The Moscow Sleepers

13

Liz woke early. After her conversation with Sally the previous evening she was now feeling more nervous about the meeting with Mischa than she had before. She’d thought of Germany as a very safe place – comfortably Western European and friendly; a place where Mischa was the only one with anything to worry about. But after hearing Sally comparing Berlin to post-war Vienna and talking about abort plans, Liz knew she had better take the preparations for her meeting a lot more seriously.

She breakfasted in the hotel’s small dining room, busy even at this early hour with couples and small family groups loudly chatting in various languages and planning their day. Liz had already worked out her route to the gardens, and since Peggy had researched the tram times and the location of taxi ranks, Liz knew exactly how long it would take her, so she took out her guidebook and studied it like the well-organised tourist Liz Ryder would be. After breakfast she paid her bill and left her bag to be collected later. If any of Sally’s worst fears happened and she couldn’t get back to the hotel, there was nothing in the small suitcase that Liz Ryder would not have owned.

At nine o’clock she left the hotel and walked to the Anhalter Bahnhof, where she caught a tram that took her halfway towards her destination. Getting off at the northern edges of the Friedenau district, she waited at a tram stop in a small queue of smartly dressed young people who looked as if they were going to work, though it seemed quite late for that. She abruptly pulled out her mobile phone, looked at the screen and, as though she had received a message, crossed the street to a taxi rank opposite the tram stop and climbed into the first cab in the line. As it pulled away, she glanced back and was glad to see the next taxi still parked and waiting.

It was a considerable drive to the south-west fringes of the city and though she tried to follow the route on the map on her phone she found it impossible to keep up with all the twists and turns. Once she spotted a stretch of the wall that had divided the city between the two opposing ideologies of the Cold War, though now it looked more like the graffiti-adorned walls the Eurostar passed outside Brussels than the frightening barrier it had once been. Although there was no wall nowadays, if Sally was right, East and West were still using Berlin as a jousting ground.

As directed by Peggy, she had asked the driver for an address several streets north of the Botanic Gardens. She got out and made a play of dropping her handbag and picking it up slowly while the driver drove off; then she walked through quiet suburban streets, passed by just a few cars and pedestrians. She was relieved to see no sign of Sally or her colleagues or indeed of anyone at all taking any interest in her. She walked on, circumventing the grounds, until she came to the southern entrance on Unter den Eichen. The gates were just opening to the public, and she joined a small group – a few middle-aged people, what seemed to be a class of young children with a couple of teachers, and a handful of older students with notebooks who got out of a small bus, talking earnestly. Liz wondered about them, but then it was her turn at the cash desk, so she paid her six euros for a day ticket and went in.

She meandered along a path through the arboretum, past what seemed acres of roses growing underneath tall trees. From time to time she examined the pamphlet about the gardens she’d been given along with her ticket, trying to look like her mother, who ran a nursery garden in Wiltshire and knew all about plants, and not like Liz Carlyle, whose interest in them was non-existent.

When she reached the glasshouses at the east end of the gardens she headed for the largest, the Grand Pavilion. It was an immense Art Nouveau-style building, an intricate cobweb of thin steel and glass panes. As she went in she was struck by a wall of heat and humidity that had her perspiring in seconds. A man in a green uniform was spraying the plants with a fine mist of water but otherwise there appeared to be no one around.

She sat down on a wrought-iron bench under an overhanging palm tree at the end of a row of tropical plants. Someone had left on the seat a copy of the same leaflet she had been given at the gate. As she sat down she casually swapped it for her own. She examined the new brochure and saw a circle drawn around the little picture of the café. This was the ‘All clear’ signal from Sally – the only actual intervention she had agreed.

Five minutes later, Liz was inside the café, sipping a large black coffee at a table just by the door. Several tables were occupied. An elderly couple was chatting to the waitress, whom they clearly knew well. Liz put them down as regular customers and no threat to her or Mischa. She wasn’t quite so sure about the four young people on the other side of the room. They were talking animatedly in German about some papers they had spread out on the table. She thought they all looked remarkably fit for students and hoped that if they were not what they seemed to be, then they were Sally’s colleagues.

As she was speculating about a couple of young American women at another table, the door opened and Mischa walked in. He went straight across to the counter and gave his order to the waitress. Liz watched how his eyes took in the room as he saw her and came and sat down at her table.

‘All clear?’ he asked tersely. With his cord trousers and blue wool jersey, shirt collar visible at the neck below a two-day stubble, Mischa could have passed for a university lecturer. Though there was nothing reflective or thoughtful in his dark, restless eyes.

‘Seems to be,’ Liz replied, keeping her voice down.

‘There was a car by the entrance when I came in – with a woman, a blonde, and a man. They were kissing, which seemed remarkable so early in the day.’ He shrugged. ‘But who knows? And they didn’t follow me into the gardens; I made sure of that.’

That better not be Sally, thought Liz. ‘So how are you?’ she asked quickly, steering him away from the idea of surveillance.

