The Moscow Sleepers

33

‘A babe in arms could have got through this lock,’ said John Ashe the following morning. Liz had reported to the personnel security team the strange events at her flat, saying that she was sure someone had broken in while she was away over the weekend. Now a team led by her old friend John Ashe was swarming over her flat, putting in alarms, a door camera linked to the Security Centre, movement sensors and the latest thing in window and door locks.

‘You should have had this done before you moved in. We would have been able to get a look at them on the camera.’ John Ashe took a great pride in his work and she knew he would have had every case officer’s accommodation wired up if he’d been in charge.

‘I couldn’t have justified the expense,’ replied Liz. ‘I didn’t have any reason to think anyone knew where I lived.’

‘Hmm.’ Ashe was not impressed. ‘Well, you were wrong. I don’t know who you’re after this time, but they’re obviously nastier than you think.’ He went off to help his team lift the carpet in the hall to hide the wires for the panic buttons.

Liz left them to it and went to the office, feeling sad that her new home, which she had felt so pleased with, had now become a fortress controlled by the Service. She was none the wiser about who the intruder had been, or what the message was meant to be – other than to scare her – but her mind kept going back to Cicero and to what John Ashe had said about whoever she was dealing with being nastier than she thought. It seemed to her to make the investigation of Bartholomew Manor even more pressing. She knew Peggy’s meeting with Miss Girling had put the old lady firmly on their side, but it could be ages before she discovered anything useful. It might be better to make a move before then – this time perhaps an official visit from the authorities. But which authorities and on what grounds? She was due to see Richard Pearson here in London the following week, but this was urgent. She decided to ring him today to ask his advice.

In her office she was about to pick up the phone to do so when she noticed the brown envelope on her desk. It must be another communication from her cover address. Inside the brown envelope was another postcard addressed to Liz Ryder at the cover address she had used when she’d visited Tallinn to meet Mischa for the first time. It had been posted in Germany.

The picture was of a stretch of beach. Beyond it there was a lake of vivid blue – you could see the trees of the far shore quite clearly. Turning the card over, she found the caption at the bottom of the card: Strandbad Wannsee, Berlin.

Liz read the handwritten message, written in the slashing strokes she recognised, and in the same dark blue ink: Please come for a swim. Above that were numbers which this time she quickly deciphered, discovering the proposed meet was in two days’ time, at eleven in the morning. Liz groaned at the thought of making the journey at such short notice when she urgently wanted to address the mystery of Bartholomew Manor. It had better be good, she thought, wondering if Mischa had some new, though no doubt expensive, information to impart. Or was he just stringing her along in the hope of keeping on the payroll?

Still, she knew she had to go. This time when she reached for her phone, it was to ring not Richard Pearson but Geoffrey Fane.

The leaves on the trees lining the shore of the lake known as the Greater Wannsee were only just starting to turn. A light breeze hinted that summer’s full warmth was over, but otherwise it could still be August. There was a regatta in progress, and Liz stood by the railings and watched as a yacht shot its spinnaker, bright red and balloon-like, high up in the air.

She was on the ferry from Kladow to Wannsee, in the south-west corner of Berlin. Earlier that morning Sally Mortimer had collected her from near the Brandenburg Gate in the heart of the city, where Liz had spent a sleepless night in a quiet, inexpensive hotel that suited her cover identity as Liz Ryder.

Sally had driven her to Kladow on the outskirts of the city, an oddly village-like neighbourhood full of old timber houses. There, Liz had walked over to the small harbour, where she just managed to catch the ferry – she was deliberately the last passenger to board, which meant no one followed her on. There might well be watchers already aboard, but hopefully only the British ones arranged by Sally. Back in London, Liz and Geoffrey Fane had decided not to tell the Americans about Mischa’s request for a meeting, fearing it might inadvertently expose Liz’s mission.

It took the two of them longer to decide not to tell the BfV, and it had been a harder decision to make. They had already broken the cardinal principle that a friendly intelligence service was always informed when operating on their territory when Liz last met Mischa in Berlin. Having heard about Abel Lamme from Peggy, Liz was adamant that he should not become involved. Let him continue the surveillance of the Nimitz household, but any involvement with Liz’s mission had too great a likelihood of scaring off Mischa. If the Germans insisted on putting out surveillance and if Mischa spotted the watchers, he would abort the meeting.

