The wolf at the door

5

Two weeks before Prime Minister Vladimir Putin's appearance at the UN and the events surrounding it, Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU had been enjoying a six months' leave of absence to work on a book on international terrorism, a subject on which he held a formidable reputation in Russian security circles. Lermov had had scholarly leanings as a younger man, but he came from a military family-his father had been an infantry general, in his time-and so in spite of Lermov's undoubted promise, the army it had to be.

His wife had died at forty from breast cancer, he was childless, and his parents were both dead, leaving him with nothing to do but devote himself to his duty. A basic knowledge of Arabic had, on three occasions, led to covert operations, and his actions during them had left no doubt of his courage, with the decorations to prove it.

He was sitting at a desk in the university library now, auburn hair falling over his forehead, steel-rimmed glasses on his nose, an air of weariness with life in general about him, when a young GRU captain tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

"I regret to disturb you, Colonel, but I've orders to take you to the Kremlin? I have a car waiting outside."

"The Kremlin?" Lermov didn't understand. "What on earth for?"

"The Prime Minister wishes to see you."

Lermov was shocked, and said the first thing that came into his head. "But I'm on leave."

The young Captain smiled slightly. "It would appear not, Colonel."

"Of course. Then if I may retrieve my greatcoat and briefcase from the cloakroom, I am at the Prime Minister's orders."

Twenty minutes later, after a drive through miserable weather, the Captain at the wheel, early winter at its worst, sleet and rain, he was delivered to the rear of the Kremlin. The Captain, whose name was Ivanov, knocked on a small postern door, which was opened by an armed soldier who said nothing and stood to one side as the Captain brushed past him and led the way along numerous corridors until they reached one with an armed guard sitting on a chair with a machine pistol on his lap. The Captain opened a door into an unexpectedly grand room furnished in the French style of the seventeenth century, painted walls and fine paintings.

"This is rather remarkable, I must say," Lermov commented.

"It was the office of General Volkov," the Captain said. "Special Security Adviser to the Prime Minister. Unfortunately, no longer with us."

"I had the pleasure of knowing him. His death will make him sorely missed by all in the GRU."

There was a sideboard with drinks of most kinds available, and a fine desk close to the fireplace with a DVD on it, a TV in the corner.

"The information on the DVD is classified on a strictly eyes-only basis. The Prime Minister's orders are that you should watch it, and take on board all the facts. When you feel you know what you're talking about, press the button on the desk. He will discuss the matter with you then."

"Do you know what's on it?"

"I helped put it together, Colonel."

"What's it about? Just tell me briefly." Peter Ivanov hesitated, and Lermov said, "Humor me, Captain."

"All right. To put it like the Americans would, there's been a 'turf war' going on in London for the past four or five years, and our people have not been doing very well."

"The opposition being British intelligence?"

"An elite group known as the Prime Minister's private army." He quickly ran down its members for Lermov and gave him a precis of the bloody history of the past few years.

"All leading up to the current state of play and the disappearance of Kurbsky, Luzhkov, and Major Yuri Bounine. But there's more on the DVD. Judge for yourself."

"I will." Lermov moved to the sideboard and, as Ivanov left, helped himself to vodka, then sat down to watch. Ivanov had been right, there was a great more detail, and it was a good thirty-five minutes before it finished.

He pressed the button on the desk, and it was surprising how quickly the door in the paneled wall opened and Vladimir Putin himself entered. He was wearing an excellent black suit, a white shirt, and a conservative striped silk tie.

"Prime Minister," Lermov said. "It's an honor to be here."

"I'm a great admirer of yours, Colonel. You have a remarkable mind. Now, sit and tell me what you think. I haven't got long, I'm meeting the French Ambassador."

"This feud with Charles Ferguson's people in London, it's better than a movie, though the body count has been appalling on our side. Then this whole thing with Kurbsky. He arrives in London-and then, three days later, he vanishes. Two days later, Colonel Luzhkov and Major Bounine disappeared."

"Five days for the whole thing. Quite a puzzle." Putin stood up.

"And what would you like me to do about it, Prime Minister?"

