Ghosts

Chapter Twelve

The Jumbo circled over Sheremetyevo, slowly negotiating its way down the stack of jetliners, and then the fuselage shook a little as the undercarriage was lowered. Milton stowed his tray table and slid the copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles that he had purchased from the airport book store into his bag. Anna was sitting three rows ahead of him; he could see the top of her head, the crown of red hair easily visible in the dimmed cabin lights. Milton looked out of the window at the huge, sprawling expanse of Moscow. The lights of the city stretched away into the far distance: a seemingly interminable grid of streets, darkened holes marking the public parks, the serpentine slither of the Moskva, white smoke spewing from the smokestacks of the power plant on its bank. The rows of Stalin’s wedding cake skyscrapers were covered over with the snow that was piling down from the thick, angry clouds through which they had just descended. He saw the onion domes of the Kremlin, topped with their lurid red stars; the basilica of St. Basil’s on Red Square, a child’s toy at this altitude. Everything was mantled in white.

They landed and proceeded through border control with suspicious ease. They already had their luggage and so Milton followed Anna as she led the way through the glitzy terminal building, replete with Russia’s new wealth, and outside to the taxi rank. The bitter air swept around him again. He had spent a winter in Moscow, five years ago, during an assignment that took four months from preparation to bloody completion, and he knew what a Russian winter meant. He thought of Pope and what Anna had told him; if he really had been stuffed into a Siberian gulag, this weather — which would still be brutal — would be a balmy sojourn in comparison to what he could expect.

The taxi driver had a tiny five inch television fixed to the dashboard, sucking power from the cigarette lighter. There was a football match taking place — CSKA were playing Munich in the European Cup — and he carried on watching it, occasionally raising his eyes to check the traffic ahead of him. Anna sat next to him, staring out of the window as the streets rolled by them. She had freshened up in the toilet at the airport, applying a fresh coat of lipstick and refreshing her scent. Her right leg was crossed over her left, the expensively shod foot dangled inches from Milton’s calf. The fingers of her left hand, the nails blood red, were spread out on her knee.

Milton wondered whether she had been instructed to sleep with him.

The driver turned off Tverskaya Street and pulled up outside the Ritz-Carlton. The pavements had been scrupulously swept clear of the snow that was so thick elsewhere and the uniformed porters hurried to help them as they stepped outside. Milton politely brushed them off as Anna paid the fare.

“We will stay here tonight,” she said as they followed their luggage inside.

“When do we see the colonel?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“There’s one other thing. We would prefer it if you would stay in the room.”

“I’m a prisoner?”

“No, of course not.”

“But…”

“But we would prefer it if you did not go out tonight but stayed here. The meeting tomorrow is important, for your friend, especially. You should be well rested. Perhaps you could order room service and get an early night?”

“Yes,” Milton said. “I am tired. Perhaps I will.”

Chapter Thirteen

Milton stood, pulled aside the net curtains and stared out into the cold night beyond. His room was on the fifteenth floor but the panorama was constrained by the blizzard of snow flakes that whipped around the building by the harsh wind. The view would open a little as the wind paused: long streets with street lamps casting bowls of golden light against the white; the glowing tail lights of cars and trucks and busses; tall buildings with some windows lit, others switched off by orders of the municipal government in an attempt to avoid the brown-outs that still afflicted the city.

Milton gazed out over the streets for five minutes, allowing his memory to drift. He was much too young to have been involved in the Cold War but there had been plenty of missions inside the borders of the new Russia and the satellite states that still clung to it like piglets suckling the teats of their mother. He remembered a particular assignment in Moscow a year or two after he had been transferred into the Group. He and Number Four had entered the country under the cover of diplomatic passports and had taken rooms at the Hilton Leningradskaya, not too far from the hotel where he was staying now. An arms fair was taking place, and their target — a dealer who was negotiating the terms of a deal that would secure advanced surface-to-air missiles for the Iraqi regime — was going to be in attendance. Number Four had driven the motorcycle with Milton riding pillion. He had emptied the magazine of his H&K into the dealer’s BMW, killing him but sparing his mistress and his driver. It had been warm then, the end of September and the time of year that the locals called “grandma’s summer;” the last gasp of warmth when peasant women brought in their harvests and now, in the metropolitan version, when eager urbanites gathered at the outdoor cafés and bars for the last chance of an al fresco drink before winter closed its icy fingers around the city for five more long, dark months.

Milton turned from the window and sat on the edge of the bed. He thought of Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko in the room next to his. What would she be doing? Making her report to her superior officers, informing them that she had successfully delivered him into the country? Her room would be identical to his and he thought of her on the bed, most likely adjacent to his and separated by the wall. Six inches away, perhaps. She was very attractive. He would have been lying to himself if he said that he did not find her beguiling. That, no doubt, was why they sent her. He thought of le Carré’s books or the films about espionage from the sixties and seventies; she was the lissome girl sent to guarantee his attendance, the honeytrap in the Cold War thriller. He wondered what would happen if he stepped into the corridor and knocked on her door. He did not doubt that she would welcome him inside. It was tempting and there would be no harm in it, an interesting diversion to kill the time until tomorrow, but Milton resisted. There were things he had to do. An old friend to meet, and information to gather.

He dressed in the warm clothes that she had provided, pulled on the Timberland boots and put on his thick overcoat, quietly shut his door and padded softly to the elevator. He took it down to the ground floor and, without pausing, strode across the lobby, down the small flight of stairs, through the revolving door and into the street outside. He had noticed the man sitting in an armchair next to an open fire, a copy of the Herald-Tribune spread out in front of him. He had chosen a spot where he could observe the door and the lobby and Milton pegged him as an agent from the internal security directorate immediately. He didn’t rush through the lobby — he didn’t want them to think he was trying to flee, a reason to call for backup — but neither did he dawdle. As he emerged onto the street outside he made a show of arranging his overcoat, fastening the buttons all the way to the top, and, as he looped his scarf around his neck and tucked it into the front of the coat, he allowed himself a quarter turn back to the interior and saw the man, without his newspaper, coming down the steps.

The snow was falling thick and heavy, fat flakes that settled on everything, softening edges, turning the parked cars into sculptures with gracefully curved lines. The snow was deep; a trough had been shovelled down the centre of the sidewalks that was wide enough for two people to pass, the walls of snow and ice on either side reaching up to Milton’s knees. He walked at a decent pace, following streets that he remembered from the last time he had been here.

He stopped at a currency exchange and swapped two of the hundred dollar bills in his pocket for roubles. He turned to the street as the cashier counted out his money and saw the man from the hotel a hundred feet behind him, talking into the open window of a Mercedes SUV that was parked against the bank of snow on the road side edge of the sidewalk. Reinforcements, Milton thought. Fair enough. It didn’t concern him. He took the notes from the cashier, put them into his pocket and set off again for the station at Ploshchad Revolyutsii. He stepped into the relative warmth inside the heavy glass doors and bought a fur trimmed ushanka from the stall-holder who was doing a brisk trade flogging hats, scarves and gloves to credulous tourists. He put the hat in his pocket, bought a day ticket for the trains and made his way to the platform.

