Sleepers

1

Boris Mitrokhin got out of the taxi, collected his crutch and leaned on it as he hobbled into the restaurant. Mesopotamia was an up-and-coming establishment that served Turkish food. It was busy, with most of the tables taken. Mitrokhin made his way inside, passing through the restaurant until he reached the private dining room at the back. There was a single table there; they could close the door and ensure their privacy against prying eyes.

There was a man waiting for him.

“Hello, Boris,” First Deputy Director Alexei Nikolaevich said.

“Hello, sir.”

“How are you?”

“I’m well.”

“And your leg?”

“It’s healing. Thank you.”

“Please. Sit.”

Mitrokhin pulled a chair back and lowered himself into it. His leg was more painful than he liked to admit; the bullet had been well aimed, slicing through the fleshy part of the thigh, but that did not mean that it hadn’t been excruciating and debilitating. It had been a necessary inconvenience, though. The wound had bought him credibility with the FSB investigators who had questioned him following the botched operation in Komsomolsk.

“You did very well, Boris. Thank you.”

Mitrokhin nodded, happy to accept the gratitude of his patron.

“The investigators were not too thorough, I hope?”

“Thorough enough,” Mitrokhin said.

He was underplaying it. He had been taken to the cellars beneath the Lubyanka and questioned for two days and two nights. Primakov’s secret operation to protect his sweetheart’s reputation had been uncovered, as had the fact that it had been compromised by a source within the Center. The Director was furious that he had been deceived by his deputy, but that was only part of it. Mitrokhin knew that the real concern was the leak: the president would not stand for it. Someone had sold Primakov out and they wanted to find out who.

“They have filed their report,” Nikolaevich said. “You are not suspected.”

“That’s good to know.”

“What did they ask you?”

“They wanted to be sure that I was not compromised.”

“And?”

“We spent many hours discussing my love for the Rodina.”

“I can only assume that you were persuasive.”

Mitrokhin stared at the general, watching, ready to assess. “They asked about you, sir.”

His face flickered with concern. “Really?”

“The investigation into the leak is broad. They know that there is a problem and they are intent upon fixing it. They wanted to know about Deputy Director Primakov. They were interested in his malfeasance—that he had lied to the Security Council and misled the president—but they were more interested in how the British agents were able to disrupt his operation against Romanova.”

“Of course,” Nikolaevich said.

“They asked about you, sir. They said that you had been in contact with Primakov.”

“And that is true.”

“They said your contact was more frequent than usual.”

“And?”

“I think it is likely that they will want to speak to you.”

Mitrokhin watched Nikolaevich, looking for a reaction. He was good at observing people. He had developed the skill during interrogations, the ability to spot the smallest tells that would give away someone’s true feelings: the way a man might rub his wrist when he was lying; the inability to hold eye contact; a glance up and to the right, the classic sign of dissembling. He looked at Nikolaevich now and saw a muscle twitching in his neck and a bloom of blood suffusing his cheeks.

“I’m the Deputy Director of the FSB,” he said, summoning indignation. “Are they really going to accuse me?”

“I thought you should know,” Mitrokhin said placidly. There was no sense in aggravating Nikolaevich, but his mind was made up.

The Deputy Director changed the subject. “Your meeting with Smith at the airport. What happened?”

“I told him about PROZHEKTOR, as you requested, and gave him the means to contact me. The others met me in Komsomolsk. There were two of them. They told me what they were intending to do and gave me the weapon that I was to use. I explained that they would need to shoot me once it was done.”

“What did you think of them?”

“Professional,” Mitrokhin said. “They worked quickly and efficiently. I was impressed. Can I ask if they were able to exfiltrate the women successfully?”

“They did. I imagine Romanova is being debriefed now.”

“And PROZHEKTOR?”

“We won’t hear from her for months,” Nikolaevich said. “The British will try and turn her back against us. It may work. The SVR see her as a valuable asset, and they will want her to be clean—it will blind them.”

