Rem Tolkachev carefully reread the report from the London rezidentura that the SVR had just delivered. It had been drafted by the agent he’d assigned to handle the fallout from the Berezovsky affair. This was Boris Tavetnoy, a reliable apparatchik who had spent his entire career first in the KGB and then the SVR.
Up to now, everything had gone smoothly. The hands-off attitude taken by the British agencies on orders from above had minimized the incident. A run-of-the-mill suicide, committed for reasons unknown. The popular press had no reason to get excited about the death of yet another émigré with a dubious past. True, some of Berezovsky’s friends claimed he’d been killed, but nobody paid them much attention, and his family maintained a dignified silence.
Alexander Litvinenko’s widow had angrily complained about the British courts’ refusal to release any information that might implicate Russia in her husband’s murder. But that was a purely British decision, and it didn’t directly point to the motherland.
In writing his report, however, Tavetnoy raised a thorny problem that had to be dealt with. The CIA was apparently sticking its nose into the Berezovsky affair, even though it wasn’t involved.
Tolkachev had discovered the CIA’s sniffing around thanks to his habitual caution. To be on the safe side, the old spymaster had ordered that everybody close to the late oligarch be put under surveillance by a special team of agents from Moscow, working with the London rezidentura.
Some of those people knew part of the truth, others had been directly or indirectly involved, and one in particular had some truly damning information. Until the affair completely died down, Tolkachev would have to proceed cautiously. He had no desire to stir up the controversy surrounding Litvinenko’s death, for which Russia had been clearly responsible.
Fortunately, England now had a prime minister who was more pragmatic than his predecessor. David Cameron would apparently rather deal with Russia than confront it.
But the report from London summoned an old ghost that had already given Russia a lot of headaches: Malko Linge, the CIA operative who had investigated the Litvinenko case and discovered the truth about the former FSB agent’s death.
As he did with all the people around Berezovsky, Tavetnoy was tapping the phone of Nikolai Glushkov, the late oligarch’s best friend. So he learned that Linge had called asking to meet him, and that the Russian had agreed. Glushkov probably didn’t know anything special about his friend’s death, but he might know something else that would require the FSB to take countermeasures.
This was an urgent problem and had to be solved.
Under the circumstances, killing Glushkov was out of the question. A murder coming so soon after the Berezovsky “suicide” was bound to raise suspicions in the media, even if MI5 kept hands off.
Which left Linge. The Austrian operative knew the Litvinenko and Berezovsky files, so it made sense for the CIA to bring him in.
Tolkachev took Linge’s dossier from his armored file cabinet and slowly leafed through it. The Agency mission leader had long stuck in Russia’s craw while escaping several assassination attempts. Tolkachev saw that he might now have an unhoped-for opportunity to rid the rodina of an enemy, and do it in a foreign country, which would avoid Russia being immediately suspect. He closed the file and lit one of his pastel Sobranie cigarettes. He needed to think.
This was a decision he couldn’t make on his own.
By the time he had smoked three Sobranies, he had put together an operation that could be launched very quickly. He took a sheet of paper, wrote a few lines in his small, neat handwriting, and rang for an orderly. When a man in black promptly appeared, Tolkachev handed him the envelope and said:
“Take this to the president’s private secretary.”
Only Vladimir Vladimirovich could make this decision, thought Tolkachev, and he hoped he would. The CIA operative had already caused Russia a great deal of harm, so killing him fell squarely within the purview of the president’s new directive.
Taking advantage of one of London’s rare sunny days, Malko walked from the Lanesborough and entered the Hilton’s revolving doors at ten minutes to six. He hoped Glushkov would show up. Malko had a laundry list of questions to ask him, and especially wanted to know the whereabouts of Uri Dan.
As Malko entered the lobby, he nearly collided with a burly man in a raincoat and a dark hat who was coming the other way.