A second tail got ahead of him, probably alerted by a call from the third agent, the one in the car. He was waiting on the platform. Milton recognised him as an intelligence man without very much difficulty. He was standing alone at the end of the platform where the civilian statues were; the athletes, the engineers, the proud revolutionaries with their puffed out chests and bulging biceps. It was the obvious spot for him to wait; he would have a good view of new arrivals. He was glancing at a newspaper that he obviously wasn’t reading, speaking the odd word from the side of his mouth into a throat mic hidden beneath the scarf around his neck. The Russians used to have plenty of good men. Times had changed; now that the prestige and influence of the security service had been affected by the fall of the Wall, they had plenty of bad ones too, and more of the latter than the former. They were bad ones tonight. Milton thought, a little ruefully, it might have been nice to have been assigned some professionals to keep an eye on him. More of a challenge to lose them and, he admitted to himself, he'd been out of the game for a year. It would have been good for his ego to know that he still demanded their full attention.

Never mind.

Milton walked towards the man and looked into his eyes for a moment before he clocked him and turned away. Milton wasn’t concerned that the man knew that his cover had been blown. He wanted him to know. His ego again.

Milton looked across the tracks to the other platform and waited until the display board advertised a wait of a minute for the eastbound train. He remembered the station well from the times he had been active in Moscow and its geography came back to him without difficulty. He turned on his heel and walked quickly to the stairs that you took to transfer to the green line. He took the steps two at a time, quite sure that he would have sent the man on the platform into a spin and enjoying that knowledge. He turned his head as he reached the middle of the bridge that crossed the tracks: on his left he could see the collection of disc-shaped chandeliers, running away down the platform and, eventually, into the darkened maw of the tunnel from which the trains emerged; on his right was the corresponding walkway that offered a way to cross the line from the other side of the platform. It was close enough for him to see the agent hurrying up the stairs, walking quickly but daring not to run. He was still being careful, even as he was fearful he was going to lose his target. Perhaps he didn’t know that he had been blown; if that was right, that just made him even more pitiable. The train wheezed into the station, the doors sliding open on runners that could have done with a drop of oil, and Milton embarked. It was just two stops to Pushkinskaya. He looked at the etiolated panelling and the strip lighting that flickered and cut out at regular intervals. Eastbound and westbound trains at Pushkinskaya pulled into different sides of the same platform and a second train was drawing to a halt just as the doors of Milton’s train opened. He walked across the platform, quickly obscured by the emerging throng of passengers, bundled up in their thick parkas and muffled hats.

He boarded the westbound train.

He took the ushanka and pulled it onto his head, untying the ear flaps from the crown and straightening them all the way out, enough to obscure his face. He looked down at his feet, yet glanced at the platform through the corner of his eye as the train jerked and bumped into motion. He saw the agent, confused and lost, caught between the eastbound and westbound trains, unsure which one he needed to be on. Had he changed trains or had he stayed where he was? The train slid away, Milton looking down again to hide his face as the agent passed before his window, and then they were back into the tunnel and accelerating in the direction from which he had arrived.

Milton sat in the seat, running his fingers over the rough, threadbare upholstery. He looked up and down the train and, satisfied that he was not being followed, settled back to read the advertisements that offered cures for indigestion and hair loss and sexual dysfunction that were neatly arranged beneath the line of the ceiling. He could have been on a train in London, or anywhere else in the world. His eyes drifted down to the woman sitting opposite him and, for a moment, their eyes held. She was dressed in form-fitting blue jeans, ankle length fur trimmed boots and a winter coat with brass buttons that might have looked good from a distance but, up close, looked like it was made out of cheap fabric and probably came from a Chinese or Korean sweatshop. The girl was definitely checking him out. Had she pegged him as a foreigner? Probably. He wasn’t dressed to blend in, and the hat looked like something a tourist would wear, not a native Muscovite. It didn’t matter. He gave her a careful smile; she smiled back, a little aloof, in that way that Russian girls have, and then he angled his head back to the advertisements and ignored her.

He rode the train for a single stop and alighted at Pushkinskaya. He scanned the platform, saw nothing that gave him cause for concern, and navigated the burrowlike tunnels until he found the escalator to the street. There was revolutionary art on the walls of the escalator shaft, striking images of farmhands and soldiers and housewives with doughty forearms that would put wrestlers to shame. It was lit by a row of impressive chandeliers and folk music was playing over the tannoy. He pushed through the heavy glass Metro doors and emerged into the freezing cold of Pushkin Square.

He was on Strastnoy Bulvar, the old road that ran around the Kremlin with dark reaches of park between the lanes. There were snow-covered lawns, benches and statues of famous writers and revolutionaries. A big office block dominated the multi-laned junction, fifteen-foot high letters that spelled out NOKIA anchored to the roof. Neon glared against the snow and the ice. He turned to the south, crossed the gridlocked road and made his way along Tverskoy Boulevard. Four-by-fours crawled up and down the road, white sheets of ice stubbornly resisting the grit, tyres crunching across compacted snow, snow chains rattling, the headlights casting yellow fingers across the dirty white. It was bitterly cold — a digital thermometer in the windows of a chemist showed fifteen degrees below zero — and Milton quickly wished he had a more substantial coat. The freezing air settled across the exposed skin of his face, painful within moments. He wouldn’t be able to stay out in this weather for long.

He extended his arm to hail a taxi. Three passed by without stopping until a fourth saw him shivering on the sidewalk and glided into the kerb, the dented fender crunching up against the wall of piled snow. The driver was from the Ukraine; there was a flag on the dashboard next to a miniature religious icon. He stank of vodka and there was a bottle wedged into the space between the two front seats. Milton had taken rides with plenty of drunken taxi drivers in Eastern Europe and the fact that he had not been killed — so far — was enough for him to be sanguine about it. On the other hand, he had always felt a little unsure about trusting a man who advertised his religion so prominently. He preferred his driver to put his faith in simple things, like the rules of the road, rather than trusting everything to God. Milton fastened his seat belt quietly, avoiding the implicit criticism of the man’s driving that he would have signalled had he made it obvious. He gave the address and settled into the seat as the car picked up speed, the driver ignoring the treacherous conditions as the speedometer ticked up to fifty. They were swallowed by the tunnel that cut beneath the Novy Arbat, and then emerged to speed past the Gogol statue. The driver was honest enough and, rather than taking the circuitous route that many would have chosen, picked a direct route to the Kropotkinskaya Metro station.

He gave the driver fifty roubles and another twenty on top and stepped out into the cold. The car had been pleasant in comparison to the arctic blast that greeted him again, quickly chasing away the warmth that he had managed to nurture. The dark curve of the river was laid out beyond the road. The area had been taken over by floating restaurants over the past decade and Milton had eaten here on many occasions. Gorky Park was on the other side of the river although it was invisible tonight, hidden behind the shifting, dense curtain of snow. He half fancied that he could see the neon-tinged outline of the Krimsky Bridge. Beyond that, although he couldn’t make it out, would be the ostentatious floodlit statue of Peter the Great that the Russians had thrown up in the middle of the river. And beyond that, on the other side, was the famous Red October chocolate factory. Milton might even have felt a twinge of nostalgic for the old place if it wasn’t for the cold that had already made a mockery of his hopelessly inadequate coat.