There was a bottle of raki on the table. Nikolaevich opened it and poured out two measures. He held up his glass, Mitrokhin raised his and the two men touched them together. Mitrokhin drank his, the unsweetened aniseed flavour sticky on his tongue.

Nikolaevich poured again. “The deaths of Primakov and Stepanov opens a rare opportunity for you, Boris. Once you have been cleared to return to duty, you will assume Stepanov’s position. And Primakov will be replaced as First Deputy Director next week. Do you know Sharipova?”

“The rezident in Athens.”

Nikolaevich nodded. “She’s dour and uninspiring and close to retirement, but the Director wants a safe pair of hands after what has happened. Sharipova will keep the seat warm for you. I will see to it that you are well placed to assume the Deputy Directorship when she decides that the time is right to move on—that’ll be a year, two at the most.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.”

“Your new position will allow you to furnish me with intelligence on foreign operations. You’ll have access that you don’t have now. That information will be valuable—for both of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nikolaevich made no mention of what the operation meant for him, but Mitrokhin knew. Primakov had been a rival ever since the Academy, and, now that he was out of the way, the way was a little clearer for Nikolaevich to climb the ladder. Perhaps he was eyeing the Directorship of the Federal Security Service or the Foreign Intelligence Service. Mitrokhin didn’t know his plans other than that he was determined to do everything possible to scupper the president’s intention to resurrect the corpse of the Soviet Union, and that the higher he could climb, the better he would be able to do that.

Mitrokhin did not share his patron’s reforming zeal. Indeed, he found it childish; Nikolaevich might be able to inconvenience Vladimir Vladimirovich, but he could no more stop him than he could hold back the tide. He was wasting his time and, eventually, there would come a time when he himself was blown. Mitrokhin was concerned that day was approaching.

Nikolaevich looked at him and smiled. “I realise you haven’t been paid,” he said. “I wanted to wait until the investigation was complete.”

“And now it is,” Mitrokhin said.

“The money has been transferred,” Nikolaevich said. “It has been deposited in your Swiss account. And I’ve added a small bonus for a job well done. You performed flawlessly, Boris, and I feel bad about your leg.”

Nikolaevich’s driver took him back to his house on Mokhovaya Street. It was a grand property and had cost him more than €1.5 million when he had purchased it two years previously. It had reminded him then of a small castle, with façades built from limestone and brick and covered with Virginia creeper that changed colour with the seasons. He loved the different aspects of the property; from the river, it still looked to him like a castle on the top of a cliff, surrounded by a wall with towers and battlements; from the street, it looked more like a cosy mansion with a collection of outbuildings. There were six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a spacious living room, a music room, a billiards salon, a bar and a sauna.

“Here we are, sir,” his driver said.

“Thank you,” Nikolaevich replied, opening the door and stepping out onto the street.

He watched the driver pull away, climbed the steps to the front door, unlocked it and went inside.

The house was quiet. His wife would normally have the television on, but he couldn’t hear it tonight.

“I’m home,” he called out.

There was no response. That was strange. Maria was not due to be out this evening.

“Hello?” he called again.

There was still no reply.

Curious, he took off his jacket and made his way into the living room. The house was silent, with just the dripping of a tap from a nearby bathroom. He dropped his jacket over the back of his armchair and went to the bar. He took down his favourite bottle of vodka, opened it and poured out a measure into a crystal tumbler.

He was about to sip it when he sensed movement behind him.

Too late.

Hands reached over his head and pulled back hard, a wire garrotte biting into the flesh of his neck. He tried to struggle, but it was no use. The person behind him was stronger, and the more Nikolaevich fought, the tighter the wire cut into his skin.

The tumbler fell from his fingertips and smashed on the floor. Nikolaevich stumbled backwards, and, as he looked up into the mirror behind the bar, he saw the face of his assailant.

It was Mitrokhin.

Nikolaevich reached up and tried to slide his fingers between the garrotte and his throat, but it was impossible. The wire was too tight. Blood was running down his neck, dripping over his shirt front and onto the floor where it spattered onto the crystal shards.

Nikolaevich tried to speak, but all he could manage was a hopeless gargle.

