It is not enough,” Zadiq said.
“Turing is monitoring his transmissions.” Ian managed to hold on to his patience. “My friend at the embassy will monitor Turing. We’ll know almost as soon as those Nazi paratroopers when and where Long Jump will go off.”
“It is not enough.”
“Why not?”
Zadiq was looking not at Ian but at his son, Arev. The boy asked something in Armenian and Zadiq answered. Arev shot out of the room.
“We must know the frequency ourselves. We must know immediately when the Fencer communicates. The risk to Iosif Vissarionovich is too great.”
“But the Fencer transmits in code,” Ian pointed out. “Turing is the only one who’s broken it.”
“Then he must give us that, too,” Zadiq insisted stubbornly.
Ian went very still. So that was the point: The NKVD wanted Bletchley to share its crown jewels. The technology behind Turing’s bombes and his cryptanalysis. The breakthroughs made by the Government Code and Cypher School during four brutal years of torpedoed ships and drowning men. The NKVD wanted access to ULTRA—the most secret intelligence Britain had ever known. And Zadiq was the instrument. Playing roulette right now with the British intelligence officer who’d stupidly betrayed Turing to him.
Ian.
The stake? All their lives.
Not just the Big Three, anymore.
His life.
Ian suspected Zadiq had met with Lavrentiy Beria, the NKVD chief, by some secret route of his own. Slipped out of the bowels of the Tehran Bazaar while Ian ate lamb stew with the beguiling Siranoush. Which meant Beria knew everything Ian had shared about Operation Long Jump. He knew the Fencer was one of the Allies. He knew that Churchill and Roosevelt and Stalin would be killed before they all left Tehran. Beria could work with British intelligence to save all three—or he could let the dice fall.
Beria could ignore the Fencer and the Nazi threat.
He might even allow himself to think of a future without Stalin. A Russia where Beria was King.
In the meantime, it would be enough to see what Ian Fleming was worth. How much of ULTRA England would squander, in order to buy his life.
What had his superiors always told him?
Too great a risk to send you into the field. You’re too valuable. You know too much.
He understood, now, what they’d really been saying: We will not barter with your blackmailers. They would expect him to do the honorable thing—and die by his own hand.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori . . .
He watched with sick finality as Zadiq pulled out his Nagant.
“Come,” the Armenian said, motioning toward the corridor that led to the turned German agents’ cells. “You will walk ahead of me, please.”
He could rush Zadiq right there and force him to shoot. Seek the bubble reputation at the cannon’s mouth. But it bothered him that no one would ever know. He would simply disappear off the face of the earth. A deserter, in the official record.
A raw wound, in his family’s.
Surely, Mr. Bond, you won’t take death sitting down?
He would play for time a bit longer.
—
THE FAKE Russian waiters were good at moving furniture. They’d filled the large conference room with round tables that were hurriedly draped and set with flatware. Chairs for a hundred were placed around them and ashtrays set out. The delegations were dining together tonight, and the Soviet military band continued to play. People milled around, checking place cards. The room was uniformly male, except for Grace Cowles.
She had no intention of eating in the Soviet Embassy. She would be fixed at her post in the Signals Room, desperate for a message from Bletchley. But it was imperative she find Michael Hudson—and he ought to be here. She craned on tiptoe, searching the room, then felt a hand in the small of her back.
Damn him. She never saw him coming.
“Hello,” he said. “You’re in uniform. Don’t tell me you’re working?”
“War is hell,” she said lightly.
“You must have time for a drink, at least.”
She shook her head resolutely. She had to stay sharp for Alan Turing. “But I’d like to talk to you, if you’ve a moment.”
He understood. His gaze briefly searched the oval room and then he touched her elbow. “Let’s take a turn around the garden. It’s a bit chilly in the dark, but no one will be listening there.”
She wondered if he suspected the Soviet Embassy was bugged. She allowed him to weave her through the crowd and out the French doors that lined the far wall. There was a terrace beyond, with a stone balustrade and steps down to the lawn.
“That must have been a ballroom once,” she said, as she glanced back at the conference–cum–dining room. For an instant she could imagine it: Women dressed like Anna Karenina. Hussars and diplomats. Candlelight softening the lines on their faces.
“And this used to be a garden,” Michael added. “Like Stalin’s world used to be Russia. It’s only going to get drabber.”
The paths were unlit and uninviting; the garden was obviously untended. She hesitated on the scant gravel, shivering.
“Cigarette?”
She waited for him to light it and then let the smoke roll over her tongue and into the Tehran night. “It’s about Ian,” she said.
“Flem? You’ve heard from him?”
“I’ve seen him.”
Michael went very still. His expression was suddenly blank. “Here. Ian’s here?”
“Well, not in the embassy. He’s met me in the bazaar. He’s wearing civvies and lying doggo, and he’s quite definitely absent without leave. He’s even using a false name.”
“He was ordered back to England.”
“He hired a pilot and flew east instead.”
Michael swore softly under his breath and inhaled deeply. Their clouds of smoke met and mingled.
“Without telling anyone, Grace? You didn’t know his plans? Nobody in the British delegation knew?”
“Nobody. He says he kept mum for security reasons. That if he was thought to be safely out of the way, he’d live longer.”
“The usual drama.” His mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. She caught the glitter of teeth in the darkness. “He’s hunting the Fencer, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Single-handedly? Pigheaded fool. Why didn’t he—”
Michael broke off and dropped his cigarette angrily underfoot, crushing it into the stone.
“Contact you?” Grace reached impulsively for his sleeve. “He is now. That’s why we’re talking like this.”
“And?” he demanded. But his anger had faded.
Grace glanced over her shoulder. The dining party was seating themselves. Golden light spilled through the French doors and left vivid splashes on the garden steps. “Go to the bazaar. The Perfume Sellers Hall. He’ll be watching,” she said. “Call him Commander Bond when you see him.”
“Bond,” Michael repeated. “And he wants me now? Tonight?”
“I told him you have the dinner. But it’s incredibly urgent, Michael.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“And you’re to watch Ambassador Harriman like a hawk,” Grace said. She still felt uneasy and exposed. As though Stalin himself were listening.
“Am I?” Michael returned ironically. “Flem’s up to his old spy tricks again, isn’t he? I hope it’s worth a court-martial.”
Her brow furrowed. Her cigarette had burned down unnoticed; she dropped it hurriedly at her feet. “You still think he’s imagining things?”
“Sure. That’s what Ian does. Escapes into his fantasy world. I mean, seriously, Grace—Averell Harriman?”
“But Pamela’s codebook . . .”
“You told him about that?”
She didn’t have to admit it. Michael sighed.
“I’ll go see him, Grace. But promise me something in return. Stay away from Flem from now on. He’ll get you in too deep.”
“But—”
“You’ll attract too much attention if you keep slipping out to the bazaar. I have a plausible reason to go there—I’m staying at the Park, and nobody will notice if my taxi drops me a few blocks away. If this thing blows up in all our faces, I want you to be in the clear.”
Nice of him, she thought. But her uneasiness deepened. The whole conversation was too fantastic, like the attack on Churchill Ian Fleming was convinced would come. She hugged herself suddenly against the garden and all its works.
Was she a fool? Was Ian really mad?
“Should we tell somebody about all this? Pug, or—”
“Not on your life,” Hudson said. “Let’s go in. You’re dying of cold.”