it.
A tough-looking young man in the uniform of a lieutenant in the GRU greeted him. ‘Do you require assistance?’
‘I’m all right if we stay on the ground floor.’
‘We will. Follow me.’
Chekov stumped after him along a series of incredibly quiet, dull corridors that seemed to stretch into infinity and then his guide opened a door leading to a much more ornate passageway lined with paintings and antiques. At the far end, a burly man in a dark suit, his head shaven, sat outside a door, a machine pistol across his knees. The GRU officer ignored him, opened the door and motioned Chekov inside.
Chekov moved past him and the door closed behind. The room was fantastic, decorated in a kind of seventeenth-century French style, beautiful paintings everywhere, a superb carpet on the floor, and a marble fireplace, with what at least looked like a real fire. There was a desk, three chairs in front of it and General Ivan Volkov behind it. There was nothing military about him at all. In his sixties with thinning hair, wearing a neat dark blue suit, and conservative tie, he could have been the manager of some bank branch, not one of the most powerful men in the Russian Federation.
He wore old-fashioned wire spectacles and removed them as he glanced up. ‘My dear Chekov.’ His voice was curiously soft. ‘It’s good to see you on your feet again.’
‘Only just, Comrade General.’ Chekov stuck to the old titles still popular with older party members. It was better to be safe than sorry. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Of course.’ Chekov settled himself. ‘Your stay in Monaco has been beneficial?’
‘I’m better than I was.’ Chekov decided to bite the bullet. ‘May I ask why I’m here, Comrade?’
‘The President has expressed an interest in your personal welfare.’
Such news filled Chekov with a certain foreboding but he forced a smile. ‘I’m naturally touched.’
‘Good, you can tell him yourself.’ Volkov glanced at his watch. ‘I anticipate his arrival in approximately two minutes.’
Chekov waited in some trepidation, and was thrown when a secret door in the panelled wall behind Volkov’s desk swung open and President Putin walked in. He was in a tracksuit, a white towel around his neck. Chekov struggled to his feet.
‘My dear Chekov, good to see you up and about again. You must excuse my appearance, but I look upon my gym time as the most important hour in the day.’
‘Comrade President,’ Chekov gabbled. ‘So wonderful to see you.’
‘Sit down, man,’ Putin urged him and sat on the edge of Volkov’s desk. ‘So, they’ve saved the leg and the word is you’re almost as good as new.’
Volkov put in, ‘Which must confound that animal, this London gangster, Harry Salter, who ordered the shooting.’
‘I must say General Charles Ferguson employs some unlikely help.’ Putin smiled. ‘Perhaps he’s getting hard up for the right kind of people these days. Afghanistan must be taking its toll. So, Chekov, you’re ready to get back to work? I’m delighted to hear it.’
As it was the first thing Chekov had heard on the matter, he made the mistake of hesitating. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that, Comrade President.’
‘Nonsense. You must get back in the saddle. Best thing for you! Besides, you have that wonderful apartment in London going to waste. And as the CEO of Belov International, you have a lot of responsibilities to the company – and to us.’
‘Responsibilities that I’ve had to take care of while you’ve been recovering,’ Volkov pointed out.
‘Which obviously can’t go on,’ Putin said. ‘I suggest you move back within the next few days. Any further therapy you need can obviously be found in London. Once established, you will ease yourself back in harness and liaise with General Volkov.’
Chekov didn’t even try to resist. ‘Of course, Comrade President.’
As if by magic, the door by which Chekov had entered opened again, revealing the GRU lieutenant. Chekov understood that he was being dismissed. As he stood up again, Volkov said, ‘One more thing. I know you’re angry about being shot. But I don’t want you going off on any personal revenge mission against Salter or Ferguson’s people when you get back. That’s our job. They’ll be taken care of eventually.’
‘I hope so,’ Chekov said with some feeling, and went out.
Putin turned to Volkov. ‘Keep an eye on him, Volkov. He’s all right for now, but he strikes me as a weak link. Just like those traitors we lost: Igor Levin, a decorated war hero, of all things, a captain in the GRU; Major Greta Novikova; even this Sergeant Chomsky of the GRU. I still can’t understand what happened with them. What are the British doing with them?’
‘Our people at the London Embassy inform me that all three have been transferred for the moment to teach a total immersion course in Russian to agents of MI6. Ferguson was reluctant to let them, but Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, persuaded the Prime Minister to order it.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Putin’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Well, much good it’ll do them. So, Ivan, anything else? Otherwise, I’ll get to the gym.’
‘As a matter of fact, there is, Comrade President. An unfortunate incident has just taken place in Kosovo, involving the death of an officer commanding a special ops patrol from the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards…’
When he was finished, Putin sat there, thinking. Finally, he said, ‘You are absolutely certain it was this Miller, no possibility of error?’
‘He announced his identity when he challenged Captain Zorin. Zorin’s sergeant confirms it.’
‘And you can definitely confirm the other man was Blake Johnson?’
‘The sergeant heard Miller call him Blake, and people on the ground traced the inn where they’d spent the previous night. The landlord had taken their passport details. He told our people that they didn’t arrive together, but seemed to meet by chance.’
‘That doesn’t sound too plausible.’ Putin shook his head. ‘Blake Johnson, the President’s man.’
‘And Harry Miller, the Prime Minister’s. What do we do?’
‘Nothing. Zorin’s unit wasn’t supposed to be there and so we can’t very well complain, and if anybody says they were there, we’d have to strenuously deny it. I don’t think we need to worry about the wretched Muslim peasants in those parts. They’ll keep their heads down. And as for the US and Britain, their attitude will be the same as mine. It’s not worth World War Three.’
‘A pity about Zorin. He was a good man, decorated in Chechnya. His mother is a widow in poor health, but his uncle…’ here Volkov looked at his papers ‘…is Sergei Zorin. Investment companies in Geneva, Paris and London. What do I do about him?’
‘Just explain to him that for the good of the State we can’t take it further. As for the mother, say Zorin was killed in action, died valiantly, the usual nonsense. Tell her we’ll arrange a splendid funeral.
