The news of Kyril’s sighting came through to Centre shortly after three. The head of the First Main Directorate consulted with Col. Gen. Povin and gave certain orders. Since then General Michaelov, rather unusually for him, had been reading a dossier. When he had finished it he remained lost in thought for a moment before lifting the telephone.
‘Is he here?’
‘Yes, comrade General. Shall I show him in?’
Michaelov hesitated. ‘Very well.’
Two sentries delivered Sikarov to the door of the First Deputy Chairman’s office. Michaelov impatiently signed the chit which acknowledged his receipt of Employee No. ZPQ 09458, Dept. V, A2 Institute, and dismissed the escort.
His visitor remained standing rigidly to attention. As Michaelov turned back from the door he caught a glimpse of Sikarov’s upturned chin and was reminded irresistibly of a human skull; the skin was stretched so tightly over the jaw that the line of his cheekbones seemed to dominate the whole face, making of it a death’s head.
‘Sit down, Sikarov.’
As he resumed his chair behind the desk Michaelov was aware of an acrid, unpleasant smell radiating from Sikarov’s clothes. His nose wrinkled in distaste. Michaelov did not hold with all this pansy deodorant nonsense, which seemed to be gaining a suspiciously firm hold in Dzerzhinsky Square, but he liked his men to wash and he preferred them not to wear clothes which stank of death.
‘I have a job for you. In England. You are ready to move at once?’
‘Certainly, comrade General.’
Sikarov continued to stare ahead of him, his gaze just missing Michaelov’s eyes.
‘It will be very quick; you go in, you come out, in less than forty-eight hours. Absolute secrecy is essential. If at all possible you must make the job look like an accident, but the important thing is to secure a quick death. Understand?’
Sikarov nodded abruptly. ‘Who is the target?’
‘Colonel Ivan Yevseevich Bucharensky. Casename “Kyril”.’
For the first time Sikarov looked directly at Michaelov and his eyes came into focus. Michaelov regarded him curiously, trying to assess the effect of his former colleague’s name on this crude assassin. What memories did he have of that single occasion when they had worked in tandem?
‘Excuse me, comrade General, but according to the Chairman’s personal order Colonel Bucharensky is to be brought back alive.’
Michaelov smiled. ‘Don’t trouble your head about that, Sikarov. It’s not your concern. But to reassure you, let me say this. Some orders are to be obeyed. Some are to be lost in the pipe. You follow?’
Sikarov’s tense face relaxed into a grin. ‘Yes.’
‘Some orders get back to the enemy in the West. They are meant to get back, no? And when they do, the information contained in those orders serves its purpose.’
Sikarov nodded. ‘I quite understand, comrade General.’ Then he frowned. ‘You are, with respect, sure that the target is in England. There was some doubt…’
‘He was observed on the street in south London less than one hour ago. We do not know where he is based, not yet. That is for you to find out.’
Sikarov waited to be dismissed. His body had begun to tingle with suppressed excitement, his eyes burned with nervous tension. He had been desk-bound for too long. But Michaelov seemed dissatisfied about something.
‘The reason why I am briefing you myself, Sikarov, is that you are not to talk to anyone about this. Not to anyone at all. Do you understand?’
Sikarov nodded again.
‘If you get into trouble in London you are to call on me – you will report your presence in the UK to the London Resident but after that you will leave the embassy right out of it. You may even get a little opposition from that quarter. You’re not the only one going around parroting Chairman’s Orders, let me tell you. Ignore it. Ignore everything except what I tell you. This is a matter of high policy. If it later emerged that you had disregarded my instructions, Sikarov…’
Michaelov allowed his sentence to taper off in a smile.
‘I shall say nothing, comrade General. Believe me, the embassies are nothing but trouble. I am honoured to have been selected for this mission. Traitors… well, traitors are special, no?’
Now it was Michaelov’s turn to nod curtly.
‘And I want no funny business, Sikarov; no police involvement. Understand that also.’
