In his Moscow flat, Bruno was humming softly to himself as he got ready to go out. It was a habit he had developed when he was quite young. Faced with a difficult situation or a time of particular tension, he would quietly hum a tune. He was never aware of choosing which tune to hum – something just came into his head – but as the product of an English public school and therefore a regular attender at church services when he was young, he found that the tune was very often a hymn. Today it was a carol, ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, that, when he thought about it, was particularly appropriate for Moscow in autumn.
He opened the wardrobe door and contemplated his rack of ties. What was appropriate for this lunch, a lunch that he hoped would mark the next stage in his cultivation of the FSB officer? Today he planned to offer Boris consultancy work for his mythical investment bank. Boris had invited him this time, which Bruno saw as a good sign. He must be keen to continue the relationship, which he surely must have recognised as connected in some way with intelligence gathering. So, what was the right tie? Something bright, confident and slightly flashy.
His hand was on a yellow and blue one when he suddenly changed his mind and decided not to wear a tie at all but to go in an open-necked shirt instead. That would look insouciant, he told himself. He was assessing the result in the mirror when his phone buzzed. It was a share update; he got them all the time. This one read: BG +1.15%.
Bruno stopped humming. A cold wave washed up from his stomach and his mouth went dry. This was his alarm call. His emergency escape plan had been triggered by London and 1.15 was the pickup time. Coupled with his shock, he felt intense disappointment. He was going to be denied his chance to have a go at suborning Boris Bebchuk, the man he had been patiently cultivating for weeks.
But there was no arguing. The whole thing had been rehearsed to a boring extent before he left home. Although it was real, it was no longer boring – rather alarming, in fact, if exciting too. Bruno loved a challenge and this was certainly going to be that. As he set about his preparations for departure he wondered what had happened to trigger this dramatic reaction from his colleagues in London, though he had little enough time to waste it speculating.
He went into the bathroom and crouched down beside the bath, sliding back a small part of the panel with a slight click, revealing a concealed safe. Bruno tapped in some numbers and the door swung open. He took out a packet of documents, locked the safe and replaced the panel. Putting the packet on the table, he opened it and extracted a Canadian passport in the name of Brian Anderson, Civil Engineer, born in Montreal. There was also a wad of bank notes made up of Canadian dollars, US dollars and Russian roubles, together with an assortment of credit cards, club membership cards, and all the assorted documentation that a Canadian engineer travelling abroad would be expected to possess. He laid it all out on the table, then he reached for his phone and dialled Michelle.
‘Good morning, darling,’ he said. ‘It’s such a lovely day and I know it’s half day at the school. I was wondering if I might come with you to pick up Sergei. Perhaps we could stop at the park on the way home. I’m an expert at pushing a swing. That is, if you haven’t made any other plans, of course,’ he added, hoping she hadn’t.
But she was clearly delighted. ‘What a lovely idea! No. We had no plans. We were going to come straight home but that’s a much better suggestion.’
‘Great. That’s a date then,’ he said. ‘I’ll knock on your door in twenty minutes.’ He felt rather ashamed of himself, but reflected that the French were on the same side, so even though she didn’t know it, Michelle was serving her nation.
His next step was to change out of the clothes he had chosen so carefully for lunch with Boris into something more suitable for playing in the park – and for the journey he was about to undertake. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from his flat wearing jeans, trainers and a leather jacket over a sweatshirt. The documents and cash were stuffed in his pockets. He was carrying a small bag containing his laptop and his British passport. He slammed the door shut with a slight sigh of regret. He had been so near, he reflected, to pulling off a massive coup, recruiting a FSB officer in place. But it was not to be, so, lighting a cigarette, he set off to collect Michelle.
At twelve minutes past one, Bruno drove Michelle’s car into the park with Michelle and her son sitting in the back seat. He pulled up just behind a muddy BMW with two men inside. He put on the handbrake and turned off the engine. Then, leaving the key in the lock, he grabbed his bag off the seat beside him and got out, saying, ‘Just got to do something. Back in a minute.’
Then he broke into a run towards the car in front, where he opened the rear door and climbed in. The BMW accelerated away and disappeared from view, leaving Michelle and her son open-mouthed.
Across the city in a restaurant near Lubyanka Square, Boris Bebchuk was sitting by himself at a table by the wall. The dining room was panelled in dark wood, a red carpet covered the floor and the heavy wood chairs were upholstered in red plush. The effect was formal, gloomy and old-fashioned. It was a place used mainly by government officials to entertain and impress foreign visitors. It also had special facilities, which was why Boris had chosen it for meeting Bruno. Many of the tables were fitted with concealed microphones, including the one at which Bebchuk was sitting, and there were concealed cameras scattered around that could photograph guests to order.
Bebchuk was sipping sparkling water and looking at his phone. A table for two near the door was occupied by a pair of young men. Neither was eating, and they didn’t seem to have much to say to each other; they spent most of their time looking at their phones.
At one thirty, Bebchuk seemed to make a decision, for he stood up and walked towards the door of the restaurant, exchanging a few words with the two men as he passed. He left the restaurant and shortly afterwards they too got up and departed. The waiters exchanged knowing looks and reset the tables for the next customers. Clearly, something had gone wrong.