“I’m sorry,” Mitrokhin said, his voice calm despite the effort he was expending. “You are compromised. I can’t take the chance that you will compromise me, too.”

Nikolaevich felt the strength ebbing away from his legs, and he fell down onto his knees. Mitrokhin followed him, maintaining the pressure on the wire. Nikolaevich tried to speak again, tried to get his fingers beneath the garrotte, but his breath was almost all gone. As darkness began to gather at the corners of his eyes, he felt his arms go limp and then there was nothing.

2

The psychiatrist assigned to Group Fifteen had an office on the top floor of the Global Logistics building. It was a pleasant, if uninspiring, space: two sofas that faced one another; a table with a vase of flowers between them; bookshelves that held medical texts; a standard lamp that cast a warm glow from the corner of the room. Milton was sitting on one of the sofas and the psychiatrist, Dr Fry, was sitting opposite him. Milton had made an effort this afternoon. He had visited a barber in Chelsea and enjoyed a shave with hot towels and a trim. He was wearing one of his better suits, together with a polished pair of leather brogues and the Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch that he had inherited from his father. Fry, on the other hand, was a little shabby. His suit was shiny at the knees and elbows and the caps of his leather Oxfords were scuffed.

“Thank you for coming, Captain Milton.”

Milton nodded.

“You know why you’re here?”

“Control sent me.”

“Yes. But do you know why?”

Milton sighed. “It’s unnecessary.”

Fry looked down at his notes. “Headaches, isn’t it? I understand you’ve been suffering from them?”

“Now and again,” Milton said. “It’s nothing, really.”

“That’s probably right, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to have them checked out. There’s no mention of headaches on your file. It’s probably tension, but it could be something else. Do you feel tense?”

“No more than usual.”

“Your job can be stressful.”

“But I’ve been doing it for a long time.”

“How about depression? That can cause a headache. Do you feel depressed?”

“No,” Milton said. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Fry looked up at him, gave a chuckle to indicate that he knew Milton was joking, and jotted a note in his file.

“How’s everything else?”

“Fine.”

“Drink?”

Milton flinched. “No more than usual.”

Fry looked up. “Really? Your last three toxicology tests all came back with elevated blood alcohol levels.”

“As you say, it’s a stressful job. I have a drink at night sometimes to help me switch off.”

“A drink?”

“A couple of beers.”

“Every night?”

“No, not every night. I don’t have a drink problem, Doctor, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“How about drugs?”

“You know—you prescribed them.”

“Yes. Gabapentin for nerve damage and oxycodone for general pain relief. Not them. I meant recreational drugs.”

“Of course not. Please—move on. Ask your next question.”

He looked down at the notes and made a show of reading them; Milton knew that Fry would be familiar with everything, and that this was all part of the show. “Your last assignment, in Russia. How do you feel you performed?”

“I met both objectives. Romanova and Ross were both exfiltrated successfully.”

“They were, but not without a surprise or two along the way. Let me ask you about Ms. Ross.”

Milton spread his arms. “Fine.”

“You spent a lot of time with her. You didn’t suspect she was working for the Russians?”

“No,” Milton said. “Are you saying that I should have?”

“I’m just asking—”

“I didn’t notice, and neither did anyone else. And she’d been playing us for a lot longer than I knew her.”

“What about the elektricheskiy pistolet?”

“Sorry?”

“She had a lipstick pistol in her pocket. They found it when they debriefed her. Single shot, with one 4.5mm Makarov round. You didn’t know she had it?”

Milton frowned and shook his head.

“Don’t you think you should have known? She could have shot Romanova. Or you.”

“I was more concerned with getting out of the country.”

“Yes, I’m sure. But, still—don’t you think you were lucky? You were alone in the car with her for hours. It would have been easy for her to take that out and shoot you.”

“But she didn’t.”

“Do you think you would have noticed that five years ago?”

“Maybe. What are you saying? I’m losing my touch?”