The Armenian supermarket was two hundred yards from the entrance to the Metro. It was on the ground floor of a four storey building with apartments arranged on the three floors above it. It was years since he had last visited but it was all just the same: more goods on the shelves than there had been before, perhaps, but everything was just a little down at heel, a little dusty and dowdy, all a little out of date. The aisles were lit by harsh yellow strip lights that hung from the ceiling on metal chains. The shoppers shuffled between the shelves, the brutal cold knocking the stuffing from them, the melted snow leaving puddles on the linoleum floor. Milton made his way down the middle of the shop and opened the door to the storeroom at the rear. There were trays of produce stacked on pallets, the cellophane wrappers cut away with knives, spoiled goods thrown into a pile near the loading bay.

The office was at the other end of the storeroom and he knocked twice, waiting for permission to enter.

“Yes,” the voice said in harshly accented Russian.

Milton pushed the door and stepped into the small room beyond. There was a desk with a computer, two filing cabinets and a slit-like window that opened onto the trash infested alleyway at the rear of the supermarket. The room was lit by a single naked bulb. An old FM radio stood on one of the cabinets, tuned to a news channel, the voice of the announcer obscured by the regular bursts and burbles of interference. There was a chair before the desk and sitting in it was a woman who looked to be in her late sixties. She was short and stout with a heavily wrinkled face and a bowl of grey hair that was shot through with streaks of silver. She was dressed practically: sensible black shoes with a decent tread, thick stockings and a worn woollen skirt and sweater that had been chosen for comfort rather than style. She had kind, wise, sad eyes.

“John?”

“Mamotchka,” he said, smiling. It meant ‘mother’ in Russian. Her given name was Anya Dostovalov but mother was what he had called the old woman for years.

“My God,” she said, pushing herself out of the chair and crossing the room to enfold him in an embrace. She smelled the same as he remembered: the floral perfume was a trigger that always threw him back to the times he had spent in the East. She put her arms on his shoulders and held him back a little so that she could get a better look at his face. He smiled into her eyes and dipped his head so that she could kiss him on both cheeks. “My God,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I did not think I ever see you again.”

“Mamotchka,” he chided, unable to prevent the smile that twitched the sides of his mouth. “You didn’t think I’d forget about you, did you?”

“I hear what happen. What happen in London.”

“You probably heard their version of it.”

“You must tell me. I hear stories, many stories, you are right, but you must tell what really happened. We will have cup of tea, yes?”

“Something warm would be good.”

“And have you eaten, Vanya?”

John was translated as Ivan in Russian, and Vanya was the affectionate diminutive that replaced Ivan. She had used that for him for all the time that they had known each other.

“I haven’t.”

“Then we must go upstairs. To apartment. I cook for you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Anya spoke to the two members of staff on the checkout desk, telling them that they would be locking up tonight without her, opened a door and led him up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor. The doors to a half dozen apartments faced onto a spare and ascetic lobby; snow was melting on the boots that had been left on mats outside. Anya took the key that she wore on a thin chain around her neck and unlocked her door. Milton remembered the apartment beyond: parquet floor, a faded and moth-eaten rug and a small chandelier that looked grand but, upon closer inspection, was dusty and dirty and broken in several places. Mamotchka took off her shoes and Milton did the same, following her further into the apartment.

There was a bedroom with a single bed, plus a pine wardrobe and dressing table set that was scattered with cosmetics and scents. The tiny bathroom was next and then, at the end of the corridor, a sitting room with a small kitchen arranged at one end. The kitchen was equipped with an old-fashioned stove, a tiny fridge and a stovetop kettle. The sitting room had yet more of the parquet floor, softened by another rug. There was a mushroom-shaped water stain that had spread across the ceiling, peeling the plaster away and a bookshelf with communist-era travelogues and histories. The windows looked down onto the snow choked streets below. The central heating, which was still regulated by the city government, was brutally hot.

“Now, John,” she said, gesturing towards the sofa. “Sit. I prepare food and tea.”

Milton sat and watched as she went about her business. He had known Anya Dostovalov for almost a decade and she had been an asset of British intelligence for far longer than that. Her role had always been as a ‘cut-out.’ She would stand between a spy and his or her source so that, were her role to be uncovered, she would only be able to identify the sender and the recipient of information. She acted as insulation for the network that MI6 had built, protecting its agents from exposure. The role was critically important and exposed her to considerable risk; once Milton had grown to know and respect her he was loathe to put her in harm’s way. Her response had always been to politely yet firmly brush his concerns away. She had been doing this for years, she would say. She knew what she was doing.

First, she brought over a teapot, a samovar filled with hot water and two cups, and prepared the tea. She had brewed it strong and poured small shots into the cups, topping them up with boiling water from the samovar. Milton sipped his, the taste sharp and bitter and not particularly pleasant to his palate, but the warmth was welcome in his belly. Anya Dostovalov took her own tea to the kitchen and worked with quick and silent efficiency, emptying out the contents of the tiny fridge and assembling a small buffet for them both: slivers of fish and hunks of pork, pieces of bitter Russian chocolate, a collection of warm blinis, sour cream, the sweet cheese that the Russians fried in little rolls and saucers of jam that Milton knew you were supposed to eat with the tea. When she was finished she brought it over on a wooden tray and set it down on the low coffee table.

“You still remember how to find shop,” she said as she sat down.

“Of course. I’m not likely to forget, am I?”

“You were not followed?”

“Please,” he smiled. “You know me better than that.”

“I am sorry, Vanya,” she said. “I have reason to be careful.”

“How do you mean?”

“The… how do you say? The climate is difficult. Everyone knew KGB was bad but SVR is just the same.” She smiled. “And I am too old for gulag.”

“You’re not old, Mamotchka.”

“Bless you, Vanya, but I am seventy-three. Old woman now.”

“There’s no need to worry. I was followed but I lost them on the Metro. They don’t know where I am.”

He sipped the fragrant tea, feeling its warmth in his belly. She waited patiently as he finished the cup and then poured him another.

“So, dear one. What has happened to you?”

He told her. He told her about the assignment in the French Alps and the two Iraqi scientists that he had assassinated and about the little boy who had hidden in the footwell of the car that he had sprayed with bullets, and about the gendarme who had been unlucky enough to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He told her how he had lost himself in the boy’s brown eyes and how he had seen an unbroken line that connected all his victims all the way back to another little boy he had seen in the desert years ago. He told her how he had decided there and then that he couldn’t justify his life’s work any longer, that he had been haunted by the ghosts of the men and women he had dispatched, how they had stormed his dreams so that he had only been able to escape them by drinking so much that he obliterated all sense of his self. He told her about what had happened in East London, how he had ruined the lives of the people he had been trying to help, about how he had fled to South America and worked his way north, trying to do the right thing where he could, but moving on before he could become settled, before he could make attachments that he knew he would eventually have to break. He told her about Cuidad Juárez and Santa Muerta, about how the Group had located him and how he had escaped. He told her about San Francisco and all the dead girls and, as he did, he saw, again, that whatever he did and wherever he went, he could not escape Death. It followed in his wake, dogged and relentless and impossible to shake.