Two points of colour burned in Sikarov’s gaunt cheeks. ‘That is in the past.’ There was a trace of sulkiness in his tone. ‘A regrettable lapse.’
‘Lapses, Sikarov. Plural. First Berlin, then Paris. Innocent people dead, and women in each case. I quote from the report of Colonel – then Captain – Ivan Yevseevich Bucharensky: “It brings too much attention.” What an understatement!’
Sikarov scowled at Michaelov, who saw his fists suddenly clench. He banged the desk-top. ‘You come highly recommended to me, Sikarov. They tell me you’re cured of all that. I’ve read your file very carefully. I’m going to trust you. But if you fail…’ Michaelov lolled back in his chair, his lower lip jutting. ‘You won’t be coming back to Moscow. Now listen. There’s not much to go on. London is arranging to have Kyril followed but I shouldn’t place too much reliance on that if I were you. Kyril is good. Better than we thought, in fact.’
Michaelov grunted, stung by the memory of Athens.
‘But we have two other leads. Kyril is reported to be hunting a man called Loshkevoi, Victor Gregory Loshkevoi, don’t ask me why. Also, he used to have a girl in London. It’s all in the case-file, but find those two and Kyril won’t be far away. Understand?’
‘Yes, comrade General.’
‘Good. One other thing. If you get a chance to interrogate Bucharensky, do so. See what he’s carrying in the way of papers. But don’t expect miracles. You’ll be on your own in a foreign country. The death’s the main thing. That’s all. On your way.’
A faint smell hung in the room long after Sikarov had been delivered back into the care of the sentries. Michaelov stood up and went to throw open the window, braving the cold March air for the sake of a clear head. He remained there for a long time, looking down into the Square, wondering if he had done the right thing. It was a gamble, he knew that. After a while he decided to take advice and comfort.
Povin’s office was but a step down the corridor. As he entered Povin himself was sitting beside the coal fire, one leg draped over the arm of his chair, a book in his hands. On seeing Michaelov he stood up with a smile, straightening his uniform. Michaelov laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently down, conscious of a sudden feeling of warmth for Povin, who after all these years still rose automatically when his chief entered the room. That mattered to Michaelov.
‘Has Sikarov been to see you?’ Povin asked.
‘Yes, a moment ago.’
Michaelov was not surprised to hear his deputy speak these unguarded words, in other times an unforgivable breach of security. Ever since the night of Povin’s party, when he had gone back to Dzerzhinsky Square and found ‘Sociable Plover’ in the blue safe, Michaelov had had their offices electronically ‘swept’ twice a day. So far he had not uncovered any evidence of surveillance. But since that night he had suffered from an irrepressible need to talk to Povin at regular intervals, almost careless of the possible consequences.
Michaelov sat down, his face gloomy. ‘If we’re wrong about Stanov…’
‘Now Valery, we’ve been through all that. It’s a policy decision. Either we can afford to lose Royston or we can’t. We both know that we can’t. By the way, remember I told you I’d heard a rumour that the Second Main Directorate were trying to foul things up? It’s true.’ He leaned forward, offering his cigarette-case to Michaelov as he did so. ‘You know old Yatsyna in counter-intelligence? We were at training-school together, we still go drinking now and then. He’s told me, in confidence of course, that Veber is trying to use A2, but the Institute won’t play.’
‘Veber!’ exploded Michaelov. ‘The deputy head of the Second Main Directorate! Why, I’ll kill him. A2 is ours!’
‘I know, Valery, I know, but that’s how things are right now. Everyone’s angling for position. We all know the old man can’t last…’ Povin shrugged a dismissive shoulder in the direction of Stanov’s office. ‘Who’s going to come out on top, that’s what everyone wants to know. Veber thought he’d steal a march by sending an A2 raiding party to Brussels, but they turned him down flat, or so Yatsyna told me. Asked to see an order signed by the First Deputy Chairman personally, and threatened to report to Yevchenko when Veber couldn’t produce it. They all know about the diary now, that’s the trouble. But do me a favour, Valery, don’t mention this to anyone. Yatsyna’s a good man, even if he is with Second.’
