At first Michaelov paid scant attention to the news of Loshkevoi’s imprisonment, marking it down as just another mystery in the Bucharensky saga which would one day find an explanation. Then in the course of the afternoon Yevchenko came along the corridor to give him a tiny insight into what Loshkevoi had been really doing for the last few years and the picture changed. Now Povin and his boss were up before Stanov to learn the worst.
Michaelov noted with grudging approval that the old man looked suitably contrite. As soon as he saw the First Deputy Chairman he spread his hands wide and said ruefully, ‘Valery Vasilevich, what can I say? Every rogue gets found out in the end, no?’
With difficulty Michaelov restrained himself from asking whether ‘Lisa’ had been found out yet, and said, ‘If you had felt able to confide in me just a little, comrade Chairman.’ Stanov found it hard to resent the censorious tone of Michaelov’s voice. For years he had, in effect, been running the show behind his deputy’s back. As Kyril observed weeks before, it was a system which worked only when things went well. Today things were going very badly indeed. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘He is in Wandsworth Prison. He was taken there at 1430 local time after a short period in police custody. Since then he has been held incommunicado.’
‘Is that usual in England?’
‘Very unusual.’
It was Povin who spoke. His voice betrayed no hint of criticism, merely a desire to press on with whatever might be necessary. Stanov had a lot of time for Povin just then.
‘Do we have anyone inside Wandsworth Prison?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ They were on Povin’s home ground and he spoke with authority. ‘Six months ago, MI5 took over a cell block at Wandsworth and turned it into a top security holding centre. We think not even the governor is allowed to know exactly what goes on in there. It stinks of anti-terrorism. I’ve been trying desperately to get a pair of eyes in there, but these things take time, and…’
Stanov waved a hand. ‘No matter, comrade Colonel-General. You’ve done well. But… it could not have happened at a worse time. First Bucharensky, now this.’ He stood up and walked over to the window. Behind his back he could sense the other three weighing up his reactions. Yevchenko, loyal to the end but allowing personal concern for the chief to get the better of his judgement. Michaelov, unimaginative, concerned only to watch his step while he built bridges towards Stanov’s as yet unknown successor. And Povin…
Stanov turned back to face the room. ‘He must be brought out, Colonel-General,’ he said quietly. ‘Brought out or otherwise dealt with.’
Povin nodded curtly. ‘I’m working on it, comrade Marshal. My own inclination is to liquidate him fast, and not waste time on trying to spring him.’
Stanov nodded thoughtfully. ‘I agree.’
‘It should not be difficult.’ Michaelov, impatient at being left out of the colloquy developing between his chief and his deputy, was determined to make a contribution. ‘I have recently dispatched an A2 to London, comrade Marshal. It’s not a problem.’
Stanov nodded. He seemed absentminded, as though his attention was on other things. Through half-closed eyes he watched the two generals. Michaelov wore an expression of pompous self-esteem. Povin’s face was impassive. Did Stanov detect a trace of surprise at Michaelov’s last words? Had Povin known that an executioner had been ordered to his territory? Stanov fancied not. But Povin was always loyal. If there was one thing Stanov valued in a senior officer it was loyalty. Loyalty was like oxygen. The higher you rose, the scarcer it became.
‘Keep me informed, comrades. I want to hear of progress within the next twenty-four hours. Povin, I take it there is no news of Bucharensky, or you would have told me?’
‘There is no news, comrade Marshal. I regret…’
Stanov waved him away. The debacle in Victoria Station had been no fault of Povin’s. The two generals saluted and withdrew, Povin standing respectfully aside for his superior.
‘That Michaelov is a condescending, fat-arsed pig…’ Yevchenko began, but Stanov stopped him by raising his hand. For a while there was silence. Yevchenko was about to resume when Stanov said, ‘Nikolai, you remember the day we went to the Kremlin?’
Yevchenko felt his cheek-muscles tense. They had spoken little of that day. Despite Stanov’s assurances, Yevchenko could never be quite certain that the chief accepted his version of what had occurred over lunch with Kazin. The more Yevchenko protested that he had kept Kazin at bay, the more cynical Stanov’s sideways glance became, as if the old man were quietly saying to himself, ‘I’ll bet’.
Yevchenko found this galling, not least because Stanov’s suspicions were eminently justified. It had been a difficult lunch. He was a tough old man who had seen much, but when there was a pause in the conversation and he looked up to find those pebble lenses glinting at him over the table he had known fear. ‘Stalin’s baby’… such pink, well-preserved skin on one so evil, it was an unfair anachronism. It was as if he had found a way of channelling some of the fresh young blood he had spilled into his own veins. And the voice… that melodious, silken voice with its promises and blandishments still echoed in Yevchenko’s ears.
He quelled the thoughts of treachery which rose to the surface whenever that day was mentioned and tried to concentrate on the present crisis.
‘Of course. We came back and there was nothing, nothing at all. Every message in its appointed place, no tampering, no delays. Povin dealt with the matter as one of top priority. Surely you don’t think…’
Stanov shook his head impatiently. ‘No, it’s the date that concerns me. It was on that day that Kyril first showed himself in London. You remember how I issued an order for his return to Moscow alive?’
‘Of course.’
‘Nikolai!’ His old eyes were bright with excitement. ‘It’s going to work! He’s panicked. Kyril arrives… an A2 is dispatched to London… Loshkevoi is arrested…’
‘You’re going too fast. What’s the connection?’
‘Why, don’t you see? Loshkevoi’s been taken out of circulation. He’s been put away. Somewhere Kyril can’t reach him.’
Yevchenko pursed his lips.
‘You’re assuming a lot.’
‘Am I? It can’t be coincidence, it can’t be. First the executioner, then this business with Loshkevoi. And Loshkevoi is in touch with the traitor!’ He checked himself. ‘But you’re right, Nikolai. It has to be gone over very carefully. You must do it yourself. Discreetly. I want to know what Povin has on in London at the moment which would require an operative from A2. And if, as I suspect, the answer is “nothing”…’ Stanov shot a glance at Yevchenko and saw the beginnings of a reluctant conversion in his face. ‘…You can come back here and tell me, Nikolai, precisely when and why General Michaelov took it upon himself to order an executioner to the United Kingdom.’