Stepping back with an apologetic smile, the man touched Malko’s left arm as he passed. Malko felt a slight sting, like a pinprick, but his mind was on his meeting with Glushkov and he didn’t pay it any attention.
He stopped and glanced into the bar to the right of the entrance. There was nobody there, but he was early.
Walking toward the bar, Malko suddenly had a sensation of inner heat, as if his blood had suddenly warmed up. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it felt bizarre. He stopped, trying to make sense of the strange feeling.
Suddenly he felt extremely weary, and his legs began to fail. As he staggered toward one of the bar’s armchairs, his vision blurred and he started seeing double. The hotel’s walls seemed to be buckling, the chandeliers swaying.
He was frozen in place, unable to take a step.
Then all sensation stopped and Malko tumbled into blackness.
Tolkachev unfolded the freshly deciphered message from the London rezidentura and read the printed one-line message with pleasure:
The subject has been dealt with.
He smoothed the sheet and fetched the Linge file. He clipped the message to the top sheet, closed the file, and returned it to his cabinet.
He then drafted a short note to a doctor working in the special FSB unit that had replaced the KGB’s Thirteenth Department, which specialized in the development of poisons.
When Malko opened his eyes, at first all he could make out was a vague shape in the darkened room.
“Feeling better, Malko?”
The voice sounded familiar, but it took him a few seconds to realize that it belonged to Stanley Dexter, the London CIA station chief.
He tried to say, “Hello, Stanley,” but produced only a series of disjointed grunts. That was when he realized how weak he was. He felt as if he were floating inside his skin.
As Malko’s vision gradually cleared, he saw what looked like the white walls of a hospital room. An IV was hooked to his right arm, and his hand looked shrunken.
With an effort, he could again see himself in the Hilton lobby, suddenly feeling faint and collapsing. Dexter came closer, and Malko could now make out his face. He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t obey him.
“Where am I?” he eventually managed to mumble.
“At University College Hospital,” said Dexter. “In the intensive care unit. You very nearly died.”
“Why?”
“Apparently you were poisoned. Given an injection. Do you remember anything like that?”
Malko racked his brains, trying to reconstruct the scene.
“I was entering the Hilton when a man with very dark eyes bumped into me. Then I felt a sting. But I saw the man’s face. He wasn’t trying to hide.”
Dexter smiled gravely.
“He was obviously sure you were going to die. In fact, what happened was a miracle. When you collapsed, the hotel immediately called the paramedics. I happened to be phoning you just as they arrived, and one of the EMTs had the presence of mind to answer your phone and tell me what was happening.
“I understood right away, and told them to bring you here. It’s one of the best hospitals in London.”
“I know. I came here to see Alexander Litvinenko seven years ago.”
Said Dexter:
“You’re in the same department he was brought to. As soon as I was notified, I called the head of the department and told him it might be a criminal case.
“When you got to the hospital, they undressed you and carefully examined your entire body. They found a tiny puncture mark on your left arm, barely a millimeter wide, with fresh blood. An X-ray revealed a foreign body under the skin, and it was immediately excised. It turned out to be a tiny capsule made of an alloy of iridium and platinum, two metals that the human body doesn’t reject.
“It was taken out and examined. It contained a liquid that would enter your body through two orifices too small to be seen with the naked eye.”
“What was in the capsule?” asked Malko.
“Ricin. It’s a powerful poison that would have entered your bloodstream. You would have died in a few days, in agony. If you’d been taken to another hospital, nobody would’ve thought to examine the pinprick.”
“What happened then?”
“You’ve been given cortisone along with some other drugs, and a number of transfusions. You’re out of danger now. You’ll have to stay here for a few more days. After that, you can go back to the Lanesborough, assuming you want to stay on in London.”
“Why would I leave?” asked Malko.
“Because I can’t count on the Brits to protect you,” said Dexter with a bitter smile. “I’m going to give you some bodyguards, of course, but it’s not the same thing.”
“Does MI5 know I was attacked?”