“Guilt always comes to men in your work,” she said when he was finished.

“I lasted longer than most.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m not sure what that says about me.”

She smiled, a sad smile. “You are good man, Vanya.”

“I’m not going back.”

“You would not have that option even if you did. I am told Control is furious.”

“I’m sure he is. I put a bullet into the knee of the man he sent after me.”

“Yes, Number Twelve. His new little pet. I heard.”

“You still have your ears open?”

“I hear most things eventually. You know me.”

“That’s what I was hoping. I need your help. Information.”

“Whatever I can do.”

He finished his last mouthful of blini and put the plate down on the table.

“Do you know a colonel Shcherbatov?”

A wry half-smile. “Pascha? I do. A little.”

“I’m meeting him tomorrow.”

“For what?”

“I’m not sure. What do you know?”

“I know that he is secretive man. He has been intelligence officer for many years. Trained with the 401st KGB School in Okhta, near St. Petersburg. Leningrad, as then, and worked for Second Chief Directorate on counterintelligence and then First Chief Directorate. He monitored foreigners in Leningrad and was sent to East Germany before Wall came down. He came back to Moscow, survived coup and was given senior role in new KGB. He has been there ever since.”

“Anything else?”

“He is old-fashioned. Traditional. Still views West as enemy. He is not popular among his comrades. His views are unpopular. Government wants good relations with west. Money from oil is worth more than principles. Pascha Shcherbatov does not share this view — old Cold Warrior. I hear suggestion that Kremlin would not be upset if he were to retire.”

“Then why didn’t they get rid of him?”

“A man like Pascha learn many secrets, Vanya. He work in intelligence for many years. Do not think his attention has always been focussed across Russia’s borders. He is not kind of man who makes fuss of himself but apparatchiks are not stupid. They know not to be afraid of barking dog. Pascha is silent dog. You should be afraid of silent dog. Do you understand what I mean, Vanya?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what he wants?”

“No,” he said. “I have no idea.”

“Treat him very carefully, Vanya. He is dangerous. Not to be trusted. Whatever he wants from you, it will not be good.”

Chapter Fifteen

Milton slept at the apartment that night, setting an alarm for four in the morning. He rose quietly from the couch in the hope that he might not disturb Anya Dostovalov but she was already awake and, upon hearing that he had risen too, she bustled into the front room and made busy preparing breakfast. She prepared large mugs of Sbiten, the honey beverage laced with cloves, cinnamon and ginger, and gave one to him. She made fresh blinis and served them with sour cream. Milton didn’t know when he would be eating again and so he had five of them, washing them down with another mug of Sbiten. He hugged her before opening the door, telling her that he would see her again soon even as he knew that was unlikely, unlatched the door and stepped out into the hallway beyond.

The snow had fallen heavily overnight and walking had become even more difficult. There were huge mounds of wind blown snow across the sidewalk and, where it had been cleared away, hidden expanses of black ice. The municipal workers were out even at this early hour, preparing the city for the day ahead. They were dressed in orange overalls with thick parka jackets over the top and drove prehistoric trucks, shovelling snow into piles and treating patches of ice with caustic chemicals that dissolved it with a worrying hiss and fizz. In the street outside the supermarket they had piled all the snow on one side, burying the cars that had been foolishly left there. They hacked at the thickest patches of ice with pickaxes and shovels with an abominable screeching that reminded Milton of nails being dragged down a blackboard. He had to wait fifteen minutes for a taxi; the cold quickly robbed him of the warmth he had managed to absorb from the apartment’s baking central heating and he was shivering when he finally slipped into the back seat and asked to be taken to the Ritz-Carlton.

He opened his door quietly and slipped inside. It was just past six. He had taken off his coat and shirt and was about to run the bath when there was a knocking at the door. It was Anna. She must have been awake, listening for his return. She stood at the threshold, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Her eyes fell to the scars on Milton’s naked chest, switching back promptly as she noticed he was smiling with amusement at her.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Milton?”

“I went out.”

“Where did you go?”

“Sightseeing.”

“All night?”

“Lots of sights to see,” he said.

She frowned at him disapprovingly. “It does you no favours to play games with us. And it does your friend no favours.”

“I’m not playing games. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m ready to see the colonel.”

“Yes,” she said. “We are leaving immediately.”

“Where is he?”

“Not in Moscow.”

“Where?”

She did not answer. “We have a long trip ahead of us. Four hundred kilometres, Mr. Milton.”

“In this snow?”

“It should take us eight hours.”

Chapter Sixteen

Milton swapped his bath for a shower, dressed warmly, and met Anna in the lobby. There was a car waiting outside for them. It was a top-of-the-line Range Rover Sport, a big and powerful four wheel drive with snow chains fastened around all four tyres. It was black and the windows were tinted. Anna led the way to it and opened the rear door.

Milton got inside and saw that they had been provided with a driver, too. The man was dressed in an anonymous suit and his blond hair had been shaved to a short, prickly fuzz. He was an intelligence operative, he guessed, one seconded from the Spetsnaz if his guess was right. He was big, several inches taller than Milton and fifty pounds heavier. He would be armed, and tough, and a passable match for him if things took a turn for the worse. Milton looked into his face in the rearview mirror as he slid into the seat, the man’s eyes cold and impassive as he glared back at him.

“Who’s the gorilla?” he asked Anna, his eyes still fixed on the man’s.

“His name is Vladimir,” she said as she slid alongside. “He’ll be driving us.”

“Just driving?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Milton. You’re under the protection of the Russian government now.”

“That fills me with confidence.”

“Please, relax. We have a long drive.”

“So you said. Are you going to tell me where?”

“There is a place called Pylos. North east from here. The colonel is staying at his dacha. We will visit him there.”

“Why all the way there? You don’t have a safe house in Moscow?”

“Of course we do,” she said irritably. “But, no matter how careful we are, there will always be prying eyes in the city. The colonel is a private man. Pylos is remote. A place where Muscovites go for their summer holidays. It will be deserted in this weather. There is one way in and one way out and we will be watching both. Easier for us to ensure that your meeting is not noted. That is in both our best interests, is it not?”

Milton said nothing.

The driver put the Range Rover into gear and slid into the traffic. They headed to the north.

There were new high-rise apartment buildings on the edge of Moscow, coloured beige and cream and not as ugly as the old Soviet ones, with patches of snow-covered lawn between them. They drove on, passing out of the suburbs and into the countryside beyond, the road occasionally taking them through cute Russian idylls of sloping wooden houses and little orchards alongside and behind them. The houses all had ornamental window frames, rickety fences and rusty roofs, and sometimes the snow receded just a little to reveal a hint of the landscape that hibernated beneath it: a grove of silver birch trees, stretches of water choked by mirror smooth ice, tethered goats, wild deer and elk foraging for greenery amid the freezing grip of winter. The towns and villages were beautiful and ugly in equal measure, with fly-tipped trash left to rot on the outskirts: bits of old machinery covered over by the snow, discarded white goods, empty vodka bottles scattered across deep drifts. Milton remembered Russia well enough, and knew that the snow was covering a multitude of sins. It masked all the scars and blemishes and lies that collected beneath. It was an apt metaphor for a great country that had fallen into disrepute.

