I’m a close protection specialist. I run security, evaluate risks in hostile situations and, where needed, provide hard cover. To do my job I have to look ahead of where a principal is going to be at any one time, checking details, terrain, routes in and out – most especially out – and providing the best possible solution for a happy outcome. If it works the principal won’t even know I’m there and will go home happy. If it doesn’t, I get involved.
And that’s where the hard cover comes in; it means I have to take a more direct course of action and fight back.
Two days later, after returning Katarina safely to her family, I had my feet up in my New York apartment evaluating a couple of jobs I’d been offered on the security contractor network, when I received a call.
‘Yup.’
‘Well, at least I now know you’re home.’ The voice was unmistakably British and I recognized it immediately. It belonged to a man named Tom Vale, a senior officer with the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service or MI6. I’d worked with him once before and we’d got on fine, mainly because he didn’t try dictating my every move once I was in the field. I wasn’t sure what his current role was, only that he was a former field officer of some note and now close to retirement, and had been retained after a more senior colleague had been forced to stand down.
‘I’m on a break,’ I replied, although I knew that was going to be short-lived. Tom Vale didn’t call freelancers like me unless he had a job that needed doing. I could refuse if I didn’t like the sound of it, but we both knew that was unlikely.
‘Glad to hear it. You know where the local CIA office is.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Can you be there in one hour?’
He could only be talking about New York. I’d been to the NY office before, which was located in Manhattan, where I’d picked up a previous job, so I guessed he’d been briefed on that.
‘Will you be there?’
‘Of course. I hope you can make it. There’s a bit of a rush job on.’
He disconnected and left me wondering why an MI6 officer would be calling me in to a CIA front office. He’d either been given the task of contacting me because I was known to be a little sceptical of CIA procedures after my last assignment with them, or his star had risen in the intelligence world and he was now a major player with a foot in both camps. Knowing the rivalries that existed in their world, I was betting on the former.
A bit of a rush job. It was very British and Vale-speak for a major assignment.
I got there within the hour and was escorted through the security screen and up to a small office on the fifteenth floor. It could have been any government office in the country, with the same lack of design features, minimal furniture and an atmosphere of apparent calm overlaid by the hum of air-conditioning. But I knew there would be a hustle going on behind the doors and partitioning, and the building would be alive with electronic activity from all the terminals and computer screens being fed a torrent of information and raw data.
The office had three people present, all drinking coffee. Two men and one woman. Vale stepped across to shake hands and handed me a takeaway mug from down the street. He may have been a visitor here and British, but he was the type to make it his business to know a man’s preferences. He stepped back and introduced the other two.
‘This is senior CIA Assistant Director, Jason Sewell.’ He indicated a comfortable-looking man in his mid-fifties, with a genial smile and watchful eyes. Sewell lifted himself off the chair and shook hands, and I moved the likely importance of this assignment several notches up the scale. For a man of his rank to be here in person, instead of on the other end of a video-conference line, this had to be a real zinger.
‘And this is Angela Thornbury. She’s a senior political analyst from the State Department, currently on attachment as an advisor to the White House. Ms Thornbury – Watchman.’
He hadn’t used my real name and I guessed that was because he didn’t think Thornbury needed to know it. Sewell probably did, but he didn’t seem about to give the game away.
Thornbury was short, neat and serious-looking, in a grey suit and white blouse. She hesitated before reaching out a tentative hand, but stayed where she was so I had to reach across the table. She had a loose grip which lingered about as briefly as her smile, as if she wasn’t quite comfortable being here. I didn’t blame her; the environs of the White House were probably a lot more genial than the front office of one of the nation’s foremost spy agencies, and outsiders like me were probably treated over there as on a par with pit bulls.
Introductions over, we all sat down. This time it was Sewell who did the talking and he didn’t waste words. He took a photograph out of a folder in front of him and slid it across the table towards me. I noticed Vale and Thornbury had similar folders and photos.
