Читать книгу Moscow USA - Gordon Stevens - Страница 6

The weather that morning was hot, which was one of the things those questioned later would remember. In addition to the personal things, and the fact that Hurricane Bob was beating a circle off Florida and threatening to wreak havoc up the East Coast. Items of no consequence to the Dark Suits. And even then the woman with the child and the salesman and the Mormon preacher would never know the real reason for the visit. There were others, of course, a total of 184 passengers on the two flights, plus air crew and staff at the relevant airports, but the woman and the salesman and the preacher were those in whom the investigators had a special interest, because they had not only caught flight 2171 but had made phone calls at the same places and the same times as the man called Joshua.

The airport, four miles west of town, was modern but small. Rolling Idaho wheatfields around it, the occasional poplar tree, and two low hangars. The terminal itself was single-storey and glass-fronted, one room serving both arrivals and departures. The check-in desk was to the left, the baggage X-ray machine was in the centre, opposite the entrance, and the coffee and candy machines, the pay phones and the mail box, were against the wall to the right. Flights in and out every hour, but only to a handful of destinations; the parking lot never full and the drop-offs and pick-ups quick and easy.

The Shermans arrived fifty minutes before departure, the three of them crammed into the front seat of the Chevy pick-up. Annie Sherman was thirty-two years old, her face and hands tanned with the seasons, though the first tell-tale crow’s-feet of worry were wrinkled at the sides of her eyes. Her husband Ted was two years older, tall, with cornflower-blue eyes. The suit he wore uncomfortably that morning was dark navy, and the neck of the shirt was slightly too tight. Ted and Annie Sherman had been married eight years and struggled against the odds, plus the occasional flood and the interest on a bank loan, to run 300 acres east of town, on the road to Genesee. Their daughter Mary was six, the Chevy was second-hand, and a year from today the bank would foreclose and the three would stand silent as their home and their worldly goods, for which they had fought and sweated and bled, were auctioned in front of them. Today, however, the mood was lighter: Annie taking Mary to visit the girl’s grandmother on the occasion of her seventieth birthday.

As they arrived a Toyota Landcruiser pulled away.

Ted hauled their bags from the back, waited as they stood in the queue and glanced at his watch. The meeting with the bank was at nine thirty.

‘You go,’ Annie told him. ‘We’re okay.’

‘Better call Mom.’ The concern furrowed his brow. ‘Let her know that the flight’s on time.’

… What did she do then? the Dark Suits would ask. FBI, the Dark Suits had said. Investigating someone running a scam and the person might have been on the flight.

Ted left, she would tell them; she and Mary checked in, then they went for a coffee. From the machines by the far wall, she would explain, even though they hadn’t asked, because that was the way they were, expecting the detail and wanting you to give them more than you thought you knew.

Anything she’d missed, they would come back at Annie; how about any phone calls? Because she was on the airport security video as making one, though they wouldn’t tell her. Called Mom, she would remember, told her that she and Mary would be arriving on time and confirming the pick-up. Who else was around? they would ask; anyone else making a call at that time, anything she remembered about the other people making calls?

A salesman – she would screw up her eyes in concentration. And a bible-puncher, short hair and beaming faith. No one else. And they would wait, because they knew she was wrong. One other person, she would suddenly remember. Somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, well-cut suit, good-looking but without being obvious. Couldn’t get through to the number he was calling, because he hung up without speaking then tried again.

Anything else about the man in the suit? they would ask. Because you can’t really see much on the security video. Even though, as far as we can tell, there’s nobody else we know at the airport at that time. But if there had been, Joshua wouldn’t have made the call …

Good-looking woman, Joshua thought; nice-looking girl; life taking its toll on the woman even though she was fighting to mask it. The woman and the girl left the phones and carried their bags to the X-ray machine. He dialled again. Not the same number, because the first he had tried had been unavailable rather than busy. The tone he heard was high-pitched and whining. Both direct lines closed down, he understood; one might be unfortunate, two wouldn’t be a coincidence. Therefore it was already under way, the man to whom he wished to speak cut off and isolated, even though he probably still thought he was surrounded by his friends. Even though he was one of the two most important men in the world.

It was still thirty minutes to the flight. Joshua crossed to the seats and wrote the letter. No name because that would be a security risk … When you receive this, he began, it will be over. If I have been able to achieve what I am about to do, then I will tell you; if not, then others might not … He finished it, read it but did not sign it, folded it once and slid it into the envelope, sealed the envelope but left it blank, folded it, slid it into a second envelope, and addressed and stamped the second. Then he rose and walked to the mail box, hesitated for a second, slid it in, waited till he heard it drop, walked to the pay phones, and called the number in New York.

Jack Kincaid ignored the file on the coffee table in front of him and looked at the man opposite him. The safe house was on the outskirts of Miami’s Little Havana. Outside the temperature was closing on 95, inside it was almost chilly, the drapes drawn and the air conditioning humming slightly.