They followed the E115 north, passing through Khotovo, Pereslavl-Zalessky and Rostov. Milton watched the scenery passing by the window and thought about Pope and what the Russians wanted from him. Whoever he was, Shcherbatov was obviously a man not to be taken lightly. Mamotchka was a tough old coot; she had seen plenty of the KGB’s hardcases and blowhards, watched them rail against the unstoppable tide of capitalism, and she had outlasted them all. Her years had given her a breezy confidence and yet Milton had not missed the frown she wore throughout their discussion last night. Colonel Shcherbatov was different.

Anna was next to him. “Are you going to tell me anything about your boss?”

“It would be better if you met him with an open mind.”

“Why? Does he have a reputation?”

“Judge him for yourself.”

The driver glanced up at him in the mirror.

“What do you think, Vladimir?”

“Colonel Shcherbatov is patriot and hero,” he said in heavily accented Russian.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You remember.”

“Vladimir,” Anna chided. “Please. Concentrate on the road.”

They stopped for diesel after six hours. The station was on the outskirts of Yaroslavl, three hundred kilometres from Moscow, and Milton got out to stretch his legs. The cold grew more severe the further north they travelled and here, on the station forecourt, it took just a few minutes to spear into the marrow of his bones. Anna came out and stood beside him, their clouded breath merging together and their shadows thrown long by the afternoon sun. They were enclosed by forest, the branches of the trees sagging with the great weight of the snow. Milton looked at the woman through the corner of his eye. She said nothing, as she had said nothing all the way throughout the drive, but now it seemed almost a companionable silence, as if a friendship might be possible between them if the circumstances were different. He had been in the same business as her, after all. Same coin, different sides.

He absently followed her towards the garage. A wrecked, bearded man was slumped against the wall. He looked up as they approached and asked in Russian if they would buy him a bottle of vodka. Anna dismissed him curtly and went inside. Beside the fuel, the proprietor had a ramshackle business selling beer and vodka, stationery, pornography, cigarettes, bootleg DVDs and perfume. The man glared at Milton from over the counter, a baseball bat ostentatiously propped against the wall, and when he came over to the till to accept Anna’s payment, he revealed an empty trouser leg that hung loose between his good leg and his crutch. He wasn’t old enough for Afghanistan, Milton guessed. Chechnya.

“You smoke?” she said as they walked across the forecourt together to the car.

“Now and again,” he said.

“Here.” She tossed him a packet of Winstons.

“Haven’t seen these for a while,” he admitted as he tore the wrapper from the pack.

“Taste like shit and they still sell more here than anything else.”

Milton put one of the cigarettes to his lips and lit it. The tobacco was harsh and bitter and strong and he had to stifle the urge to cough.

“See what I mean?” she said, a half-smile brightening her face.

“It’s a challenging taste,” he said, briefly raising an eyebrow. He mastered it and filled his lungs.

“We’re halfway there,” she said.

“What time will we get in?”

“Provided it doesn’t snow, around ten.”

“And if it snows?”

“Then we’ll sleep in the car.”

Chapter Seventeen

Pylos was an enchantingly pretty place. There were onion domed churches and brightly painted wooden houses with ornate carved window frames and zinc and tin roofs, spilling down a hillside to a waterfront of fine former merchants houses and colourful houseboats. The main street was tiny and entirely free of designer shops and even the advertising for Western brands, ubiquitous in every other town through which they had passed. Milton had visited upstate New York on several occasions and the town reminded him of Bridgehampton: deliberately folksy, carefully low-key, yet the signs that it was saturated with money were obvious if you knew where to look.

The dacha was on the other side of the town, just outside the boundary. Large residences started to appear, walled and gated, all with plenty of land and access to the Volga. Milton stared through the window across the vast expanse of water. It was five hundred metres wide and seventy-five metres deep, the moon throwing a rippling stripe of light across the blue-black water. Milton saw the two police speedboats bobbing at anchor and, as he looked further towards the other bank, he saw the discreet signs of military activity. He knew there was no point in asking, but it was easy to guess what that meant: a place like this, with all these big summer retreats, there had to be a good chance that members of the political elite could be found here. Oligarchs, crime lords, high-ranking military officials, all of them swimming in the money that the new Russia showered on the chosen few.

Vladimir slowed and turned off the road, proceeding along a short drive to a pair of gates. There were two armed guards just inside and Milton noticed the CCTV cameras that were trained down on them; after a moment, the gates parted and they continued onwards. Milton concentrated on taking in everything he could. The dacha was large, much bigger than the cabin that he had naïvely expected. They approached it along a short drive that passed through a festive Russian landscape, stands of silver birches alternating with thrusting fir and redolent pines, the greensward between them obliterated by the deep falls of snow. There was an area for parking cars and the driver reversed next to another big executive Range Rover and an army jeep. The snow had been shovelled to the edge of the parking area, revealing the frozen gravel beneath, and as Milton stepped down from the car he stood on a twig and snapped it, the sound ringing back through the darkness like the report from a rifle. That, and the crunch of their boots on the gravel, were the only sounds; everything else was muffled, as quiet as the grave. Milton scoped out his surroundings as he allowed himself to be led to the entrance. To the south was a frozen stream, crossed, if necessary, by two planks which met at a man-made island in the middle. On the other side of the stream, and similarly set out along the banks of the Volga, were other dachas, each of them seemingly larger than the last. Milton saw smoke emerging from the chimney of the nearest one but the rest seemed deserted. The illuminated green roof and golden cupolas of a Church poked through a stand of fir. Icicles hung from the eaves of roofs, icy daggers that shimmied and glimmered. The road that they had entered on was quiet. There were no other people abroad. Anna had been right: this was perfect isolation. It was the ideal place to hold a meeting that no-one else could know about.

Vladimir led the way to the front door. It opened on his approach and he conferred in Russian with the guard who stood behind it. The man was armed: Milton recognised his holstered weapon as an MP-443 Grach, the double-action, short-recoil 9mm that was standard issue Russian service pistol. The conversation was brief, and evidently satisfied, the guard nodded and stepped aside. Vladimir waited at the door; Milton followed Anna past them both and inside.

He took it all in, unconsciously performing a tactical assessment. There was a large hallway, with doors opening out into the rest of the dacha in all three internal walls. A flight of stairs led up to a first floor and, he guessed, to a second and third above that.

Anna noticed him paying attention; she smiled and nodded at him. “It is quite something, yes?”

She thought that he was impressed. Fair enough; he would rather she thought that than the truth, which was that he was working out the best way to breach the thick oak door. “Who owns it?” he asked.

“The federal intelligence service.”

“I saw a lot of big places as we came in.”

“Plyos is special, Mr. Milton. Very exclusive.”

“And why’s that?”

“Have you heard of Isaac Levitan?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

She pointed to the wide canvas that was hung above the fireplace in the sitting room. It was a beautiful landscape, the distinctive bulbs of a Russian church reflecting against the water of a wide river. “He was the most famous Russian landscape painter of the nineteenth century. He worked here. He painted it many times. That is one of his works.”