Michaelov chewed his lips, and for a while there was silence.
‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘The last thing I want to do is cut out your contact in Second. But I’m telling you, Stepan, A2’s ours.’
‘Of course, Valery, but you see the point. If they’re trying to muscle in on the Institute, the word’s gone out. The old man’s finished.’
Michaelov nodded. ‘And if anyone’s going to terminate that poisonous little rat Kyril…’
‘It’s going to be us. Quite.’ Povin smiled and extinguished his cigarette, as if to end the meeting, but Michaelov remained deep in thought.
‘Stepan… why did you recommend Sikarov?’
Povin frowned. ‘Did I?’
‘Well, you said you thought he was fully rehabilitated.’ Povin’s frown relaxed. ‘Oh yes, I did say that.’
‘We were talking about Bucharensky, you remember…’ Povin nodded slowly. ‘It was about the same time, yes, you’re quite right, Valery. He was very good, in the old days. Before the trouble. When I was under Golunov we always used him, there were never any complaints. And of course, as you know, he once worked with Bucharensky. Perhaps I thought he might recall some of Kyril’s style, that it would give him a head start over the rest. Why do you mention it?’
‘He’s a funny bastard. Even Bucharensky said so after that time in Paris.’
‘They all are. Do you realise, Valery, we are now one of the only three major intelligence services in the world that still has an execution squad? I mean, a squad on day and night call, year in and year out? All the full-time Institute boys are odd.’
Michaelov still wasn’t satisfied. ‘He’s not worked for a long time, you know. In fact, he’s worked very little since… Moiseyev.’
Michaelov seemed to have trouble over pronouncing that name. For a while neither man spoke. Moiseyev could still silence his murderers.
‘Ah yes,’ said Povin at last. ‘I had forgotten that.’ He gave a sudden laugh, humourless and short. ‘It always stuck in my mind,’ he said. ‘That report. “He was forcibly drowned in the Black Sea at a depth of 156 cm…” Why 156 cm, Valery? Why not 160 or even 150 cm, for the sake of a round number?’
Michaelov grunted but did not reply.
‘“Mechanical asphyxiation as a result of drowning”, that’s what the death certificate said. Of course it was Sikarov, yes, I had forgotten that.’
‘Did you ever see Malsin?’ Michaelov interrupted gruffly.
‘Malsin?’
‘Moiseyev’s commanding officer. A lieutenant-colonel. He really hated all those Christians, and as for the Reform Baptists… well, they were the worst. When Moiseyev started to have visions and disrupt the unit he threw a fit. He had high connections in the old man’s office, no wonder the Institute were called in. I saw him a few months after it all happened. He’d just lost his only child and his wife was having a nervous breakdown…’
‘It’s coming back to me.’ Povin sounded doubtful. ‘I recall something of the kind. Didn’t he get invalided out? Delusions, something about delusions…’
‘He thought he was being pursued by the judgement of God,’ said Michaelov sombrely. ‘And it finished him.’
Povin nodded slowly. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Sikarov’s done some good work since then, Valery. I don’t think you need have any worries.’
‘But he’s never done anything big, not since 1972 when Moiseyev died. He smells.’ He stopped, suddenly conscious that he had said something funny, and both men laughed.
‘Cleanliness is not his strong point, that I grant you. But he’s a good man, I’m sure of it. I don’t actually remember recommending him, Valery, but he should do all right. He’s a natural-born killer, through and through. If anyone can liquidate Bucharensky it’ll be that little swine, right enough.’
Michaelov stayed sunk in thought for several moments, still only half-convinced.
‘They hate each other, you know.’
‘Mm?’
‘After that time in Paris. Bucharensky and Sikarov. They hate each other.’