Kincaid was late thirties and deceptively big build. The man three metres away was slim and urbane, smart suit, hair greased back and thin moustache. Cuban diplomat, the Miami office had said: access to secret police records and knowledge of Russian intelligence activities in Central America, both past and present. Anti-Fidel, despite his background and position, and wanting to trade.

Call for you, Kincaid was informed. Perfect timing, he thought. He nodded at the Cuban and went to the next room.

‘Jack, this is Bram.’ O’Bramsky was deputy head of division. ‘You’re needed in New York. Briefing here first. My assistant will pick you up at National.’

‘When?’ Kincaid asked.

‘It’s an immediate.’ Immediate was a message prefix. Immediate meant NOW. PRIORITY. DROP EVERYTHING. Only one prefix ranked above immediate. Flash. And flash meant the bombs were about to fall. ‘The DCI has been notified. At this moment he’s briefing the President.’

DCI – the Director of Central Intelligence, the head of CIA.

‘On my way,’ Kincaid told O’Bramsky.

Kincaid’s flight from Miami to Washington National was on a commercial 737. An Agency plane would not have covered the distance any quicker. At National he was third off. He strode quickly through the terminal, picked up O’Bramsky’s assistant, followed him to the unmarked Chevy in the satellite parking area, and slid into the back seat without asking what was running. The driver left National, turned right along George Washington Parkway, the Potomac glistening on the right, and began to climb through the trees. Fifteen minutes later the car stopped by the elevators in the underground parking lot beneath the large off-white building tucked amongst the woodlands of Virginia. The first elevator was engaged. Kincaid pressed the other button, rode the executive elevator to the division, and was escorted immediately to the bubble.

Each division had its own secure room – no walls on the outside of the building, no windows, even internally; electronic grids, white noise and lead-lined drapes. Regular sweeps just to make sure. Conference table in the centre and communications facilities along one wall.

Jameson, O’Bramsky and Miller were waiting. Others as well: the heads of operations and security, plus counter-intelligence. But Jameson, O’Bramsky and Miller were the ones that mattered.

Grere Jameson, forty-five years old, tall, with the first grey playing in his hair. Chief of Soviet and Eastern Europe Division for the past three years.

O’Bramsky, two years older and Jameson’s deputy, white hair, hands like the lumberjack’s his father had been, and brain like an IBM mainframe.

Ed Miller, early forties and Russia desk chief.

Kincaid sat down, was given a coffee, and the briefing began. No other formalities, because there was no time.

O’Bramsky faced him across the table. ‘Three hours ago someone calling himself Hemmings contacted the New York office and asked to speak with Leo Panelli.’ Kincaid had worked with Panelli, starting in Berlin. ‘Hemmings, it transpires, is KGB. He and Leo know each other because they both worked the United Nations. Leo is in Paris on leave. Hemmings said it was an immediate. Because of this we arranged for Hemmings to speak with Leo. Before they spoke, Leo sent us this cable.’

O’Bramsky passed the de-crypt across the table. Kincaid read it once.

The Director – on the first line.

The security classification – SECRET – on the second. Only FLASH messages warranted TOP SECRET.

The slug, the routing indicator for the computers which would receive the cable at Langley, on the next. Slugs related cables to specific projects, operators, agents or geographic areas.

The slug on the de-crypt in front of Kincaid was AMSNOW. The first two letters, AM, were a prefix for Soviet Division, and the next four, SNOW, indicated a general message within that division.

I have been notified by New York office that a contact identifying himself as Hemmings has been in communication. Hemmings stated he wished to speak with me and said it was an immediate. NY station will give him a direct number into Paris station. Hemmings is a private code between the individual and myself.

Kincaid passed the de-crypt back.

O’Bramsky took it and slid him another. ‘Leo then sent this follow-up.’

Never refer to someone and give their identity in the same cable, Kincaid thought. Perhaps Panelli was old school, despite encryption; perhaps it was the game; perhaps Panelli was aware he was about to send Langley ballistic. Because send them ballistic he had – DCI, the President, briefings in the Sit Room, now the eagles locked in the bubble and the whole show running like there was no tomorrow.

Kincaid read the single line.

Hemmings is Joshua.

He handed the cable back and waited for O’Bramsky to continue.

‘Joshua wants a face-to-face, but Leo can’t make it back till tomorrow and Joshua says tomorrow will be too late. Leo suggested you and Joshua agreed. At this point we don’t know whether Joshua’s buying or selling, though we assume it’s the latter. Until Leo gets back, you’re holding Joshua’s hand.’

‘You’re saying there’s a chance that Joshua’s defecting?’

‘Possibly, but we’re still not sure.’

At the other end of the conference table the eagles still threw the arguments between themselves. Reasons for the Joshua contact. Implications. Anything it might spin into or rebound off. Joshua’s personality. Was Joshua under stress or had Joshua been drinking? How had he conducted himself in the past and how was he conducting himself now? Had he shown any previous signs of such an approach? What might Joshua know? How much did he know about the other side and what might he know or want to know about theirs? Was the contact genuine or the first stage of a sting?

