Wormwood (Group Fifteen Files) Read online

  She climbed. It was damp, and the stairwell smelled of mildew, urine, sweat, bad Soviet cigarettes and boiled cabbage. She reached the fourth floor and made her way along the drab, faded green hall; the hardwood floor was scuffed and scratched. She reached the door marked with 4B and knocked twice quickly and then once more, following the procedure that they had agreed on.

  The door opened a crack, and Kalashnik poked his head out.

  “Quickly—inside.”

  Chapter Three

  He led her into the apartment and closed the door.

  “What is it?” he asked her.

  “Could I have a drink first?”

  He gestured to the second armchair. “Please—sit. Vodka?”

  She sat. “Thank you.”

  He busied himself in the kitchen. Eloise got up and looked around the room. She had broken in and checked it for bugs before visiting Kalashnik for the first time and, as she looked over the cheap furniture with a practised eye, she didn’t see anything that suggested that the KGB had visited in the interim. It was a spare and ascetic room with very little to personalise it. The buildings known as Brezhnevki were tiny compared to the vastness of the Stalinki, the apartments that housed the Party elite. The nomenklatura enjoyed rooms with high ceilings, and their apartments were equipped with libraries, nurseries and quarters for servants. Accommodation here, by contrast, was much more basic, with cramped dimensions and communal heating that was often unequal to the task. The system often malfunctioned or was taken down for maintenance. When it was working, there was no way to regulate the radiators; residents baked until they cracked a window, and then they froze.

  Kalashnik returned from the tiny kitchen with two glasses of Wolfschmidt. He gave one to her, sat down and rubbed his hands together nervously. “So? You said there was a development.”

  “The KGB is worried about you.”

  His eyes went wide. “What? Why?”

  “They are questioning your commitment.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “We have sources in the local party,” she said, holding his eye. “Your name was on a list that was passed to the KGB for consideration.”

  It was a lie. They had no such sources, and Eloise doubted that Kalashnik would have elicited any concern, even assuming that the KGB knew he was unhappy. But Kalashnik was suspicious to the point of paranoia, and Fielding had suggested that turning up the temperature would be a useful strategy when it came to persuading him to do what must come next.

  “Could they know about…”

  “Us?” she finished for him. “No, Stanislav, I don’t believe that’s possible.”

  “It’s not? I know you’re careful, but you’re underestimating them. They’re everywhere. How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “But I know I’ve never been followed here.”

  “Then why would they suspect me?”

  “Your doctoral thesis at the Institute in Leningrad spoke favourably of Western research and development.”

  “That was hardly controversial,” he protested.

  “Perhaps not, but we believe the papers have been reviewed, and the sentiment has caused concern. And then—and I realise that this is all very silly—they’ve learned that you’ve played the Beatles in the laboratory.”

  “I was alone,” he protested. “And it was harmless.”

  The MI6 dossier had gone into detail on Kalashnik’s love for Western music, and one of Eloise’s first gifts to him had been a bootleg album that had been pressed onto discarded X-ray film. The end result had been an odd-looking flexi-disc like the ones Eloise had seen in the Krugazor magazine for Russian teens with the spectral images of broken bones imprinted onto the surface. Muscovites who bought them on the black market called them roentgenizdat, or bone music.

  “You can’t take risks like that,” she said. “It might seem harmless, but a man like you—a man with prospects—will make enemies of colleagues who don’t possess the same gifts. All it would take would be for one of them to report you.”

  Mentioning his standing was a naked appeal to his vanity, but she knew him well enough to know that it would be effective.

  He put his head in his hands. “You know what they will say about the music? That it’s ideologically alien. They’ll ban me from travelling abroad.”

  She eyed him. “Only if they know to stop you.”

  “What…” He stopped and frowned. “No. No, Eloise.”

  “We thought it wise to set things in motion. We’ve spoken about it before—”

  “Theoretically.”

  “We’ve spoken about it before, and you said that you were open to it. I told my colleagues in London, and an opportunity has come up. Given that things might be a little more difficult for you here, I thought it was worth bringing it to your attention.”

  “What opportunity?”

  “There is a Royal Navy destroyer in Sapporo at the moment. It will be operating fifty miles off Vladivostok for the next three days.”

  “My God,” he said, putting his glass to his lips and sinking his vodka in one hit. “This is really happening? When would we need to go?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  He shook his head. “No. That’s too soon.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I need to think. You’re asking me to defect. That isn’t a trivial decision.”

  “We won’t get many better chances than this.”

  He shook his head. “It won’t work. They’re everywhere. To think that I could leave without them noticing is… well, it’s naïve.”

  “They won’t notice in time to do anything about it. This isn’t the first time we’ve brought someone out. The plan is a good one—very good. You won’t be found. By this time tomorrow you could be in a very nice apartment in Knightsbridge.” She gestured to the tiny apartment. “Wouldn’t you like somewhere a little bigger than this?”

  “What about you? Would you be there?”

  “Of course,” she said with a reassuring smile. “We’d be working closely together.”

  He got up and paced across to the window. He moved the blind aside and stared out into the darkness. She could see the tension in his shoulders.