‘This is Leonid Tzorekov. He’s a former KGB officer who met Vladimir Putin in the nineties before moving into a senior intelligence planning role. He resigned eight years ago and took on a senior post with Russia Bank and moved to London, where he set up ActInvest, a finance and securities operation. He’s done very well for himself and now spends much of his time between London and New York, where ActInvest has a small office.’
Tzorekov looked to be in his late sixties, maybe older. He was lean and fit, with the air of an ageing athlete, and had the steady look of a man who has achieved much in his life and is not about to retire and take up gardening.
‘He’s seventy-four and extremely active,’ Sewell continued, reading my mind. ‘For some years since leaving Russia Tzorekov hasn’t figured on anybody’s radar. He appears to have distanced himself from the activities of other bankers with open and obvious ties to Moscow, and there’s been nothing to suggest he is even remotely connected still with the KGB or any intelligence-gathering activities.’
He hesitated just long enough to suggest that there was a ‘but’ lurking in there somewhere, so I gave him an opening. ‘However?’
He ghosted an appreciative smile. ‘He was already a senior instructor in the organization when Putin was recruited, and helped train Putin’s intake. The two became friends. It’s thought Tzorekov saw Putin as a younger version of himself and took him under his wing, mentoring him through the critical stages of his career and preparing him for the future. That meant providing political protection when it was needed and pointing him in the right direction to move up the KGB ladder, which he did.’
‘Things changed for Tzorekov just recently,’ said Vale, taking over, ‘with rumours of two attempts on his life. Both were passed off as accidents – one in London and one here in New York. The first was a mugging near Grand Central Station. He was attacked by two men. He was lucky, as he had this man with him.’ Sewell was already sliding another photo across the table. The photo showed a younger man with a receding hairline and the slight build and pallid cheekbones of a ballet dancer. ‘His name is Arkady Gurov. He’s also ex-KGB, forty-two years old and listed as a security and IT manager for ActInvest. We’re ninety-nine per cent sure he’s Tzorekov’s bodyguard.’
‘And the other incident?’
‘That was near Canon Street underground in London. A cab mounted the pavement as Tzorekov was walking to the station. It killed a news vendor and seriously injured two other members of the public. Gurov hustled Tzorekov away and the cab driver disappeared in the melee. The cab was found to have been stolen just an hour before from a garage in Southwark. It looked like a straightforward theft and joyride until the police found no fingerprints.’
‘None?’
He shook his head. ‘In view of who Tzorekov is, and the severity of the incident, the Metropolitan Police went over the vehicle three times and even tracked its progress on cameras from the accident back to the time it was stolen. There were no clear shots of the driver, which in itself seemed too unlikely to be a random car-jacking, and the fact that keys were involved suggest the vehicle had been stolen to order from the garage where it was being serviced. They discovered fresh traces of a cleaning agent on the door handle and steering wheel – nothing to do with the garage, as it happens – and concluded that the driver cleaned it after stealing the vehicle as a precaution, then wore gloves to drive to the area and make the hit.’
‘Sounds organized. What did you mean “who Tzorekov is”?’
He shrugged. ‘He’s one of a large number of Russians working and living in London. We’re aware of his KGB history, which Jason has outlined, although that doesn’t seem to have prevented him voicing the occasional disagreement with his country’s activities. He has family connections in Ukraine, for example. Because of that and following the murder of Litvinenko, his name was automatically placed on a watch list of prominent Russians in the capital. He’s very rich and although he doesn’t always speak highly of his mother country or of their politics, it could be a clever cover. But that doesn’t explain the attempts on his life. There could have been other attempts, of course, that we don’t know about.’
I had an inkling of where this was going, so asked, ‘Are you saying they’re still in touch?’
‘Interesting question,’ said Vale. ‘We believe they never actually broke off contact altogether, but Tzorekov’s move to the UK would have made it difficult for Putin to maintain open relations with a man generally seen as no longer accepted – an outsider, a dissident, even.’
‘But?’
‘We know messages have been passed to and from Tzorekov over the years, with a connection in Moscow. It probably isn’t Putin himself tapping away on a keyboard, and although it’s infrequent, it’s enough to suggest that he is still talking to somebody over there.’