“I’m not great with art.”

She ignored that. “Repin, Savrasov and Makovsky, too. All of them worked here. It is very beautiful in the daylight.”

“Shame we’re not here to visit, then.”

“Yes. There will be no time for sightseeing, not like in Moscow.”

He ignored the jibe and allowed her to lead the way upstairs. They reached a landing with several doors leading from it; again, he committed the layout to memory. She took him halfway down and pushed one of the doors ajar.

“This is your room,” she said.

Milton opened the door fully and looked inside. It was a large room, dominated by a four poster bed. It was simply but evocatively furnished, with heavy Volga linens and had a brick stove beneath a marble fireplace. A fire had been made, and, as the flames curled around the logs that had been stacked there, they cast their orange and yellow light into the dark corners. It was warm and friendly.

“Please, stay here tonight. There’s nothing to see in the village after dark and there are armed guards posted outside. They have been told to prevent you from leaving. I’m sure you could avoid them but it wouldn’t do you any favours. The temperature up here is colder than in Moscow. If you don’t have the right clothes, and you don’t, you wouldn’t last twenty minutes. Much better to stay here, where it’s warm. Okay?”

“Don’t worry,” Milton said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded her approval. “The cook will prepare anything you like for your dinner. It will be brought to your room.” She indicated the telephone next to the bed with a nod of her head. “You just need to dial 1 to speak to the kitchen.”

He stepped further into the room, sat on the edge of the bed and started to work his boots off.

Anna stayed at the door. “The colonel is arriving tomorrow morning. He wants to see you immediately. We will have breakfast together and then I will introduce you.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Her face softened with the beginnings of a careful smile. “My room is next door. If you need anything, you only need knock.” She said it as she stared into his face; it was meant to be meaningful, and Milton did not mistake the message.

He was tempted, but he did not take the bait. “Thank you,” he said. “In the morning, then.”

If she was offended, she didn’t show it. “Sleep well, Mr. Milton,” she said, closing the door. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

Milton was awoken by the sound of an engine. He reached out for his watch: the luminous dial showed a little after three. He slipped out of bed and, crossing the room quietly, reached the window and parted the thick blackout curtains. Snow was falling heavily outside, fat flakes that had already piled two inches deep against the sill and limited the view to a handful of metres. Milton saw headlights approaching from the road, an amber glow that moved slowly through the blizzard. A large, humvee style vehicle painted in military camouflage drew into the parking space and reversed to a halt so that its rear doors faced the dacha. Milton recognised the vehicle as a GAZ 2975 Tiger: large, heavily-treaded tyres, an armoured cabin and narrow windows at the front, rear and along each flank. Troop transport, for the most part, and rugged enough to make short work of this weather. The engine cut out and the driver and passenger-side doors opened. Two soldiers disembarked, crunched across the compacted snow to the rear and opened the doors. The driver hauled himself up into the back and emerged with a third man. He looked half-unconscious, falling to one knee as his feet hit the ground. The two men put his arms across their shoulders and dragged him into the dacha. Milton’s view was from above and obscured by the wide flanks of the Tiger and the falling snow, but he saw enough of the man’s face to recognise Captain Michael Pope.

Chapter Eighteen

Mamotchka knew plenty about colonel Pavel Valerievich Shcherbatov. He had first been called Pasha when he was a little boy; it was the diminutive of his forename and it had stuck with him ever since. For a man in his position of authority it might have been assumed by his juniors that the formal approach would be appropriate but Shcherbatov’s reputation went before him and he had found that he could afford give the impression of avuncularity; no-one who knew anything about him could have been confused about the consequences of taking advantage of his good nature. He was an amiable man, prone to laughter, and his easy smile had carved deep lines from the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. But he was a cunning man, an operator of the highest order, and those eyes shone with a wary intelligence that was impossible to miss. He was also ruthless and without scruple. It was difficult to advance in the Russian intelligence service without those qualities.

Shcherbatov was sixty-two and in excellent shape. He ran five miles around the SVR’s indoor track in Yasenevo every morning and made it his habit to complete at least one marathon a year; he could still cover the Moscow course in under four hours. His exertions had kept him trim and supple. One of his few weaknesses was vanity, and that he could still turn the heads of the women under his command was important to him. He was not wearing his uniform when he came into the room where Milton and Anna were waiting for him. He was wearing a black sweater and jeans.

“Captain Milton,” he said. “I am Pavel Valerievich Shcherbatov. It is good to meet you.”

He extended his hand and, after a short pause, Milton took it. His shake was firm and Milton could feel how powerful his grip could be; it was a strangler’s grip.

“I admit I know much about you, Captain. You can be sure I will not underestimate you.”

Milton held onto his hand for a moment longer than was necessary and then let go.

Shcherbatov smiled at that, unfazed. “We have Department of Analysis and Information in Moscow. They have attributed many kills to you. I have worked with the most dangerous assassins in Russian Federation and, before that, Soviet Union. You are as dangerous as any of them.”

Milton shrugged off the praise. “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about you, colonel.”

“Call me Pasha,” he said. “Please. No need for formality.”

“That’s alright. I’d prefer colonel, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well, Captain Milton. But I must ask: are you sure you do not know me?”

Milton looked at him again. “No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Your memory is poor, Captain Milton. You do not remember our previous meeting? Surely ten years is not so long that you would forget?”

Now he did pause and Shcherbatov noticed his renewed interest. “Why don’t you help me out?” he suggested.

“In career, how many targets escaped you?”

“Not many,” he said, although he had made the connection now. “There was one, right at the start.”

“I believe I am fortunate enough to say I am only man you were sent to kill who got away.” He smiled benignly at him. “We were going to see your Control. You and another agent attacked car. I escaped. You did not shoot me. Do you remember now?”

“I never knew your name,” he said.

“I am sure you did not. I believe I was SNOW. My companion, Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko, was DOLLAR. She was not as fortunate.”

Milton flexed, sensing the unsaid threat in Shcherbatov’s words.

“Do not concern yourself, Captain. I do not seek revenge — at least not from you. You were following orders. You are soldier. I understand how that works.”

He didn’t relax. “So why am I here?”

“Because I have something for you to do.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, colonel. I’m out of the game. I’m not interested.”

“Then I must ask you — why did you come?”

“I didn’t have a choice.” He turned to the girl. “Your comrade dragged me here. She says you have a friend of mine.”

“Indeed we do. Captain Pope.”

“That’s right. I came to persuade you to release him.”

“Perhaps. But we need you to do something for us first.”

“I don’t—”

He raised his hands to interrupt him. “You have retired. We know this. But it is not a violent thing. We want you to find something for us. Information. You can get it.”

“What information?”

“In good time, Captain Milton.” He turned to the girl. “Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko — you leave us now, please.”

“Yes, colonel,” she said, dipping her head and then exiting the room, closing the door behind her.

“I hope she treated you with respect, Captain Milton. We do respect you. Your work is well known to us.” Shcherbatov got up, took another log from the store and dropped it onto the fire. “Your friend, Control, has he ever mentioned me?”

Milton shrugged. “Why would he?”

“Because he and I know each other very well.”

He shook his head. “If he has, I don’t recall it.”