“No, not at all. Your work is generally excellent.” Milton heard the qualifier and let it go. “I’m just concerned that there’s something that’s bothering you. Your drinking—”

“I don’t have a problem with drink.”

Fry ignored the interruption and went on. “The mistakes at the house in Kings Worthy—losing the two Russian illegals—and then the errors with Ms. Ross. Those are not the sort of mistakes that I would expect of an agent with your operational experience. You’re Number One for a reason, Milton. You’ve reached that plateau precisely because you don’t make mistakes.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure I try harder,” Milton replied with a truculence that he couldn’t resist.

Fry held up a manila folder. “I understand Control has given you another file to action.”

“He has.”

“Two targets this time. A husband and wife.” Fry opened the folder and took out a copy of the briefing that Milton had received yesterday. “Ah, yes, here we are. Yehya al Moussa and Sameera Najeeb. An atomic research scientist and an expert in microwave technology. You’re due to action the file in France.”

“That’s right. In four days’ time. And I’d like to be on my way as soon as I can. I have to prepare.”

Fry ignored the not-so-subtle hint. “What do you feel about them?” he said. “How do you feel about them as targets?”

“Do you mean will I be able to do my job?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“But one could argue they haven’t done anything wrong. They have jobs to do, after all.”

“I have no opinion on the rights and wrongs of it. A decision has been made that they need to die. The file has been given to me to action, and that’s what I’ll do.”

“You don’t think about them beyond the fact that their names are in this file?” Fry tapped his finger against the sheet of paper. “You don’t think about the fact that they might have families? Loved ones who would miss them? You don’t consider that they aren’t traditional combatants? That they have no idea that they have just a few days left to live? That they’ll be unarmed?”

“No, I don’t. Let me put it to you like this: I’m a weapon, Doctor. That’s all I am. I’m pointed at a target and I take that target out. I leave the soul-searching to those who give the orders. It isn’t my concern.”

“I see,” Fry said, scribbling on the file. He looked up. “What’s your Jewish folklore like, Captain?”

“I’m sure I could always stand to learn a little more,” he said.

“There’s a famous story,” Fry said. “The golem of Prague. There was a rabbi in the sixteenth century—Judah Loew ben Bezalel—who created a monster made out of clay from the banks of the Vltava River and brought it to life through rituals and incantations. He instructed the golem to defend the Prague ghetto from anti-Semitic attacks and pogroms. But the rabbi worried that he would lose control of his monster, and eventually he took away the golem’s power until it fell to pieces.” Fry stared at Milton across the table. “I know that is a clumsy metaphor, but some people would see you and the others as golems. There is the worry that something might happen that would mean we might lose control of you. I’ve seen it happen to your predecessors, Milton. Your work is toxic. There’s only so much of it you can take. And that’s why it is important that we have these regular discussions.”

Milton stood. “Thank you, Doctor. Is that all? I have a train to catch.”

“For now. But I would like to schedule regular meetings for when you get back from France. My secretary will be in touch. We’ll spend a little longer next time. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you in more depth.”

He stood and extended a hand. Milton shook it; Fry’s grip was limp.

“Happy hunting, Captain.”

Milton took a cab across London to St Pancras. He was travelling on the Eurostar, and his train was due to depart in an hour. He had time to kill and found himself drifting into Searcys, the restaurant on the upper concourse that boasted the longest champagne bar in Europe. It ran alongside the Eurostar platform for nearly a hundred metres, separated from the trains by a glass partition. The platform dropped away to afford guests a spectacular view of the trains as they rolled by. There were smart wooden booths and stools for a hundred and twenty people. Milton took one of them and beckoned to the bartender.

“Yes, sir? What can I get for you?”

“A glass of Krug Grande Cuvée, please,” he said.

“Certainly, sir.”

Milton dropped his bag on the floor next to his stool. It contained the things that he would need for his trip to France: his legend, a change of clothes, directions to the chalet in Chevaline that had been rented for him. His legend cast him as a tourist visiting the area for a cycling holiday; it would give him the opportunity to scout the area and the spot that had been selected for the assassination. He had asked for an HK53 for the operation, and the quartermaster had arranged to leave the carbine and its ammunition at the dead drop in three days’ time.