“I haven’t told them anything, though they might learn it from other sources. Because of medical confidentiality, I don’t think anyone here will talk.”
Malko felt a little nauseated just then and had to close his eyes.
“I’m making you tired,” said Dexter immediately. “I better go.”
“No, no, it’s nothing. I just feel very weak.”
“Well, you barely pulled through. But it’s an ill wind that blows no good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Now we’re positive that Boris Berezovsky didn’t commit suicide, and there’s more to learn about his death. Otherwise they wouldn’t have tried to kill you.”
“That’s true.”
A long silence followed, eventually broken by the station chief.
“Who knew that you were on your way to meet Glushkov?”
“No one. I phoned him, and nobody else knew besides you.”
“Which means his line is bugged,” said Dexter. “Also, that the Russians have an operational assassination team in London. Two days wouldn’t have been enough for them to send a team from Moscow. So anybody who questions the Berezovsky suicide story is in danger. We’ll have to take that into account.
“Could you recognize the man who tried to kill you?”
Malko closed his eyes and could visualize a man with a dark complexion and very dark eyes.
“Sure,” he said. “He was about fifty, stocky, with a puffy face, full lips, a big nose, and piercing eyes.”
Dexter nodded.
“When you’re discharged, I’ll show you the photos we have on file. We’ll start with the members of the rezidentura, though I doubt they’re involved; too risky. He’s almost certainly a sleeper agent who has been here for a long time, maybe someone involved in the Berezovsky killing. It nearly cost you your life, but you moved the investigation a big step ahead.
“I’ll leave you now. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Dexter paused, then added:
“Oh, and I brought you something.”
He took out a Beretta 92 in a GK holster and handed it to Malko.
“Put this under your pillow!” he said. “In any case, we’ll have officers watching around the clock. I just hope the medical staff doesn’t mention it to MI5.”
Malko took the semiautomatic and slipped it under the sheets, though he felt too weak to use it.
Once he was alone, he checked his phone messages. Three of them were from Gwyneth Robertson, so he called and left a message on her voice mail. The former CIA case officer phoned back an hour later.
“Hi there,” she said. “I was in a meeting. What’s up? First you fuck me, then you forget me!”
“Somebody tried to kill me,” said Malko. “I’m at University College Hospital.”
He could hear her gasp.
“Did you get shot?” she asked anxiously.
“No, they tried to poison me. I’m not doing that well, but if you want to visit, I’m in Room 1312. But nobody can know I’m here.”
“I’ll see if I can come tomorrow,” said Gwyneth. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Just yourself, but I’m not really feeling up to snuff.”
Gwyneth gave a husky laugh, the kind that sparked orgasms.
“Don’t worry, I won’t try to jump your bones.”
Tolkachev was so annoyed, he canceled his evening at the Bolshoi. The London rezidentura had combed the English press without finding any mention of Linge’s death. Yet an agent at the scene saw him collapse in the Hilton lobby and watched as the EMTs arrived. Something had gone wrong, but what?
This Malko Linge person is a kind of curse, thought Tolkachev. But his anger at having failed gave way to a far more serious concern. Because Linge had survived, the CIA now knew Berezovsky hadn’t committed suicide and would try harder than ever to expose the Russian operation. The British wouldn’t get involved, but it would be very awkward if the CIA discovered the truth.
There was still some compromising evidence in London, Tolkachev knew. He had counted on things quieting down in a few weeks. Instead, he now found himself fighting a shadowy duel in which Russia’s reputation was again at risk.
Though it made him sick, he drafted a note to the president explaining that there had been yet another slipup. Vladimir Putin would have to watch his step with London, while remaining cordial. The British might collaborate to a certain degree, but you couldn’t wave a red flag at them.
And the spymaster still faced the problem of Malko Linge, who would now be on his guard. Would the operative continue his investigation? If so, Tolkachev would have to eliminate him, regardless of the risk.