“Let me tell you story, Captain Milton. Many years ago, I travel to London for interesting assignment. I am sent with female agent, Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko. It is proposed that we pose as couple. She is to work as independent contractor in arms industry, I am lawyer. I land in London, find flat, establish necessary contacts. Nastya joins me and we grow close. What was supposed to be fiction became truth. It is inevitable, yes, you must have experienced this?” Milton eyed him, steely, said nothing. “The interesting assignment: Russian intelligence has suggested that there is senior English spy who is vulnerable to blackmail. We hear from colleagues in Tehran and Baghdad that he has sold information to both regimes. He sells information to Israel, too. The man is venal, so they tell us. So we think perhaps we can trap this man, use him for our purposes?”

Shcherbatov stood close enough so that the fire could warm his legs. Milton watched him hawkishly.

“This official — I see you realise it is your Control. Nastya make contact with him through intermediary. She say she has transaction to put to Damascus but she is finding difficulty in proving she is”—he searched for the right word—“legitimate. Control say that he can arrange introduction. He vouch for Nastya, in return for percentage of deal, of course.”

Milton kept on staring at him.

“All the time, we are gathering evidence. He is very careful. No phone calls, no emails. But we build case against him. We have photographs of him meeting Nastya. We can demonstrate payment of funds he demands. Eventually we have enough to demonstrate good sense in his working with us. Alternative would not be good for him. There is meeting. He is surprised to learn he has been tricked and it does not go well. There is a second meeting. It goes better. He says he will think about proposal. We make progress, I think, and then he suggest third meeting to discuss matter properly. It is to be on Embankment. Next to river and Houses of Parliament. You know the rest, Captain Milton. My Nastya is killed and I am fortunate to escape.” He smiled as he spoke, the smile of a friendly uncle. It was a practiced expression, the instant smile of a politician or a salesman, a mask hide his true feelings. It was a good mask, honed by experience, but Shcherbatov could not disguise the glitter of hatred in his eyes. “Ever since then,” he continued, “I watch his career. And I wait.”

Milton frowned. “You had the evidence against him. Why not use it?”

“We lost evidence. We have copies of photographs, of course, but they are insufficient on their own. A man and a woman meeting in a park. What is that? We had financial information on portable drives, but they were taken when we were attacked.”

Milton scowled dubiously. “You didn’t back it up?”

“Of course. But Control sent other agents to take backups. Four Russian agents killed, evidence lost. God takes care of man who takes care of himself, Captain, and Control is clever man.” He put his hands together and steepled his fingers. “There is Russian proverb: ‘every seed knows its time.’ I have waited ten years for chance to settle old score. Now I have that chance. Can you see why I wanted to speak to you now? You are perfect. He hates you. You hate him. I hate him. We have something in common.”

“I doubt that.”

“Control is common enemy. We have similar experience. We know he is ruthless. He has taken things that are important to us. My Nastya. Your liberty.”

Shcherbatov was still standing, the flames still warming his legs, and he looked down at Milton, unmoving in the armchair. There was a set of antique Russian dolls on the mantelpiece and the colonel took the smallest and turned it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You haven’t told me what you want me to do,” Milton said.

“We have found someone who has information we lost. You will acquire it. We will put information into public domain and result will be his disgrace. He must be humiliated. And then, when he has been stripped of everything”, he snapped his fingers, “then you know what comes next. We have our own cleaners, as you know.”

“Even if I could get the information, why would I do it?”

“Maybe you talk to Captain Pope. Ask him what he thinks.”

Chapter Nineteen

Shcherbatov led the way into the hallway and then through a narrow archway, down a narrow flight of stone steps. The temperature dropped quickly away from the warmth of the fire. The stairs were dank and the steps were slick with frozen mildew and Milton braced himself with one hand against the icy stone wall. They reached what he guessed was the cellar and Shcherbatov pulled down on a drawstring, lighting the single naked bulb that was suspended overhead. Milton blinked at the light, taking in the medium-sized room. It was constructed in the foundations of the dacha, maybe four metres wide and five metres long, with rough stone walls and a concrete floor. The bulb was the only illumination and it wasn’t strong enough to dispel the shadows around the edges of the room. Metal bars had been fitted halfway into it, flush to the floor and the ceiling and reaching all the way across. The ironwork looked substantial. There was a doorway in the middle of the bars, the door secured with a bolt that was itself fastened by a industrial padlock.

Milton took a step forward.

The cell, for that was what it was, was furnished with a simple cot and a bucket. The cot was covered with a dirty blanket and, beneath that, Milton could make out the shape of a man’s body.

“I leave you to talk, Captain Milton. Come upstairs after.”

Milton turned to him but he was already climbing back to the ground floor.

Milton paused at the edge of the cage and looked at the man inside. He was lying towards him and, even in the dim light, and with the shadowed grid from the bars that fell across his face, Milton recognised Michael Pope.

“Pope,” he said. “Pope, wake up.”

The man stirred on the cot.

“Wake up, Pope.”

His voice was weak and uncertain: “Who is it?”

“It’s John.”

“Who?”

“John Milton.”

“Milton?”

“It’s me, Pope. Come on, wake up.”

“Milton?” Pope repeated, his voice sluggish and slurred, as if his mouth had been stuffed full of cotton wool. “What? What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to get you out.”

Pope didn’t register that. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Not after last time.”

He chuckled: a weak, low sound. “Sorry about that.” He made a whooping, hacking sound that Milton guessed was an attempt at laughter.

The last time. Nearly seven months ago in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, Pope had led the team that had been sent to track him down and bring him back. The orders had been equivocal about how they did that, dead or alive, and Pope had intervened to prevent Callan from making sure his return flight was in a body bag.

Milton stepped right up to the bars and took one in each hand. Pope shuffled around so that he could lower his legs to the floor and he sat up, slowly and unsteadily. The light fell on him more evenly and Milton could see the damage that the Russians had done. He had been badly beaten: his right eye was swollen shut and his left was blackened; there was a purple welt all the way down the side of his face, striated with the pattern that the sole of a boot might make; his chin had been split open and sutured back together again in a quick and ugly fashion.

“How’d I look?” he said.

“Not great,” Milton admitted. “How’d you manage to get in a mess like this?”

“Shouldn’t have happened, should it? Got sloppy.”

Milton yanked at the bars as hard as he could: they were fitted well and there was no give in them at all. “You think?”

Pope held a hand up against the contusions on his face and smiled ruefully through the wince of pain. “He tell you what happened?”

“Just that they arrested you. What were you doing?”

He took in a deep breath, as if steeling himself. His voice, when it came again, was reedy and soft. “Control sent me after him.”

“Shcherbatov?”

Slowly and with evident pain, he stood and walked to the bars. Each step forced an exhalation of pain. “He was in Monaco.”

Milton hushed him and pointed up to the ceiling.

“They’re recording alright,” Pope said. “But no need to worry, I told them everything already.” He laughed again, and then coughed some more. “So I got the file. Don’t know what went wrong. The infiltration … all messed up. They were waiting for me. Took me somewhere, knocked me out. Then I’m in a concrete room in the Lubyanka, strapped to a table with a bag over my head.” He coughed again, hacking hard. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”

“You don’t look it.”