"Solve it for me. The Ministry of Arts has put out a story that Kurbsky is somewhere in the depths of the country working on a novel in private. Likewise, the word on Luzhkov and Bounine is that they have been withdrawn from London to work on secret assignments at GRU headquarters."

"Which means London will need a new Head of Station."

"That's you," Putin said. "I authorized your appointment this morning. Your colleagues will envy you. But you're not there to enjoy yourself, Lermov. You're there to find out what the hell has been going on, and that's not all. I also expect you to find a way of ridding ourselves of the curse of Ferguson and company-permanently."

"I'll do my best," Lermov told him.

"I expect you to do better than that. I expect you to give me exactly what I'm asking for. But there is no need for you to go to London straightaway. Take your time, use our resources, learn the enemy."

"Of course," Lermov said.

"I've arranged for Ivanov to assist you. He's clever, but also quite ruthless and ambitious, so watch him. If you find him satisfactory, you can take him to London with you." He took an envelope from his pocket. "I think you'll find this of great assistance. Use it well." He opened the door in the paneling and was gone.

Lermov opened the envelope, took out the letter, and read it. From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation at the Kremlin. The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist Colonel Josef Lermov in any way demanded. Signed, Vladimir Putin.

The door opened, and Ivanov entered. "I hope things went well?"

"I think you could say that." Lermov offered him the letter, which Ivanov read.

"You are in favor, Colonel."

"I've also just been appointed Head of Station for London." Lermov plucked the letter from Ivanov's hand, put it back in the envelope, and slipped it into a breast pocket.

"The Prime Minister has given me quite straightforward orders," he continued. "I am to solve the mystery of Kurbsky, Luzhkov, and Bounine."

"Is that all?" Ivanov's smile was slightly mocking.

"No, he also expects me to come up with a way of ridding us of what he terms the curse of Ferguson."

"Oh, dear." Ivanov sighed. "Based on past history, I'd say that will prove difficult."

"Apparently. Meanwhile, I'm going to go over everything again, all the information we have. I'll need a hotel as close as possible to GRU headquarters."

"There's an old hotel called the Astoria close by, which was taken over especially to accommodate GRU personnel. I'm already billeted there. The limousine we came in is allocated to you. I'm yours to command."

"Yes, so the Prime Minister said. He also said if you prove satisfactory, I can take you to London. Would you like that?"

"Like it?" Ivanov's eyes sparkled. "Colonel, five years ago, the GRU sent me there supposedly as a student on a six-months total immersion course in English for foreigners. It was a pure pleasure. I'd be happy to return."

"Well, let's get started," Lermov said.

The Astoria was acceptable, far better than most army accommodation. There were individual bedrooms with showers that worked, dull but functional. What had been the restaurant was more like a canteen now and run by the military, and the food was simple and sustaining, as you would expect it to be. In Lermov's case, he had an excellent goulash with a glass of a rough red wine to wash it down. He sat there, thinking about things over a second glass, and Ivanov appeared.

"Did you want lunch?" Lermov asked.

"I grabbed a couple of sandwiches and went up to headquarters. I've booked us an office for privacy-the main records department is about the size of a cathedral and just as public. Every file there ever was, lines of computers, poor sods in uniform hunched over. It looks like some Stalinist movie."

"God forbid," Lermov said, and stood up. "Let's get going and see what we can do."

Ivanov had been right about the central research hall, but it was surprisingly quiet-disciplined, really-the occasional voice in the distance, a constant low hum from the machines. The office was fine, two desks, each with a computer.

"Most of the data obviously is on computer these days," Ivanov said. "Even the old stuff has been transferred, but we can explore original documents if we want, it's still stored elsewhere. Now, where do we start?"

"I'm interested by the speed at which events moved. Kurbsky arrives in London, he's received at Holland Park, and then he's out on the street, walking round and speaking to Bounine. Twenty-four hours after that, he's in Mayfair and shooting some Chechnyan named Basayev with whom he's apparently had history. He calls Bounine afterwards, tells him what he's done, and says he's returning to Holland Park. Bounine tells Luzhkov and Luzhkov tells Putin. And then Kurbsky vanishes, and, two days later, so do Luzhkov and Bounine." Lermov stood, concentrating. "You have a look at all the traffic to and from the London Embassy, starting with the Thursday Kurbsky was received and the few days after. Transcripts of every kind. If a conversation looks odd or interesting, listen to the recording."

