‘Allo?’ Polukhin’s voice, a little fainter than usual because of the encryption, sounded in Morosov’s ear.
‘Da, zdravstvuyte, Comrade General. It’s Mikhail Sergeevich. Good morning. I have news.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Morosov imagined Polukhin closing the door to his office, or maybe lighting a cigarette before putting the mobile phone back to his ear.
‘The line is secure?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Comrade General.’
‘Then, please, Mikhail Sergeevich, tell me your news.’
‘I’ve found Petrov. He’s alive.’
The pause at the other end was even longer.
‘You’re certain?’
‘Check your email.’
In distant Moscow, winter beating uselessly against the grimy windows of his office, Morosov had no doubt Polukhin was doing exactly that.
‘Nu ti dajosh! How the fuck did you get this?’
‘The picture is good, no? Bastard’s lost an eye, too, so even better.’
‘The picture is good, Mikhail Sergeevich, very good. So, where is he?’
‘The line is secure, Comrade General. It’s not that secure.’
Polukhin let loose a dry chuckle.
‘Time was, Comrade, you would have provided the information without thought of reward.’
‘Times change, Comrade General.’
‘They do indeed. Ten thousand US for the location.’
Morosov just laughed.
‘I’ve spent more than that just finding him. Half a million.’
‘US?’ Polukhin sounded outraged.
‘Is there any other currency?’
‘There are rubles. You take rubles.’
‘I have no interest in Derevianni rubli. I’m only interested in dollars.’
‘Petrov isn’t worth dollars, never mind half a million of them.’
‘Fuck you, Comrade General. Half a million is cheap and you know it. Do you not remember the networks he rolled up? The operations he compromised? The Americans saved their fucking elections!’
‘Networks fail from time to time, as you very well know. As for operations, the Americans saved shit. They’re at each other’s throats over election fraud, so no harm there, eh? In any event, the little shit’s not worth anything like as much as you say.’
‘And Pavel? Is Pavel not worth as much as I say, either?’
Silence. For a moment, Morosov thought the line had gone dead.
‘We don’t know that Petrov had anything to do with that.’
‘He had everything to do with it. Pavel ran those networks. You think his body turned up in Djibouti by coincidence?’
‘I know he was your brother, Mikhail, but …’
‘They cut his balls off, Comrade General. His balls! And they left him …’
‘I know where they left him. I was there, remember?’
Another pause. Longer this time.
‘If you want dollars, you can’t have what you’re asking. I have committees to answer to. Fucking accountants.’ He practically spat out the word. Morosov thought he heard a little squeak, as if Polukhin was tipping back his chair. Morosov had seen him do it a million times. ‘If you want that sort of money, you’ll have to bring him in. Can you do that?’
‘No. I don’t have the resources.’ Morosov hesitated before adding, ‘Also, time is short. He may have seen me.’
‘You fucking Zjulik! You want a fortune for nothing! Why should I pay you anything for this shit?’
‘Because I found him when the whole fucking GRU gave him up for dead, that’s why. Because I was the only one who cared enough about Pavel to chase the fucker down. Because the British made you their fucking bitches and you didn’t even know it! You want Petrov, pay me. Otherwise, go fuck your own ass with a cactus.’
‘You can’t give me Petrov, you already told me that. And if he made you, he’ll be gone long before I can put together an operation. So again, I ask you, what am I paying for?’
Morosov took a deep breath.
‘We can finish him on site. Send a message. Get me a weapon and I’ll do it myself.’
‘You’re not armed?’ Polukhin sounded surprised. And then: ‘You flew somewhere, yes? So not in Europe?’
‘Not in Europe,’ Morosov admitted, albeit reluctantly.
‘No matter. We don’t want bullets for this anyway. Too ambiguous. Anyone could have shot the fucker. Criminals. A jilted lover. Anyone. No! The world needs to know that it was us, the goddamned, fucking GRU. A message to the other traitors. They need to know that no matter how much protection our enemies promise, it will never be enough. Never.’
‘What are you proposing?’ Morosov asked, although he had a queasy feeling he already knew the answer.
‘Novichok. The nerve agent. Made in Russia and only in Russia. This way, everyone will know it was us, even though we will deny everything. Western conspiracy, rogue terrorists, whatever. But the people who matter – MI5, CIA, their fucking traitor assets – they will know exactly who did this – and why. They’ll be shitting in their boots.’
‘The last time we did this, it didn’t go so well,’ Morosov reminded him.
‘Salisbury? Pah! You will do better, yes? No fuck-ups.’
‘No fuck-ups,’ Morosov agreed. ‘If you pay me.’
‘You’ll get your money. But half in rubles.’ Anticipating Morosov’s objection, Polukhin pushed on. ‘It’s the best I can do in the time available, Mikhail Sergeevich. There’s no time to fuck about with accountants and committees. Petrov will become a ghost, and we may never reacquire him. Understand?’
‘Da, Comrade General. But you pay the dollars into my account today. Rubles when the job’s done.’
There was another long pause.
‘Agreed,’ Polukhin said at last. ‘Now, where is our man?’
‘The United States.’
‘Care to be more specific?’
‘No.’
A chuckle at the other end of the line.
‘How quickly can you get yourself to Washington?’
‘I can be there in less than ten hours.’
‘Good. Plenty of time. Go to Washington, see Dmitri. Be there by noon, eastern. He’ll have what you need.’
Morosov hung up. In his mind, he was already wearing a pair of heavy latex gloves, and the man calling himself Gregory Abimbola was frothing his life out on the floor.