Games Traitors Play

44

Prentice and Marchant were standing well back from the first-floor window of the Georgian townhouse, but they could see people walking up and down Savile Row beneath them in the summer-evening sun. Marchant hadn’t been aware that the tailor’s had a connection with the intelligence services, but it was an old arrangement brokered by Prentice, which made sense. He never bought his suits from anywhere else.

‘The gallery will be crawling with SVR,’ Prentice said. ‘Armstrong’s fixers tried to get a wire in there last night, but security’s been like a convent’s dormitory for the past three days.’

‘So I’ll be on my own,’ Marchant said.

‘I’ll be wired, but it’s too risky for you,’ Prentice replied, glancing behind him. Two technicians with headphones were sitting at a table, fine-tuning a bank of audio units. ‘The whole area will be flooded with jammers, but we must expect them to be able to communicate with each other. And to hear us, despite the best efforts of Five,’ Prentice added, glancing again at the technicians. ‘Primakov has been given the codename “Bacchus”.’

Two minutes later, Marchant was turning into Cork Street. It was easy to see which gallery was hosting the opening. People were spilling onto the pavement outside the Redfern, glasses of wine in one hand, catalogues in the other. He checked the street — Harriet Armstrong had provided a team of watchers at Fielding’s request — and recognised an agent sitting at the wheel of a black cab with its light off, thirty yards down the road. He wasn’t reassured. The Russians would not make contact if they saw he had company.

Inside the gallery, Marchant nudged through the crowds, declining a glass of wine. A tray of sushi canapés looked more tempting, but there was always a risk with the Russians that it might come with a side order of polonium-210. He headed downstairs, where there were fewer people. He was familiar with the gallery’s layout, having studied the floor plans, but something told him that the artist would be lurking in the basement, and he wanted to see him. Sure enough, he was holding court with a couple of younger men, both of whom had notepads. Marchant assumed they were journalists, and tucked in behind them to hear what was being said.

The artist must have been in his seventies, short with a full but close-cropped head of dyed-black hair that had been wetted down in jagged edges. He was wearing a bright pink open-necked shirt and socks with sandals. His face was angular, chiselled like a rough-hewn bust, and he had a fidgety, eccentric manner, massaging the top of his head with both hands as he explained his art.

‘This is one of my favourites,’ he said in a thick Russian accent, gesturing towards an abstract nude, all spatchcocked limbs and vibrant colours. His hands moved back up to his head. ‘Lots of cunt.’

Both journalists visibly flinched. Marchant glanced at the painting, the patch of cross-scratched charcoal. Even he was startled by the word, still hanging awkwardly in the air. Then everyone remembered that artists were meant to shock and the mood settled, more questions were asked. Besides, he was from South Ossetia, and might not even know what he had just said. Marchant doubted it. The old man’s moist eyes were dancing.

Upstairs, Marchant looked at some paintings (more nudes, more scratching), making his way around in reverse order towards number 14. He recognised the nude model as Nadia and felt a flicker of unease, particularly as the naked figure next to her bore a striking resemblance to himself. He glanced around instinctively, wondering for a moment if someone might recognise him. The Russians sometimes had a warped sense of humour.

A half-sticker had been stuck next to the price, indicating that the picture had been reserved — and that his meeting with Primakov was still on. But he hadn’t spotted anyone at the opening who matched the latest photos Fielding had shown him of the Russian. He looked around the crowded room again, and then he saw Valentin through the main window, smoking on the pavement outside.

Hidden by the surging crowds on the tube platform, Marchant had pulled Valentin back a moment after pushing him towards the oncoming train. He hadn’t caught the Russian’s curse, but he saw his blood-drained face as he turned around.

‘So sorry,’ Marchant had said. ‘Everyone was pushing from behind.’

To his credit, Valentin had maintained his composure. ‘In that case, I must thank you for saving my life.’ There was no acknowledgement that they had met before, just the same shiftiness in the Russian’s small blue eyes.

‘London’s a dangerous city,’ Marchant had said as the train doors opened. ‘I’ll catch the next one. Less crowded.’

Valentin squeezed into the crowded carriage, and Marchant waved to him as the train pulled out, the Russian’s pale face pressed close to the glass. A warning had been served. Next time, Marchant would push him under.

Valentin still seemed anxious now, glancing up and down Cork Street in expectation. Marchant wondered where Prentice was. He had points to prove, and he wished he was operating on his own. Besides, Prentice had not been given the full picture about Primakov. According to Fielding, all he had been told was that the Russian had expressed an interest in making contact with Marchant. Primakov had known his father, and Marchant would use the meeting to sound him out for possible recruitment. Prentice knew nothing about Primakov’s past role as a British asset.