  “Second thoughts are fine,” she said. “I’d be worried if you didn’t have any. But you need to focus on what you stand to gain. Think about it—you would be in the West, working on the projects that you want to work on. You wouldn’t have to work on the submarines anymore.”

  “If I tell you everything I know,” he said.

  “Of course. It’s an exchange.” She stood. “Come on. Think about it. Think about the life that you could have.”

  “I understand that. It is tempting. Yet… I do not hate my country, and you are asking me to betray it. I have no time for politicians and bureaucrats. They are venal and corrupt and care only for themselves. But I love my people. I love Russia. And I have always been committed to the idea that equality is important, that our ideals mean something. Communism is a worthy goal. You are asking me to turn my back on it and work in a system with which I do not agree.”

  Eloise knew that she needed to play this carefully.

  “My expertise,” he went on before she could speak. “Nuclear physics—it is valuable. I could make a difference in the lives of men and women who have nothing.”

  She leaned forward and retrieved her cigarettes from her purse. “Yet you’re not helping them, are you? What did they have you do today, Stanislav? They had you designing the reactors on submarines armed with missiles that could kill millions.”

  “You think I would be able to do more good in London? Or Washington? Come on—you don’t believe that.”

  She lit up and took a deep drag. “No, I do. You’d be given everything you need to make a real difference. Money. Equipment. Modern computers—you told me yourself, you have nothing here.”

  He nodded, still staring out of the window.

  “And the benefit would be felt by
everyone. We both know that you’ll be working on submarines for the rest of your career if you stay. They know you’re brilliant. They’ll keep you on their most important projects. Military projects. No one will benefit from that except the generals and the politicians.”

  She saw his reflection and the struggle that was playing out across his face. “I don’t know.”

  She needed to change her approach. She stood up and crossed over to where he was looking down onto the street below. Snow had started to fall again, a shifting curtain of fat flakes that drifted against the window and stuck to the glass. She reached out for his hand.

  “It’ll be safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  He closed his fingers around hers. “Why? Because you care for me?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Did they tell you to say that?”

  She had known the question would come and had given thought to what she would say. “They did. But then we met, and we spent time together. I know you, Stanislav. And now it is true.”

  It was part truth and part fiction, but the lies were justified given what was at stake. Everything was justified. She looked up at him, her eyes shining and wide. She let her gaze fall to his lips, allowing her own to part. Kalashnik leaned in and kissed her deeply, his hand reaching behind her to support her head, their tongues intertwining. She let him kiss her, reaching around to clasp him, pressing her body against his.

  She allowed him to lead her through the door to the bedroom.

  Chapter Four

  It was after one in the morning by the time Kalashnik fell asleep. Eloise stayed awake, running over the plan again and again. She probed and prodded at it, trying to find the vulnerabilities that might cause them difficulties. There were plenty, but all the steps that could be taken to mitigate them had already been taken. They couldn’t remove all of the risk. This was a police state, after all, and it would always be dangerous. They had minimised the need for luck as much as they could, but there was no getting away from the fact that there would be moments when things could go either way. And there was one variable—Kalashnik’s reaction—that could not be planned for. There was no way to predict how he might behave once the exfiltration began.

  Eloise felt the tension in her shoulders and a knot of fear in her gut. She would only be able to relax once they were aboard the destroyer and headed for Japan.

  Eloise rose just after dawn and dressed quickly. She checked her watch at a quarter to six. Fielding had recommended giving Kalashnik no more than five minutes to prepare. He said that she should get him moving as soon as he was awake. He would be dazed and easier to control.

  Eloise went over to his side of the bed and shook him. “Stanislav—wake up.”

  “What?”

  His eyes blinked slowly as she grabbed him by the forearm and tugged him up.

  “Get up. We need to go.”

  “What?” he mumbled again. “Come back to bed.”

  “No. We need to leave—now.”

  “I haven’t… I can’t…”

  “Come on. Up.”

  He shook his head and pulled his arm free. His torpor seemed to have cleared. “No. I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  She tossed a pair of trousers at him. “It’s now or never. There’s a car on its way. You won’t get another chance after today—it’s up to you if you come.”

  He got out of bed and fumbled for the trousers.

  “Good,” she said. “Here—your shirt.”

  He pulled on the trousers and did them up. “I’m not sure I want to do this. You said I’d be able to think about it.”

  She grasped him by the upper arms and tugged him to his feet. “Let’s talk in the car—okay? Please?”

  He put on his shirt. “But I haven’t packed anything. I haven’t—”

  She drew him close, stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” he said plaintively. “Of course.”

  She fastened his buttons. “So trust me now. I won’t let you down.”

  She found their shoes, then grabbed his greatcoat from the hallway closet and her jacket from the back of a chair. He looked around the apartment and, sensing his reluctance, she took his hand and led the way to the door. She opened it and went to the landing outside, looking down over the rail but seeing no one. Kalashnik crept behind her as they made their way down the stone steps to the building’s front door.

  “What’ll happen?” he asked her quietly.