She had read her guidebook thoroughly and turned now to look to the shoreline west of her. She saw the large mansion set back behind a line of trees. It slightly resembled the White House, she thought, though its stone was darker. Nowadays it was a Holocaust Museum, but in 1942 it had been the site of the infamous Wannsee Conference, which Eichmann himself had attended to help plan the Nazis’ Final Solution. It seemed surreal to be so close to it, especially in such a tranquil setting.

The ferry was drawing close to shore, pulling into a marina full of moored yachts of various sizes. When it reached the jetty, the other passengers disembarked quickly, meeting family and friends waiting for them at the end of the long pier. Liz took her time getting off, and once on dry land stopped to admire the view of the Greater Lake before ambling slowly up to the street. She was carrying a canvas bag that held a swimming costume (borrowed from Sally Mortimer), a pair of flip-flops, a beach towel and a bottle of suntan lotion.

It was a walk of over a mile through an affluent suburban neighbourhood of villas, the grander ones closest to the lake. She took her time; the avenue was virtually empty – a postman ahead of her on foot, a woman in her garden pruning roses with a pair of bright orange secateurs. At last Liz turned left, down towards the shore and her destination.

If not quite Germany’s Riviera, the open-air lido known as the Strandbad Wannsee was still remarkable. You approached from the road, passing a building that resembled an enormous hunting lodge but had stands selling frankfurters and soft drinks, with a restaurant inside. As she neared the beach, through a line of tall trees, she came upon a long row of low Art Deco brick buildings, running parallel to the shore, built, her guidebook told her, in the late Weimar days, just before the rise of Adolf Hitler.

As she reached the beach itself, Liz slipped her shoes off. The sand was fine and soft underfoot; ahead of her, the water of the lake looked very blue and inviting, and part of her wished that the swimming costume in her bag was for use and not just for cover. But swimming was not what she was here for.

Although it was late enough in the season for the children to be back at school, there were still plenty of people here, a few of them out in the water. The beach was dotted with strange white wicker seats, shaped like small boats tipped on their ends, their back and sides covered, their front open and facing the water. They were seats designed for protection from the wind but they also offered a fair degree of privacy for a quiet conversation.

Liz walked down to the water’s edge and strolled along the shore, casting a casual eye inland at each of the wicker contraptions. Most contained couples; two of them young women who had obviously been swimming and were wrapped in towels. She saw no solitary men until finally, quite far along the beach, she saw the one she was looking for and walked towards it. Putting down her canvas bag, she sat down next to the man already inside.

Mischa was not dressed for the beach. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, light cotton trousers and smart brogues. Since he did nothing to acknowledge Liz’s presence, she sat beside him in silence at first. Finally she said quietly, ‘Did you have to give a reason for coming to Berlin?’

‘No, my trip was planned. There is a conference here I was long ago asked to attend. A good coincidence.’

‘All clear on your way here?’

‘Yes, I was very careful. I trust you were too.’

Liz ignored this, irritated by Mischa’s usual suggestion of incompetence. She said instead, ‘So here I am, Mischa.’ She hoped this was important, given the time and effort it had taken to get her here.

He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry; I have not brought you all this way for nothing.’ He was staring straight out towards the water as he spoke. ‘I have news, and I am afraid it is not good.’

‘OK,’ said Liz, a wave of anxiety washing over her as various scenarios flashed through her mind. Had Mischa been indiscreet? More likely, it was something to do with his brother Boris – she knew from Geoffrey Fane that Bruno undercover in Moscow had made contact with him. ‘So, what’s happened?’

Mischa turned to look at her. ‘Let me first explain. There is working in the FSB a couple – a man and wife – who returned to Russia several months ago. They were deported from the UK.’ He paused, then added, ‘You know who I’m talking about.’

‘You know I do.’ said Liz, suddenly concerned. Karpis and his wife had been expelled from the UK, where they had been working as Illegals, after their cover had been exposed. Liz had interrogated each of them; neither had given up anything of consequence about their efforts to suborn an MI6 employee, or about anything else they may have got up to. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because they seem to know you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It seems you visited an institution last month. One located in the east of your country, near the North Sea.’

Liz tried to control her surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I didn’t. My brother’s colleagues did. Apparently you were filmed during your visit there.’

The secret camera she had discovered at Bartholomew Manor. ‘Why would your brother’s people know that?’ she said innocently.

Mischa said simply, ‘Because they are involved in the school.’

‘How?’