Marchant looked across at the picture again, and was about to walk over and stand in front of it when he heard a commotion at the entrance. A loud group of Russians strode in: dyed-blonde women weighed down with make-up and designer labels, middle-aged businessmen in blue jeans and chalk-striped jackets. A few steps behind them was a short, overweight man in his late fifties whose gnomic smile and wine-flushed cheeks exuded bonhomie. He was dressed differently from the others. The cord jacket, open shirt and silk scarf suggested a man of culture rather than commerce. Primakov, no question.

Hugo Prentice slipped into the gallery a few moments after Primakov. A Russian waitress greeted him with an offer of wine. Instinctively, Prentice checked himself. He didn’t drink on duty, but he needed to blend in, and there was only one glass of orange juice on offer. He took a red wine from the middle of the tray and smiled at the waitress.

‘Za vashe zdorov’e,’ he said, raising his glass and moving into the crowded room.

He recognised a couple of Primakov’s babysitters, but the sight of Primakov in the flesh caught him off guard. Despite his experience, he struggled not to look at him twice. It was like seeing a reclusive celebrity come out of hiding for the first time in years. Prentice had read the files, watched film footage of him and studied various photos, but for some reason their paths had never crossed, which was unusual, given their respective Cold War careers.

He knew all about him, of course. Stephen Marchant used to talk to him of their public sparring, how he had tried in vain for many years to recruit the Russian. Everyone in Legoland had heard about his spats with Britain and America in the 1980s. Primakov seemed to love and despise the West in equal measure, teasing with his friendships, annoying his own superiors. And now he wanted to meet Daniel Marchant, the son of his oldest adversary, who was going to try where his father had failed.

‘Bacchus has arrived,’ Prentice said into his concealed lapel wire, moving towards the bar at the back of the gallery, where the crowds offered more cover.

Before Marchant could do anything, Primakov had placed both hands on his shoulders and was admiring him as if he was one of the canvases on the walls.

‘It’s so true, you look just like your father,’ he beamed, standing in the middle of the gallery and making no effort at discretion. His accent was almost completely Westernised, more American than English, with only a hint of Russian. ‘I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?’ He turned towards one of his babysitters, who shuffled awkwardly. ‘This boy’s father was my very dear friend,’ Primakov said, ‘and a lifelong enemy.’

The group’s entrance had silenced the gallery. Still smiling, Primakov leaned in towards Marchant and kissed him on both cheeks before hugging him. Marchant caught the strong smell of garlic, and for a moment he was back in Delhi. Just before Primakov pulled back, he whispered into Marchant’s ear. ‘Goodman’s, Maddox Street, ten minutes. I’ve a letter from your father. We’ll take care of the Graham Greene joker.’

Marchant glanced across at Prentice standing by the bar, chatting up one of the waitresses, who topped up his glass as they flirted. He then turned to the group of Russians, who were now being introduced to the artist. A letter from his father? The room suddenly felt very hot as Marchant headed for the door. He had no time to warn Prentice. Not much inclination either.

Outside in the street, he hailed the parked taxi he had seen earlier. Its light came on as it drove towards him. Marchant met it halfway and climbed in.

‘A friend of mine in there needs a cab, too,’ he said, nodding at the gallery window. ‘Now.’

‘He’s left the gallery,’ Prentice said, walking down a side corridor and back into the main gallery.

‘Get yourself out of there,’ Fielding ordered, glancing at Armstrong. They were in his fourth-floor office in Legoland, watching a bank of CCTV screens relaying images from the West End. In one of them, a black taxi was making its way down Conduit Street.

‘Repeat please,’ Prentice said. His voice was being broadcast in the office, but it was barely audible, breaking up.

‘Marchant’s flagged a code red alert,’ Armstrong said. She had never liked Prentice, but the message had been given to one of her officers, so she felt obliged to pass it on. ‘You need to move now.’

Prentice hadn’t heard Armstrong’s words, but he caught her tone of anxiety just before his comms dropped. He had also noticed Valentin, the tall Russian from Sardinia, who had peeled away from the group around Primakov and was coming towards him, blocking his exit from the gallery.

‘You caused me a lot of embarrassment with your little home movie,’ Valentin said, his body language at odds with his thin smile. ‘It was a fake, of course.’

‘Of course. But a good one, no? An Oscar, surely, for best foreign film.’

‘Our politicians don’t like to be ridiculed.’

‘And Her Majesty’s agents don’t like to be compromised.’

‘The boy seemed to be enjoying himself. At least, that’s what Nadia said. Where is he now? I thought I saw him earlier.’

‘No idea. I must go, though. It’s been a pleasure.’

But Prentice knew already that he was going nowhere. With a taut smile, Valentin took the glass of wine from him and handed it back to the waitress, just as the gallery began to spin and blur.