“Here you are, sir.”

The bartender put the flute down on the bar. Milton took a long sip as a train rolled out.

It had been a long day. He had been debriefed by Tanner before his meeting with the psychiatrist. Anastasiya Romanova had provided the data that she had promised and early analysis by scientists at the Ministry of Defence and the contractors who worked closely with the military suggested that it was at least as good as they could have hoped for, and perhaps even better. It had been decided that the information would be kept classified for now, but the intention was to share it with the United States and other NATO partners in due course. It was an intelligence coup of the highest order, and Tanner had reported that everyone—from the senior staff at VX to the mandarins in Whitehall and even Control—had been happy with the outcome of the operation. Milton trusted that was correct; indeed, he was counting on it. He knew that he had given Control reason to doubt him—the appointment with the shrink was evidence of that—and he hoped that some of the glow from the success of the exfiltration would distract from his own failings. He needed time to work out how he was going to leave the Group. He knew it would be difficult—dangerous—but, just the same, he knew that it was inevitable, too. He had made up his mind.

The bartender returned with the bill hidden in a small leather folder. Milton opened it, saw that it was for thirty pounds, took out his wallet and slid three ten-pound notes into the folder.

He felt someone next to him. Milton looked up and saw that a woman was standing there, smiling at him. “Is this stool taken?”

“No,” Milton said. “Help yourself.”

She sat down. “Getting the train?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Me too. Shopping in Paris. Haven’t been for years.”

Milton nodded and smiled.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Cycling holiday,” he said, slipping into his legend.

“Really? Where?”

“Around Lake Annecy.”

“Beautiful,” she said. “I’ve driven through there before. Stunning scenery.” She put out her hand. “Laura Wood,” she said.

“John Smith.”

She ordered a glass of champagne and talked at Milton while she drank it, a stream of pointless anecdotes about France, her life in Kensington and her job in Soho as an agent for film and television actors. She was monumentally self-absorbed and spoke relentlessly; all Milton had to do was make the occasional affirmative noise and she would continue on with another inane story. She finished her glass and, with a final air kiss that missed Milton’s left cheek by a clear two inches, she went to do a little shopping before the train departed.

Milton watched her go. The scent she was wearing had reminded him of Jessie Ross. Tanner had barely mentioned her during the briefing. She had been swallowed up by SIS, and would, he guessed, be interrogated for every last scrap of information about her recruitment by the SVR and about how she had worked for them for so long. They would want to know how much damage she had caused. Aleksandrov was just the most recent betrayal. They would want to know who else she had fingered for Timoshev and Kuznetzov’s malign attention. Milton had no idea what her future would hold. She would have to persuade her superiors that she could be trusted to work against the Russians, and that was assuming that she was able to persuade the replacement for the slain Primakov that she was still a viable source. Even if she was able to prove that she was worth the risk, she would still be kept on the shortest possible leash. The fates of her son and her parents would forever be held over her as she started to record entries on the opposite page of the ledger and begin the work to remedy the damage that her betrayal had caused.

Milton drained the flute, looked at his watch and changed his mind. He signalled the bartender.

“Sir?”

“I’ll have the bottle, please.”

The bartender was discreet, as if it were commonplace for a single traveller to order a two-hundred-pound bottle of champagne for himself. Milton didn’t know; perhaps it was. The man returned with an ice bucket and the champagne, and took the bill away so that he could update it. Milton finished the glass and poured himself another. He had a long trip ahead of him, and then he had to prepare for his assignment.

He turned and Callaghan was sitting on the stool. You think this is it? You think you can get out? They’ll just let you leave? Come on, Milton. Doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t. They’ll never let you go. You’re in this for life. You belong to them. You’re theirs.

Milton emptied the glass in one draught and poured again. The phantom disappeared, but Milton could still hear his voice, whispering in the spaces between his thoughts. The whispers were right, but Milton didn’t care. He was done. Finished. He would honour this file but no more.

He was going to get out.