  She looked out through the dusty glass. A black East German Trabant 601 sedan pulled up to the kerb, its taillights glowing red against the compacted snow.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  She pushed the door open and looked both ways before stepping outside and over to the car. A man got out of the driver’s side. He was tall and thin, with close-cropped soldier’s hair. Eloise had met him briefly the week before. His name was Luke Brice, and he was a musclehead brought over to help after a career in the military.

  Brice opened the boot and jerked his chin at Kalashnik. “Is this him?”

  “Yes,” Eloise said.

  Brice motioned Kalashnik over and pointed down to the boot. “In.”

  “In there?”

  “It’ll be safer.”

  Kalashnik looked at the car, then at Eloise, then back at his apartment building. “No.”

  Brice tensed. “We need to go now.”

  “No.”

  Brice turned to Eloise. “Now or never. We’re exposed.”

  Eloise stepped between the two of them. “Come on, Stanislav. All the arrangements are in place.”

  “You’re rushing me.”

  “I’ve done all of this for you. For us.”

  Kalashnik stared into her eyes, perhaps looking for reassurance. “You’re asking me to make a decision about my future. I can’t just… I can’t just make it on a whim.”

  She smiled at him with an indulgent patience she didn’t feel. “What would you like to do on Monday? Regent’s Park is lovely in the autumn. Or the Thames. We could go for a walk. You and me.”

  He swallowed and then nodded, but, before he could reply, Brice stepped around Eloise. He grabbed Kalashnik by the arm.

  “Get off me!”

  “Get in the car.”

  “Let go of him,” Eloise said, reaching for the driver.

  Brice brushed her off with one hand as he dragged Kalashnik with the other. “He needs to come now. Do you know the risks we’ve taken to get him out?”

  “Stand down. Let me speak to him.”

  “Get off me!”

  “Stop!”

  They turned, as one, to see a police officer striding toward them. He was dressed in the standard uniform: a long green greatcoat encircled by a white leather belt, with stars on his epaulettes and a red band around a peaked cap.

  Eloise cursed under her breath. “Let me do the talking.”

  The policeman reached them. He wore a pistol in a holster on his belt. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Everything is fine.”

  The policeman gestured toward Kalashnik. “He was pulling you to the car.”

  She smiled as winningly as she could. “It was nothing.” She turned to Stanislav. “Isn’t that right? It’s nothing.”

  Kalashnik hesitated a moment too long before nodding his affirmation.

  The policeman noticed the delay. “What are your names?”

  Eloise glanced over at Brice, whose hand drifted toward his jacket pocket. She was losing control of the situation. Her Russian was flawless, and Kalashnik was native, but Brice was still getting to grips with the language, and it would be obvious to anyone who heard him that he was not a local.

  “Names,” the officer repeated sternly.

  “My name is Magdalina Novikova.”

  The man nodded, his attention turning to Kalashnik. “And you?”

  “Stanislav Petrovich Kalashnik.”

  The officer turned to Br
ice. “And you? Your name?”

  “Yuri Tchaikovsky.”

  His accent was off. Just a little, but enough. “Where do you live, Mr. Tchaikovsky?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The officer’s hand drifted toward his pistol. “Your address.”

  Brice reached into his pocket and pulled out the little pistol that he had stowed there. The policeman saw it and moved faster than Eloise would have expected; he reached up and grabbed Brice by the wrist, forcing the gun up. They struggled for it, and, in the confusion, Brice tripped over the kerb and brought them both down. The policeman reached out a hand for balance, and his fingers found the strap of Eloise’s handbag; the clasp buckled and snapped, and the bag was yanked away. The two men landed on the road with a heavy thump, the policeman on top. The pistol fell out of Brice’s hand and landed at Eloise’s feet. The policeman punched Brice in the face. Eloise reached down and picked up the gun. Brice bucked his hips and disturbed the policeman’s balance, then shoved with both hands. The two of them were separated; the policeman stumbled to his feet, stepped back and reached for his own pistol.

  Eloise fired a single shot.

  The policeman was too close to miss, and the round studded him in the centre of the chest. He took a step back, his palm pressed to the hole that had just been punched through the rough fabric of his greatcoat. He bumped up against the side of the Trabant and pulled his hand away from his coat, looking down at the blood on his skin.

  Eloise aimed again.

  Kalashnik reached for her. “No!”

  She fired. The report of the shot bounced back at them from the grim walls of the blocks on either side, the echo muffled by the snow. The officer’s head snapped back, hard, and blood and bone and brain sprayed out over the roof of Brice’s car, a deep red and pink blossom against the white. The officer slid to the side, his fingers squeaking against the glass as he lost his balance and toppled down to the pavement.

  Eloise felt sick.

  Brice spun and took a step toward Kalashnik. “Get in the fucking car!”

  The blood had rushed from Kalashnik’s face. He backed away from Brice, his hands held up before him. Eloise tried to control the panic, to push down the fear that everything had gone wrong and that the operation—one that had been so promising—had unravelled now into chaos and disorder. Kalashnik kept backing away until his heel caught against a bump in the snow, and he fell back onto his behind. Brice took a step toward him, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.