"And you?"

"I'm going to find out more about Kurbsky."

He switched on his computer and went quickly through Kurbsky's life. In January 1989, Kurbsky, aged nineteen, had been staying in London with his aunt Svetlana, a famous Russian actress and defector, when news came of student riots in Moscow, blood on the streets and many dead, amongst them his sister, Tania Kurbsky. Their father, a KGB colonel, had used his influence to have her buried in Minsky Park military cemetery to cover his shame. Apparently too late for her funeral, Alexander Kurbsky's response had been to join the paratroopers in the ranks and go to Afghanistan and then Chechnya, and then Iraq. He'd excelled. Then, Boris Luzhkov had recruited him for his mission to penetrate British intelligence. His bait? That Tania Kurbsky wasn't dead at all but sentenced to life in the worst gulag in Siberia, Station Gorky. If Kurbsky cooperated, his sister would go free.

He sat thinking about it, and then, using GRU operational passwords, accessed prisoners' lists and files at Station Gorky. When he tapped in the name of Tania Kurbsky, however, the screen said Code 9 Restriction. He turned to Ivanov, busy at his own computer, and asked, "What's a Code 9 Restriction?"

"Ah, you've got to Tania Kurbsky. I ran into the same roadblock. It means above most secret, which, when I inquired of Major Levin out there in the end office, means you can't have it, whoever you are and whatever it is."

"We'll see about that. Let's go and have a word."

Major Levin was impressed enough when faced with a full colonel of GRU to get to his feet. "Can I assist in any way, Colonel…?"

"Lermov. I'm engaged in an essential intelligence matter, and my inquiry is blocked by the words Code 9 Restriction."

"I'm afraid it would be impossible to help you, Colonel."

Lermov took the envelope from his pocket, extracted Putin's letter, and passed it across. Levin read it, eyes bulging.

"Of course, you could phone through to the Prime Minister's Office in the Kremlin or you could simply unlock the information. Right here on your own screen would do."

"Of course, sir, I'm most happy to oblige. If you would be kind enough to show me what it is you seek, I can insert the correct password."

"Excellent." Lermov turned to Ivanov. "You will oblige me, Captain? I wouldn't look if I were you, Major."

Ivanov's fingers flew expertly, the prisoners' lists at Station Gorky appeared with Tania Kurbsky's name, again blocked. Major Levin scribbled a password and passed it over, and Ivanov tapped it in. The screen was filled with the sad, haunted face of a wretched woman looking about a hundred years old. It read: "Tania Kurbsky died of typhoid, aged 28, on March 7, 2000."

"Have you got what you wanted, gentlemen?" Levin inquired.

"Yes, I think so."

He got up, and Levin said, "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Yes, make sure you forget about this. It would seriously displease the Prime Minister if he heard you'd been uncooperative at first."

They returned to the office, and Ivanov said, "I don't think I'll forget that face in a hurry. She was only seventeen when she went in. That means she endured that place for eleven years."

"I agree. So Luzhkov was lying when he said she was still alive."

"Do you think the Prime Minister knew?"

"I'd like to think he didn't, but who knows? The real question is this: what would Alexander Kurbsky do if he found out? The fact that his old bastard of a father had lied when he said she was dead in the first place must have deeply shocked him, but to discover the awful truth about his sister and realize how cruelly he had been duped…" He shook his head. "I don't think angry would be strong enough to describe how he would feel. And how he would react is anyone's guess."

"Do you think that perhaps he did find out?" Ivanov asked.

"That's what we need to discover. Did you come across anything else?"

"Just one thing. You remember the Big Four meeting the other month?"

"Of course." The American Vice President had unexpectedly flown in from Paris for top secret talks with the Prime Minister, the Israeli Prime Minister, and the President of Palestine to broker a deal on Gaza.

"You remember they met on a large boat on the Thames? Well, according to some reports, it got a little dangerous out there in the mist. Some small riverboat exploded, an overheated gas tank or something."