“What’s a little waterboarding between friends?”

Milton looked at him anxiously. He wasn’t okay. Far from it. Every cough seemed to end with him swallowing back fluid, as if his lungs were waterlogged. He was feverish, sweating and shivering simultaneously. Milton had seen plenty of men with pneumonia and that was what it looked like to him. Christ, he thought. Pneumonia. If he had that he wouldn’t survive a week in the north.

“What about you?” Pope wheezed out. “What are you doing here?”

Milton told him about his arrest, about Anna breaking him out and about the proposition she had put to him. “You need to keep it together, Pope,” he said when he was finished. “I’m going to get you out.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John. That’s not your job any more.”

“What else am I going to do? Leave you to rot?”

He looked at him, his eyes burning beneath their rheumy film. “You leave it to the diplomats. I do a little time, they swap me for someone we nabbed that they want back. You know how it works. You can’t do anything,” he coughed, “and we both know you can’t trust them.”

“I know that. But I can listen.”

“To what?”

“To what he has to say.”

Chapter Twenty

Shcherbatov watched as Milton came back into the sitting room; it was almost dizzily warm compared to the frigid cellar. A silver platter had been left out on the table: a tea pot, a samovar of hot water and two cups. The civility was a stark contrast with the cold and the darkness below. Milton knew that Shcherbatov was making a point: it had been necessary to take him down there in order to underline the point he wanted to make. Pope’s future would be unpleasant and short if he did not cooperate. Shcherbatov poured tea into the cups and topped it up with hot water from the samovar. He left a cup on the table within Milton’s reach and took his to the opposite armchair.

“Do you like tea, Captain Milton? It an English passion, yes? This is Russian Caravan blend: oolong, keemun and lapsang souchong. It has malty, smokey taste. Very nice, I think.” Shcherbatov sipped his tea carefully, watching Milton over the lip of the cup.

“He’s ill,” Milton said. “He has pneumonia.”

“He will be cared for.”

“Like you’ve cared for him already?”

Shcherbatov waved that off. “He will be cared for properly. You have my word.”

“Nothing happens to him,” Milton said.

“Or?”

“Let’s leave that unsaid, shall we? I’d rather be civil. But you know what I’m capable of.”

Shcherbatov smiled his best, conciliatory smile. “I understand you are angry, Captain Milton, but there is no need. We are friends. You help us, he is returned to you.”

His voice was cold and blank. “Who is it you want me to find?”

“Member of team responsible for the attack. Intelligence says this agent has means and opportunity to assist. We want you to find agent, find proof of Control’s corruption, and bring proof to us. If you do that, Captain Pope will be released. If not”, he spread his arms and left a pause, “if not, Captain Milton, your friend has long and unhappy stay in Siberia.”

“Who is the agent?”

“Her name is Beatrix Rose. At the time of attack she was Number One.”

Milton’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw; Shcherbatov noticed. “And you know where she is?”

“We do,” Shcherbatov confirmed. “Hong Kong.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The cab drew up to the rank outside the terminal at Sheremetyevo airport. Milton got out and collected his new suitcase from the trunk. It had been waiting in his room for him, together with its contents, when he had returned to the Ritz-Carlton after the long drive back south yesterday afternoon. There was another new suit, three plain white shirts, underwear, two new pair of shoes.

He had a little time to kill and he would have appreciated the chance to speak to Anya Dostovalov again but he decided against it. He had lost his tail easily enough the first time around, and it would be tempting fate to think that they would not have boosted his detail now, especially since he knew now what they wanted him to do. He was not prepared to risk compromising her anonymity just to salve his unease. Instead, he did as he was told: he stayed in his room, ordered room service and was in bed and asleep by eleven. He had a feeling he might need his sleep.

Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko was waiting for him inside the terminal.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“It’s not up for discussion. The colonel wants me to come.”

“To keep an eye on me?”

“You can understand that he doesn’t trust you, Captain?”

“You’ll get in my way. You’ll make it more difficult.”

“We’ll just have to manage.”

Milton thought about insisting but he knew there was little point. If she had a ticket for the same plane to Hong Kong that he did, there would be nothing he could do to stop her getting onto it. It would be easier to get rid of her on the other side.

The Russians had bought him a first class ticket. Air Astana 929’s itinerary called for two stops in Kazakhstan en route to Hong Kong: the first after three hours in Astana and the second, after another two hours, in Almaty. The plane was an Airbus A320 and, thankfully, it looked like it was in decent condition. Milton’s seat was on the aisle with Anna opposite him. He stared out of the porthole as the plane accelerated away down the runway, climbing into the angry black sky that had remained over Moscow since their arrival. The vast city, covered over with white, disappeared from view as they climbed into the dark clouds and then, after fifteen minutes, they broke through into the clear vault of midnight blue above. The stewardess, statuesque and with the Asiatic cheekbones and complexion of a typical Eastern European beauty, pushed the trolley down the aisle, the bottles clinking with their promise of oblivion. Milton hadn’t been to a meeting since he left San Francisco and he felt the familiar temptation even more keenly than usual. The bottles rattled joyfully, the stewardess bending closer to his head and asking whether she could get him anything. Milton looked at the miniatures of gin, whiskey, and vodka for longer than he had for months but, when she asked him again, he shook his head. When she left, he found that he was gripping the armrests so tightly that his knuckles were white.

A moment later he realised he was about to have the dream again. The first time in months. He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, the urge to gasp and gulp, focussing everything to keep it inside, keep it hidden so that Anna— close enough to touch if he reached out an arm — didn’t see his weakness. That familiar feeling of fatigue, of being hollowed out, like a beaker into which misery and pain would be poured. He felt the muscles in his shoulders lock and set, as if petrified, and then his thighs and his calves. He held onto the armrests again. Then he was gone, barely conscious, standing in a blasted desert, the heat rising from the sand in woozy waves, and the smell of high explosives cloying in his nostrils. Time passed; he had no idea how long. He heard a lone, anguished cry and it sounded so strange because he should have been alone in the desert, but then he turned and it all flooded over him.

The desert.

The village.

The madrasa.

“Captain Milton?”

The children in their Western football strips.

The plastic football, jerking in the wind.

“Captain Milton?”

The young boy.

The plane, fast and low, engines echoing through the valley.

“John?”

He followed the sound of the voice back out of the dream, forcing himself out of the desert and back into the cabin of the jet: the endless drone of the engines, the clink of cutlery on china plates, the sound of a baby crying in the back of the plane.

“John?”

He turned to Anna and forced a smile onto his face.

“You were moaning, Captain Milton.”

“Bad dream,” he said. “Sleeping tablet. Must have disagreed with me. What time is it?”

“Eleven.”

They had been in the air for three hours.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You missed dinner.”

She looked at him and, for a moment, he wondered if there was something on her face beyond the dutiful concern of an intelligence agent responsible for the wellbeing of an important asset. Her hair shimmered in the shining cone of the overhead light, her green eyes glittered.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Not hungry.” He reclined his seat until it was flat and covered himself with the thin blanket that the airline supplied. “Get some sleep. We’re going to be busy tomorrow.”