‘I am glad you could make it here. I leave in another couple of days. I needed to see you again.’ Liz nodded and waited for him to go on. ‘I am going back to Moscow. Meeting there would be very difficult.’

Yes, thought Liz. I certainly wouldn’t want to be doing this in Moscow.

The café was filling up now, with elderly couples, young women with pushchairs and babies in prams. ‘OK,’ she said slowly, ‘here I am. So, why did you want to see me – how I can help?’

‘First of all, you should know the consequences of what happened in Britain.’

‘You mean the Russian Illegals we exposed there?’

Mischa nodded. ‘Yes. You sent them back to Russia, which was a big mistake.’

Liz happened to share his view, but she was certainly not going to criticise her own government to this Russian. The Foreign Office had been immovable in their opposition to putting the two Russians on trial, fearful of the damage to relations with Russia and the possibility that two British citizens would be put on trial in Moscow as a tit for tat. ‘There were reasons for that,’ she said.

Mischa shook his head in disgust. ‘Not good ones.’ He brought out a cigarette lighter from a pocket in his trousers and fingered it absentmindedly. ‘You see, the couple you sent back were questioned thoroughly by their superiors in the FSB. What is that phrase – no stone was left untouched?’

‘Something like that,’ said Liz equably, not wanting to provoke him. He sounded on edge, and she remembered him from their previous meeting as nervy and irascible. As she was waiting for him to go on, the door of the café opened with unusual force and two uniformed police officers marched in.

Liz felt an icy wave wash up from her stomach to her head. She stiffened, clutching her bag. Thoughts flashed through her head: was this the disruption Sally had talked about? No one had bleeped her phone to warn her. Should she get out fast and leave the country?

The policemen had walked up to the counter, spoken a few words to the waitress and now turned to face the room. She looked at Mischa. He was rigid; sitting very straight in his chair, motionless, the fingers clutching his lighter white and bloodless.

The room had gone silent. One of the policemen spoke, but Liz’s German wasn’t good enough for her to understand what he was saying. She watched Mischa and saw him relax his hold on the lighter. His face returned to normal and he looked at her with a small smile. The policeman stopped speaking and a babble of sound broke out in the café as the two men walked back to the door and left.

‘What was that about?’

‘It’s OK. One of the children from a school group is missing, probably wandered off. They’re asking everyone to look out for her.’

Liz let out the breath she seemed to have been holding for hours and said, ‘I’d like another cup of coffee.’ As she turned to wave at the waitress she noticed that the little group of students was no longer there. She felt increasingly uneasy but resisted the impulse to leave – at least until she had heard what Mischa had to say.

She turned back to him. ‘You were saying that it was a mistake for us to send those two Illegals back.’

‘Yes. The FSB think someone tipped you off. They think you have a source.’

Liz was tempted to point out that once the Illegals started meddling with members of British intelligence, as they had done, there was a fair chance they were going to get found out. Even without the information Mischa had given her. But she said nothing.

The waitress put their coffee on the table. Mischa blew on his and took a sip. Putting down his cup he said, ‘Because of this suspicion, a full-scale inquiry has been launched.’

‘Into how we got on to the Illegals?’

‘Exactly. The FSB has decided someone inside its organisation – or with access to its information – told you about the operation in the UK.’

‘Do they suspect anyone in particular?’

‘Ha.’ Mischa’s laugh was bitter. ‘You must not know the FSB. They suspect everyone. This means my brother and all his colleagues. And it means me, because of my position in the military and the fact that I travel abroad.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘If I sold automobiles for a living, they would leave me alone – though they’d still wonder about my brother.’

‘I can see that’s very worrying,’ Liz said. ‘But there’s no reason to think they’ll get any proof of anything. We’ve both been very careful.’ She wondered if this was all Mischa wanted to tell her. She hoped not; she’d wasted her time if all he wanted to say was that he was scared of the FSB.

He looked at her angrily. ‘It is much more than worrying. There will be no mercy if they discover my involvement. And none for my brother – even though he doesn’t know I’ve been talking to you and the Americans. They would never believe him. Mother Russia is quite happy to execute those sons she believes have betrayed her.’

Liz nodded sympathetically. Mischa looked at her and continued, ‘There have been some developments.’

At last, thought Liz. ‘Oh?’ she asked mildly.

‘Yes, but first I need to know how you can help me.’ Liz was thinking how best to reply when he held up his hand. ‘I am not talking simply about money. I need to know that if they decide it is my brother who has been talking – or me – you will rescue us.’

Liz had heard this sort of appeal before from agents who were beginning to realise the increasing danger of their position. She had no ready-made escape plan up her sleeve for extracting from Moscow one or possibly two people under suspicion. It would be a very difficult, if not impossible operation. In any case, she wanted to keep Mischa in place so he could continue to provide information.