"And the point?"

"It was the last day anyone at the Embassy saw either Luzhkov or Bounine."

"Interesting," Lermov said. "You think it was related?"

"You said to look for anything odd," said Ivanov. "And here's another thing. Apparently, Luzhkov knew the Vice President was flying in. I found a message about it from the Paris Embassy at approximately midnight on the night before. It was received by a junior lieutenant named Greta Bikov-and signed for by Boris Luzhkov."

"Hmm. That doesn't really tell us anything, though. Tell me, who's been holding the fort for GRU in London since the disappearances?"

"A Major Ivan Chelek. They sent him over from Paris."

"I know him, he worked for me in Iraq some years ago. Slow but sound. You speak to him, explain you're acting under my orders. Find out what he's been doing to investigate, and inquire about Greta Bikov."

"Any special reason?" Ivanov asked.

"Because she was there, Peter, received that transcript as night duty officer and conveyed it to Luzhkov. What was his reaction? Was there anyone with him? Bounine could have been there, for all we know. You were right to bring this matter to my attention."

"At your orders, Colonel." Ivanov produced an encrypted mobile, and Lermov got up and wandered outside.

There was something here, just below the surface of things, he was certain of that, and that feeling tantalized him. An old woman with her head in a scarf and wearing a white coat pushed a tray along the walkway as he leaned on the rail and smoked an American Marlboro. There was a samovar on the trolley that looked as old as her, and sandwiches and pies. She paused and looked at him, a leftover from another age.

"You're not allowed to smoke here, comrade."

"Just give me a hot cup of tea with lemon, babushka, and a currant bun, and you can have these. They're American. I shouldn't be smoking them anyway."

She smiled. "You're a good man, I like you." She pocketed the cigarettes, gave him what he'd asked for, and pushed her trolley away. Lermov ate the bun, which was excellent, and was drinking the tea when Ivanov found him.

"You might have got me one."

"Never mind that. What did he say?"

"No sign of any of them. He's even had assets we can rely on in the London underworld to check the morgues, but they've gotten nowhere. He congratulates you on your elevation to Head of Station and says please come soon, as he misses Paris."

"And Greta Bikov?"

"It seems she was very upset by the whole business of Luzhkov and Bounine. She took it badly, cried a lot, and went round looking stressed and anxious. Other staff said she was a favorite of Luzhkov, and the general opinion was that he was having it off with her."

"How delicately put," Lermov said. "Did you speak to her?"

"I couldn't, she wasn't there. She got very depressed, so the Embassy doctor decided to place her on sick leave."

"And when was this?"

"Four days ago. She's right here in Moscow. Her mother is a widow. Lives in an apartment on Nevsky Prospekt, overlooking the river."

"Some fine old houses there," Lermov said. "Okay, let's say she was a naughty girl and Luzhkov's bit of skirt, as her colleagues seem to think. She was used to being overfamiliar with her commanding officer, in and out of his office, putting up with the older man's indifferent kiss, the quick grope."

"I think I see where you're going with this," Ivanov said. "Bad things happen, the boss disappears, a lot of pressure and questions coming your way."

"Leading to considerable stress of the sort induced by fear, so you show that face to the doctor, who puts you on sick leave."

"And sends you home to Mummy and all the comforts of home." Ivanov grinned. "But what is it she's afraid of?"

"I would imagine her overfamiliarity with Luzhkov led to her sticking her nose into things she shouldn't. She may have enjoyed having him on a string, leading him on, if you like."

"Taking advantage of an aging fool who couldn't keep his fly closed?"

"And now with this strange business of his disappearance, she's seriously worried about her misdeeds, whatever they are, surfacing."

"Then it's time to find out what they are." Lermov took the Putin letter from his pocket and passed it to him. "Go down to the cell block, order the commanding officer to provide you with two military police sergeants, women, but the type who look like prison officers. Proceed to Lieutenant Greta Bikov's home. You will remind her she is still an officer in the GRU and that duty calls. The sergeants will assist her into her uniform, if necessary."

