casting. The smiler with the knife, they used to call you from that first year, remember?’
‘Quite right.’ Kurbsky got out and turned, holding the door. ‘I also write good books.’
‘Great books.’ Bounine smiled. ‘One thing is certain, Putin will be happy the way things have gone.’
‘Putin has many reasons to be happy with the way things are going these days,’ Kurbsky said. ‘Night, Yuri.’ He closed the door and went back into the hotel.
It had all started three weeks before with Colonel Boris Luhzkov, Head of Station for the GRU at the Embassy of the Russian Federation in London, being called. The summons to Moscow had come from Putin himself and could not be denied, although it had surprised Luhzkov that it had come from him and not from General Ivan Volkov of the GRU, Putin’s security adviser.
The reason became clear when he was driven to Berkley Down outside London, and found a Falcon jet waiting to fly him to Moscow, a luxury which should have warned him to expect the worst.
Two pilots were on board, the aircraft ready to go, and a steward, who introduced himself as Sikov, was waiting as he boarded. Luhzkov seated himself and belted in.
Sikov said, ‘A great pleasure, Colonel. The flight time is approximately seven hours. I was instructed to give you this from Prime Minister Putin’s office as soon as you arrived. May I offer you a drink?’
‘A large vodka, I hate takeoffs. I once crashed in Chechnya.’ Sikov had given him what looked like a legal file.
Sikov did it old-style, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Luhzkov tossed it back and coughed, holding out his glass. Sikov poured another, then moved up to the small galley. Luhzkov swallowed the vodka and, as the plane started to roll, examined the file: several typed sheets stapled together, and an envelope addressed to him, which he opened.
The letter was headed: From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation. It carried on: ‘Attention of Colonel Boris Luhzkov. You will familiarize yourself with the material contained in the enclosed report and be prepared to discuss it with the Prime Minister on your arrival.’
Luhzkov sat there, staring down at the report, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Falcon had risen fast to thirty thousand feet and the flight so far was very smooth. Sikov returned.
‘Would you like to order, Colonel?’
Business first. Better get it over with. More vodka was indicated. He suspected he was going to need it. In fact, it was worse than he could have imagined, although some of it was already familiar to him.
The report detailed an operation gone bad. General Volkov had hired a group of IRA heavies to strike at Ferguson and his associates, but instead it was Ferguson who had struck at them, killing them all at their base in Drumore in the Irish Republic. If that wasn’t bad enough, General Volkov himself and two GRU men had disappeared. It could only mean one thing.
On top of that, the attempted assassination of Harry Miller, the individual known as the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler, had been a botched job from the beginning and had only succeeded in killing his wife in error. And – the greatest shock of all – Volkov’s connection to Osama bin Laden, the shadowy man known only as the Broker, had been unmasked. It had turned out to be Simon Carter, the Deputy Director of the British Security Services. Luhzkov could hardly believe his eyes – he had known Carter for years! Needless to say, Carter was no longer in the picture, either.
Miller’s sister, Lady Monica Starling, had apparently played a part in the Drumore affair, too, and now she had an apparent relationship with Dillon. GRU agents, of whom there were twenty-four at the London Embassy, had sighted them together on a number of occasions.
It was all a bit too much for Luhzkov’s whirling brain, but he turned the page and found the next one was headed ‘Solutions’. He started to read, pouring himself another vodka, and gagged on it as his own name came up. He read the paper several times, phrases like ‘the Prime Minister’s final decision in this matter’ floating before him. Finally, he came to the last page, headed ‘Alexander Kurbsky’. It began: ‘Kurbsky is a man of extraordinary talents, who has served his country well in time of war. To use these talents again in the present situation would be of great use to the State. If he objects in any way, the enclosed DVD and the additional attached information should persuade him.’
There was a small DVD screen on the back of the seat in front of Luhzkov, and after reading the information, he inserted the DVD and switched on. It only lasted five minutes or so, and when it was finished, he switched off and removed it.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said softly and there was sweat on his brow. He took out a handkerchief and mopped it. Sikov approached. ‘Something to eat, Colonel?’
‘Why not?’ Boris Luhzkov said wearily. ‘Why not.’
They landed on time, and a limousine with a uniformed GRU driver at the wheel was waiting. The streets were dark, frostbound, a city of ghosts, snow drifting down – angel’s wings, his mother used to call them when he was little – and he sat there, thinking of what awaited him as they passed the great entrance of the Kremlin and moved through narrow streets to the rear, coming to a halt in a paved yard. Steps up to an entrance, a blue light over it. The door swung open and a young lieutenant in GRU uniform admitted him.
‘Please to follow me, Colonel.’
Luhzkov had never in his entire career been to Putin’s suite and he followed in a kind of awed trance, one gloomy corridor after another, the decorations finally becoming more ornate, oil paintings in gold frames on walls. Everything was subdued, no sign of people, not even an echoing voice. And then they turned left and discovered two individuals in good suits seated in high chairs one on either side of a large gilded door. Each of them had a machine pistol by their right hand on a small table. They showed not the slightest emotion as the lieutenant opened the door and ushered Luhzkov through.
The room was a delight: panelled walls painted in seventeenth-century style, heavily gilded furniture of the correct period, portraits of what were probably obscure Tsars confronting each other across the room, a large ornate desk in the centre.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ Luhzkov said. ‘Astonishing.’
‘This was General Volkov’s private office,’ the lieutenant informed him. The use of the past tense confirmed Luhzkov’s misgivings. ‘The Prime Minister will be with you directly. Help yourself to a drink.’
He withdrew and Luhzkov, in a slight daze, moved to the sideboard bearing a collection of bottles and vodka in an ice bucket. He opened the bottle, filled a glass and drank it.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ he murmured. ‘Just hang on to that thought.’ He turned, glass in hand, as a secret door in the wall behind the desk opened and Vladimir Putin entered. ‘Comrade Prime Minister,’ Luhzkov stammered.
‘Very old-fashioned of you, Colonel. Sit down. My time is limited.’ He sat himself and Luhzkov faced him. ‘You’ve read my report.’
‘Every