He shook his head. ‘That I do not know. What I know for certain is that you went there and were caught on film. And this film, my brother says, was shown to many FSB officers, including the couple I mentioned – because they were recently in the UK and were questioned by members of your Service, it was thought they might recognise the woman who visited the school. And they did. It was you.’

‘And?’

He was taking his time. ‘The couple recognised you at once. You told the school you had a son you wanted to place there. But the couple said this was not true. They said you were an agent of British intelligence.’

Liz was stunned. All she could think was that she should have broken the bloody camera when she’d uncovered it – then no one sitting in Moscow, like the Karpis couple, could have identified her.

She realised Mischa was waiting for her to respond. She said mildly, ‘This is bad news, I agree. I don’t suppose you have anything more to tell me.’

He smiled wistfully. ‘No, I do not. I have only worries to discuss.’

‘And they are?’

‘Your presence at this college was discussed at length. Why were you there? Did you know it is not what it says it is? How could you have learned it was being used in a new way? Things like that.’

‘And what were the answers?’

‘That someone must have talked. But not at the college – that made no sense. Someone closer to the planning control room, which, as you now understand, is in Moscow. With the FSB.’

‘They think the leak came from within?’

‘They do.’ Having turned his gaze to the beach he returned it now to Liz. ‘Which we both know is true.’

‘Is your brother in danger?’

‘More than ever before. I have never seen him so… agitated. He feels he is a fish – once too small to be caught, but now with a very fine net over his head. And the net is tightening.’

‘What does he want to do, then?’

Mischa did not answer right away. Liz thought of the possibilities: Boris might want to be exfiltrated with guarantees about what would happen to him in the West – he’d demand a certain style of living, she was sure of that. If for any reason he didn’t want to leave Russia, then she felt confident there would be a demand for ‘danger’ money – and that Mischa would want some for himself as well.

But Mischa surprised her. ‘Nothing. He does not want to do anything at all. You see, there is no direct link between Boris and your Service when it comes to the information that has been disclosed to you. The link is me – and I am his brother. Boris rightfully trusts me. There is therefore nothing for his superiors to discover. Boris is nervous, as I say, but confident he will be cleared, provided…’

‘Provided what?’

‘He’s afraid the Americans may try to approach him. He doesn’t trust you – the English – and he’s worried that you will inform the Americans that Boris is your source. If the Americans then approach him, the result could be disastrous – for Boris and for me.’

‘So Boris knows you have been talking to us?’

Mischa looked discomfited but did not speak. Liz added, ‘But he doesn’t know you talked originally to the Americans?’ She sounded incredulous in spite of herself.

This time Mischa managed a shrug, which Liz took to be an affirmative. She sat back against the wicker back of the chair. ‘Tell me, Mischa, if your brother just wants to be left alone, what do you want?’

‘I want my brother to be safe. That is all.’

‘Really? That’s it? What about you?’

‘If Boris is safe, then I am safe too.’ He turned towards her and she noticed that in line with his smart dress he had spruced himself up – his hair had been cut, and he had shaved that morning. ‘But we will both be most unsafe if the Americans act like they do: you know, go in like elephants – which means, approach my brother. Do you understand me?’

Liz nodded. ‘Yes, I do. And I give you my word that the Americans will leave your brother alone.’ She looked at him.

He held her gaze a long time, as if conducting a kind of visual polygraph. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded and looked away towards the lake. He said, ‘So that is my news. This college is obviously very important to them and they have spotted you. I would take care.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now I must leave. I would like you to wait here for some time before you go.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Liz, hoping the surveillance team operating around them would not be worried when she didn’t emerge from the wicker pod. She was about to say goodbye to Mischa, but he had already sprung to his feet and was striding away, his brogues slipping on the soft sand.

Liz sat watching a small yacht and thinking about this conversation. She supposed she should feel alarmed that the Russians knew she was on to Bartholomew Manor, but it was other things that were niggling at her. How had Boris known that the woman identified in the video footage from the school was the same woman whom Mischa had contacted? Previously, Mischa had always portrayed his brother as simply indiscreet rather than actively aware that what he was telling his brother was promptly relayed to a British intelligence officer. Why had that changed? Or had Mischa not come clean from the start about his brother’s real intentions in these disclosures? And what was all that about the Americans and the warning that they must not approach his brother? It was Bruno who had got alongside Boris, not the Americans. Had Boris sussed him out and did he think Bruno was an American agent? If he had, Bruno must be warned and quickly, as he was in danger.