There was a kind of admiration on Ivanov's face. "Of course, Colonel."

"I'll give you an hour, then I'll present myself in the cell block and start her interrogation. So get on with it."

Ivanov went away, almost running, and the old tea woman came back along the walkway. She paused, "Another tea, Colonel, you look stressed. What's wrong?"

"It's the acting, babushka, it always takes it out of me playing somebody I'm not," Lermov told her.

"What you need is another glass of tea."

"I don't think so." He smiled. "But you can give me one of those cigarettes, if you like."

The house overlooking the river was definitely tsarist in origin, as Ivanov had expected. The Bikov apartment was on the top floor and served by an ancient lift with a metal lattice door. Before going up, Ivanov gave his two forbidding-looking women police sergeants instructions.

"I doubt if you will ever handle a matter of greater importance than this." He produced the Putin letter, opened it, and held it before them. "We are here at our Prime Minister's bidding to arrest a serving officer of the GRU who needs to answer grave charges, one Greta Bikov."

Neither woman showed any emotion, not a flicker on the face. The senior said, "How do we handle the matter, Captain?"

"No need to get too physical, Sergeant Stransky. Let's just frighten the hell out of her, put her in the right frame of mind for her interrogation."

The bell sounded like a distant echo from another time, but the maid who answered it was young, dressed in jeans and a smock, rubber gloves on her hands, obviously engaged in cleaning. A look of dismay appeared on her face.

Sergeant Stransky barked with infinite menace, "Lieutenant Greta Bikov." She moved straight past the girl and led the way along a short corridor. Which opened into an arched entrance with drapes on either side and, beyond, a large sitting room.

There was a piano, a fine carpet, too much old-fashioned furniture, and wingback chairs. Having studied Greta Bikov's service record, Ivanov knew that the woman in the wheelchair beside the fire was the mother, crippled with rheumatoid arthritis in spite of being only fifty years of age. Greta was sitting opposite her, wearing a bathrobe and what looked like pajama bottoms. She'd been holding a cup in both hands and, in scrambling to her feet, spilled some of its contents. Her face was wild with fear.

Her mother cried out, "Who are you? What do you want?"

Peter Ivanov saluted with infinite courtesy. "You must excuse the intrusion, madam, but your daughter must return to duty."

"This is nonsense," Mrs. Bikov told him. "She is ill."

To Greta, confronted by Ivanov in that magnificent uniform with all the medals, it was as if the Devil himself had come to fetch her.

She said desperately, "I'm on indefinite sick leave."

"Terminated on the orders of Colonel Josef Lermov, now Head of Station for the GRU in London."

"No, surely it cannot be?" she said faintly.

Ivanov took out the Putin letter, unfolded it, and held it up in front of her. "The Prime Minister himself requests your presence."

She seemed to stagger, clutching at the back of her chair. Ivanov nodded to Stransky and her partner, who came forward and took an arm each. "Don't be alarmed. These women are simply here to assist you to dress. You must make your appearance in uniform. Go with them now."

They took her away to her bedroom. Her mother had started to weep, holding a handkerchief to her mouth. She said brokenly, "But what has she done?"

"That is not for me to say, madam, it is what a military inquiry will decide."

She buried her face in her hands, crying even more, but he ignored her. There were various bottles and glasses on the sideboard. He selected a bottle of vodka and poured one, drank it, then beckoned to the maid.

"Does she drink?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Do you live in?"

"Yes, I have a room upstairs."

"Excellent. Make sure you keep the vodka flowing and look after her. See to her now. I'm going to make a call."

He went into the kitchen, closed the door, called Lermov on his mobile, and described what had happened. "So what's your opinion of her state of mind?" Lermov asked.

"Very fragile and frightened to death. There's something worrying her, I'm sure of that, it just needs the right shove."

"Well, let's see if we can't give it to her. I'll see you soon." Ivanov noticed another bottle of vodka on the side by the sink, obviously the maid's, and poured another, thinking about Greta. It wouldn't be necessary to get physical with her. From what he'd seen, she would break very quickly.

There was a knock on the door, and Stransky looked in. "We're ready for you."

"Excellent," Ivanov told her, and went out.