She also needed to weigh up how much interest there would be in Mischa as a defector. What would the Americans pay towards the costs; how much interest would there be from British defence intelligence? Not to mention the added complication that Bruno Mackay was off to Moscow with the intention of trying to recruit Mischa’s brother; going, in his own words, straight to the horse’s mouth.

Given all that, it was vital that Mischa remained well disposed to the British. His brother would almost certainly tell Mischa about any approach Bruno made, so it was important that Mischa confirm that the British were reliable.

She said carefully, ‘I don’t believe they would have allowed you to come here if you were seriously under suspicion. But we need a way of keeping in touch. For the moment you should continue to communicate with me via the address you have, as you did this time. But you need to let me know if there’s a way I can safely get a message to you. I will consult colleagues about some faster means of communicating securely. If the inquiry starts closing in on you or your brother, then you must tell us. Meanwhile, keep your head down. We will work on a plan for if the worst comes to the worst.’ She hoped this was sufficiently reassuring, though she had committed to very little.

It seemed to work. ‘You’re good at getting people out,’ said Mischa with a small smile. ‘I’ve heard about Gordievsky.’

Gordievsky had been the KGB Head of Station designate in London in the 1980s – and a British agent. When he fell under suspicion he was successfully exfiltrated from Russia by MI6 in the boot of a car.

Mischa said, ‘His escape is still talked about.’ He smiled again, adding, ‘Though not by senior officials.’

‘I bet,’ said Liz. ‘So, you know then that we look after our sources. But these things are not easy and need a lot of planning.’

‘We would also need to know that we would be looked after once we arrived in your country.’

‘That’s a two-way process,’ said Liz carefully, beginning to feel that too much was being asked and nothing given.

Mischa leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. When he brought his eyes down to the room, he kept them averted from Liz, as if slightly embarrassed by what he was about to say. ‘I am sorry but that is not quite enough. I would like to feel you will be as generous as the Americans have been.’

‘If you are talking about payment now, then I can confirm that while you remain in Moscow you will continue to get the same retainer, whether it comes from us or the Americans.’ She was growing angry now at his avarice, and was keen to put an end to the bargaining. ‘Provided,’ she continued, ‘that you are still useful to us.’

Mischa had picked up on her irritation and seemed to realise that he had got all he was going to get for the moment. Just then the door of the café swung open and a couple came in. Mischa looked at them, then looked away. ‘The couple from the car,’ he said through clenched teeth. When Liz glanced their way, she was relieved to see that the woman was definitely not Sally. The couple stood for a minute, talking to each other in German and looking at a menu the waitress brought to them before seeming to change their minds and leaving.

Mischa was looking nervous now. He spoke quickly, keeping his voice low. ‘Very well. I will trust you and your colleagues, and yes, I have some further information. You will remember that I told you that the FSB were infiltrating Illegals with the aim of destabilising countries they regard as threats.’

‘I do,’ said Liz, hoping he would calm down. His agitation now was obvious.

‘The American operation is over.’

‘Over? Was it successful?’

‘That I don’t know. But you remember I told you the operation was on hold because the Illegal was ill. Now that’s over.’

‘Has the Illegal been replaced?’

‘That’s all I know,’ he said.

Liz’s disappointment must have shown in her face because he went on, ‘There is more. You uncovered those two in the UK, as we know. But I think you did not discover all that they had been doing.’

‘Really?’ Liz was trying not to show her surprise. ‘We investigated their activities thoroughly before we sent them packing.’

‘There was something else,’ said Mischa emphatically. His eyes were roving around the room now, full of fear and distrust. ‘I don’t know exactly; my brother hasn’t told me. But I know the FSB is crowing because part of their operation is still in play – just without a local controller.’

‘Please try and find out more. If you do, I think I can guarantee a bonus,’ said Liz.

‘I will try,’ said Mischa. His anxiety was escalating.

‘Anything else?’ she asked.

‘There is one more thing. When I told my brother I was coming to Berlin for three weeks, he was very amused. “Why Germany?” he asked.’

Why indeed? thought Liz. Mischa said, ‘I explained I was here for three weeks’ attachment to the Embassy. My real task is to form an assessment of NATO preparations if we Russians are ever to… come west.’

‘You have some sources here?’ Liz asked, suddenly alert.

‘Possibly,’ said Mischa. ‘But that is not what I have to tell you now. My brother said, “We have something going on in Germany too.”’

‘Did he say what or where?’

‘No,’ said Mischa. Liz saw his hands were starting to tremble and she decided not to press him. She sensed he was very near the edge.

But Mischa seemed to get hold of himself and re-engage with her. ‘I think the German operation is connected to the one in the United States.’

‘The one that is now defunct?’ When Mischa looked at her, puzzled, she said, ‘Kaput.’

‘Yes.’ He was staring at Liz, then stood up abruptly. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’ He crossed the room and disappeared through a door marked WC. When he comes back, thought Liz, we’ll go outside and sit on a bench in a quiet part of the garden where he can see that no one is following him.

But ten minutes later she was still sitting alone at the table, facing the fact that Mischa was not coming back.