Povin frowned. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing, Valery.’
Michaelov stood up, his fears somewhat allayed by Povin’s unshakeable calm. ‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time, old friend.’
Povin smiled. ‘I was glad to be interrupted.’ He held up the book which had lain in his hands since his chief’s arrival. ‘I’m trying to see why the Dublin referentura is so excited about this rubbish.’
Michaelov peered closer, and saw that the book was entitled A History of Christian Philosophy.
‘The author’s one of ours,’ explained Povin. ‘In Dublin University – what’s it called, Trinity? The Resident is worried he’s turning subversive.’
Michaelov shook his head, laughing. ‘The things we have to do for the Motherland. I’ll let you get on.’
But at the door he turned.
‘Loshkevoi.’
Povin looked up, surprised. ‘What about him?’
‘Had you ever heard the name before this?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing on file?’
‘No, I’ve looked and checked with London.’
Michaelov shook his head. ‘Then where the hell did the old man get the name from?’
Povin’s face set in a guarded look. ‘He’s playing a very deep game. I’m scared out of my wits, I don’t mind telling you. Always plotting away and never telling anyone. Take Sociable Plover, a good example. I’ve been thinking about that…’
Povin stood up and threw the book on to his chair. ‘Look, what have we got? You went to find out what was in the blue safe and you found Sociable Plover. We know that Kyril hasn’t got it. For some reason Stanov’s using Kyril as disinformation. I’ve been thinking what I’d do in his place. I’d have told Kyril that Sociable Plover doesn’t really exist. I’d lie to him, in fact. Then if he’s caught, SIS are going to be confused: does it exist or doesn’t it? In other words, I think we can forget about Sociable Plover. It’s a blind.’
‘But why go to so much trouble?’ Michaelov shook his head in exasperation. ‘He seems to be hell-bent on stirring us up, not the British. If anyone’s being fed disinformation, it’s us here in Dzerzhinsky Square. What is the point of it all?’
Povin lowered his eyes. ‘I told you what Kazin thinks.’
‘Aah, that’s a load of shit. I’ll believe a lot of things, Stepan, but not that the Chairman of the KGB is on the point of defecting to the West. Not this Chairman.’
‘Then… what?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m damn well going to find out. One thing at a time. First we liquidate Bucharensky and protect Royston. Then we go to work at this end. And no sleep for us until we know all the answers.’
Michaelov banged the door-jamb with his fist.
‘You’ve never been followed, Stepan. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s getting so I can’t sleep nights. I’ll never forgive him. Never!’
On leaving Povin’s office Michaelov looked at his watch. Five o’clock. As he walked back to his own room he became aware of a commotion at the end of the corridor. Stanov swept past the sentries, closely followed by Yevchenko, their faces black as thunder. The Chairman of the KGB seemed excited about something; his voice was raised and despite the distance which separated them Michaelov could distinctly hear the sound of a fist pounding wood. He ducked quickly into his own suite of offices and closed the door firmly behind him.
‘No calls,’ he growled to the young lieutenant who guarded the inner sanctum. ‘If the Chairman asks for me, I’ve gone for the night.’
Once inside his own room he relaxed a little. Sikarov was already forgotten. Most of the afternoon had been wasted and waste put General Michaelov out of sorts. There was a lot to do. He reached for the phone.
‘Get my wife… Hello? Nadia? Look, I’ll be working late tonight. Don’t wait up.’
For several minutes after his boss had left the office Povin remained motionless before the fire, the book forgotten. He stared into the middle distance, a half-smile on his lips. Then, like a man who has done with a daydream, he put down the book and walked over to the cupboard under the window. Inside was a bottle of petrovka. He uncorked it and poured himself a generous measure, which he downed in one before pouring another and drinking it more slowly. After he had put away the bottle and the glass he swept a strand of hair from his forehead. His hand was shaking so badly that he had to do it twice.