worse, from Lamme’s point of view, was that he was going to have to admit to the English girls that they had been right all along.