cold, found them.
Tania Novikova’s flat was just off the Bayswater Road not far from the Soviet Embassy. She’d had a hard day, had intended an early night. It was just before ten-thirty when her doorbell rang. She was towelling herself down after a nice relaxing bath. She pulled on a robe, and went downstairs.
Gordon Brown’s evening shift had finished at ten. He couldn’t wait to get to her and had had the usual difficulty parking his Ford Escort. He stood at the door, ringing the bell impatiently, hugely excited. When she opened the door and saw who it was she was immediately angry and drew him inside.
‘I told you never to come here, Gordon, under any circumstances.’
‘But this is special,’ he pleaded. ‘Look what I’ve brought you.’
In the living room she took the large envelope from him, opened it and slipped out the report. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. Her excitement was intense as she read through it. Incredible that this fool could have delivered her such a coup. His arms were around her waist, sliding up to her breasts and she was aware of his excitement.
‘It’s good stuff, isn’t it?’ he demanded.
‘Excellent, Gordon. You have been a good boy.’
‘Really?’ His grip tightened. ‘I can stay over then?’
‘Oh, Gordon, it’s such a pity. I’m on the night shift.’
‘Please, darling.’ He was shaking like a leaf. ‘Just a few minutes then.’
She had to keep him happy, she knew that, put the report on the table and took him by the hand. ‘Quarter of an hour, Gordon, that’s all and then you’ll have to go,’ and she led him into the bedroom.
After she’d got rid of him, she dressed hurriedly, debating what to do. She was a hard, committed Communist. That was how she had been raised and how she would die. More than that, she served the KGB with total loyalty. It had nurtured her, educated her, given her whatever status she had in their world. For a young woman, she was surprisingly old-fashioned. Had no time for Gorbachev or the Glasnost fools who surrounded him. Unfortunately, many in the KGB did support him and one of those was her boss at the London Embassy, Colonel Yuri Gatov.
What would his attitude be to such a report, she wondered as she let herself out into the street and started to walk. What would Gorbachev’s attitude be to the failed attempt to assassinate Mrs Thatcher? Probably the same outrage the British Prime Minister must feel and if Gorbachev felt that way, so would Colonel Gatov. So, what to do?
It came to her then as she walked along the frosty pavement of the Bayswater Road, that there was someone who might very well be interested and not only because he thought as she did, but because he was himself right in the centre of all the action – Paris. Her old boss, Colonel Josef Makeev. That was it. Makeev would know how best to use such information. She turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and went into the Soviet Embassy.
By chance, Makeev was working late in his office that night when his secretary looked in and said, ‘A call from London on the scrambler. Captain Novikova.’
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