‘What makes you think it’s Putin and not a family member?’
‘Because the messages are delivered in person, not by phone or email – a measure of the precautions being taken by both sides not to be seen talking to each other. We believe they’re carried by a man named Valentin Roykovski. Roykovski has been to the UK on several occasions, and was once recorded visiting ActInvest’s office in London. That by itself wasn’t unusual, because many Russians in London bank with them. But shortly afterwards, Roykovski was spotted in a restaurant in Mayfair. Tzorekov was sitting at the next table but they ignored each other.’
It was an old-school method but still worked well if done correctly. A brush contact allows two people to exchange information or objects such as documents or a USB stick without actually being seen to meet. It’s best done on the move, such as in a busy subway station or airport, but sitting at adjacent tables somewhere quiet is just as good.
‘So Roykovski’s a conduit.’
‘We think so. The interesting thing is, Roykovski never goes anywhere near the Russian Embassy. He flies in, does what he has to, and flies out again. Like a bag man.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘It is,’ Sewell put in, ‘when you consider that Valentin Roykovski used to be Putin’s driver back in the KGB days, and almost certainly knew Tzorekov pretty well, too. He’s long retired now but he’s been seen close to Putin’s home at odd times and the general consensus is that he’s almost certainly on a retainer of some kind. We’re keeping a watch on him to see what he does over the next few days. If he moves, ten to one it’s because he’s acting on instructions from Putin. He’ll be our marker.’
‘So what is it you want me to do?’
‘Personally, I don’t. No offence. But others do.’ He looked at Angela Thornbury with raised eyebrows.
She cleared her throat and asked, ‘Have you ever heard of a group called the siloviki, Mr … Watchman?’
I ignored the obvious tone of condescension and doubt in her voice. She also sounded pissed by the obvious use of a code name. ‘Well, I’m guessing they’re not a group of travelling musicians. Could you enlighten me?’
Actually, I had heard of them, but I saw no reason to make this a spitting contest with a member of the State Department. The siloviki were rumoured to be mostly intelligence or military officers close to Putin, and considered to be part of his inner circle. If he needed advice, the senior members were the ones he went to, and usually held posts that decided policy at the very top of the government tree. They were also regarded as hawks and not friendly to the US or the European Union.
Which was pretty much what Thornbury went on to tell me at much greater length and detail, until Sewell jumped in to halt the flow.
‘We don’t know for sure,’ he said, ‘whether Leonid Tzorekov was, or is, part of this inner circle – a silovik. All the evidence says he isn’t, although he must know some of the current members pretty well. But even though he’s now gone to the outside, he evidently feels he may still be in a position of some influence. He recently approached the authorities in London and offered his services in talking to Putin and trying to counter the hawks who seem intent on driving a hard wedge between Moscow and the West. As we all know, they’re doing a great job of talking up threats against Russia after the problems in Ukraine and the annexation of Crimea, mostly as a smokescreen. We know the sanctions are hurting them economically and, for some of the hierarchy running the state apparatus and big business, personally. Tom, here, got involved and brought us in so we could work together to find a way to use this opportunity.’
‘Could Tzorekov have a vested interest in being a go-between?’
‘We don’t think so. He might want to improve his reputation among those who regard him as a deserter, but that’s unlikely to work. There are those around Putin whom we know would actively strive to ensure there were no contacts from anybody outside the Moscow circle; they especially don’t trust those who moved abroad and regard them generally as having been infected by living in the west.’
‘But that’s not the only reason?’
‘No. Most importantly they wouldn’t want their own influence over Putin threatened in any way – they’d have far too much to lose.’ He blinked. ‘So much so, we believe they would probably take extreme action to prevent a meeting happening at all.’
Extreme action. Another term for assassination.
I was beginning to see where this was leading. A zinger indeed.
‘And you want me to do … what, exactly?’
Sewell lobbed the ball to Vale this time, who leaned forward and said, ‘The general consensus is, it would be useful if somebody could follow Tzorekov into Russia and make sure he gets to Putin in one piece.’