O’Bramsky took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Nothing’s happening that might indicate why else Joshua’s been in touch. The DCI’s seen the President; according to the White House and the State Department there’s nothing in the pipeline which would impact on a defection, or which might be affected by it. Moscow station also reports that everything’s quiet. The Kremlin’s closed down for the summer and Gorbachev is on holiday in the Crimea.’

Gorbachev the architect and champion of the new Russia.

‘Except …?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Except when Joshua made contact with New York station he said it was an immediate, and when he spoke to Leo he upgraded it to flash.’ The bombs were about to fall. ‘When Leo said he could be state-side tomorrow, Joshua said that tomorrow would be too late.’

‘Who’s Joshua?’ Kincaid asked.

Bram looked at him across the table, then the IBM mainframe switched on. ‘Mikhail Sergeyevich Buskov. Born Leningrad. Married with one daughter. Former KGB rezident at the United Nations, also KGB rezident in Washington DC.’

A rezident was the Soviet equivalent of chief of station.

Christ, Kincaid thought. ‘What’s Buskov’s present status?’

‘Mikhail Buskov is now a major-general in the First Chief Directorate at KGB headquarters in Yasenevo, Moscow. We believe he’s behind some of the financial scams the Directorate is running to finance its overseas operations.’ O’Bramsky paused. ‘He’s the biggest one we’ll ever get, Jack. Make sure you bring him home.’

Kincaid nodded. ‘How did he get in touch?’

‘As I say, he phoned the New York station.’

‘Where from?’

O’Bramsky half-smiled. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘Try me.’

‘Joshua was calling from Moscow.’ He saw the disbelief in Kincaid’s eyes. ‘Not Moscow as in USSR. Moscow as in Idaho, Moscow USA.’

Served by the airport four miles out of town.

‘Arrangements and timetable?’ Kincaid asked.

‘Joshua’s inbound to New York from Seattle. He’s due to arrive at Newark at 1800. We’ve already spoken to him and will speak again when he lands. He’ll be directed through a number of cut-outs. After that he’ll be on his way to you. The contact is at the Famiglia restaurant on East 54th. You’ll be waiting. The security boys will be there as well, in case the opposition finds out or beats the surveillance and tries a heist.’

‘Who’s riding shotgun?’

‘Langley’s bringing in the best.’

Erickson received the call fourteen minutes and thirty seconds after the hour. Daniel Michael Erickson was thirty-nine years old, tall, eyes shading between blue and slate-grey, and a body strength concealed beneath the loose sweater and slacks he habitually wore.

‘You’re needed in New York,’ his controller told him on his cellphone. ‘Usual communications.’

Erickson closed the call and returned to the North End area of the city. Boston was warm but quiet, already tightening slightly in anticipation of Hurricane Bob which was forecast to hit the city sometime the following afternoon.

He changed into a suit, collar and tie, checked the credentials he was carrying, left the safe house, walked three blocks, took a cab to the airport, and caught the next shuttle to La Guardia. The nerves were already eating him. No fear, no edge – he remembered what his instructor had told him.

At La Guardia he left the plane, cleared the arrivals gate, and automatically scoured the sea of faces for the one that was out of place or the eyes that turned away from his. Perhaps he was getting too old for this, Erickson sometimes thought; perhaps the image of his wife and daughter played on his mind too much nowadays.

He made his way to the pay phones, called the contact number, switched phones, and waited for the next instructions.

Kincaid told the driver to drop him two blocks from La Famiglia and walked down the street. Joshua’s flight would be landing in ten minutes; between an hour and ninety minutes after that Joshua would be stepping out of a cab in front of where Kincaid now stood, and entering the restaurant. He checked up and down the street, checked the houses in front and behind. The parked cars were a problem, because the cab dropping Joshua would have to stop in the middle of the street. But it would only be a problem if the Langley tails decided that someone else was sitting on Joshua, and if they did, then the meet would already have been aborted at one of the cut-outs, and Joshua would call the contact number the next day for fresh instructions. Except Joshua had been specific that tomorrow was too late.

He concentrated on La Famiglia. The front was white and double-fronted, blue woodwork round the windows, and dining areas either side of the door. There was a bar in the middle, according to the briefing, men’s room at the rear with a back door on to the alleyway behind. When the meet went down, the security section would be sitting in the restaurant, with more in a car at the rear in case the opposition tried to come in the back, or in case they had to take Joshua out that way in a hurry. Plus the faceless ones, who would oversee everything.

Kincaid left the street, checked the rear, walked back to the pick-up vehicle, and returned to the safe house.

‘Code name Caesar,’ Daniel Erickson was informed. He switched phones. ‘La Famiglia restaurant, on East 54th,’ he was informed. He switched phones again. Typical organization – he cursed quietly; typical concern with security. He was carrying a cellphone, but cellphones were notoriously insecure.

‘What does Caesar look like?’ he asked.

‘Tall, early fifties, dark hair, wearing a dark-blue suit and carrying a brown leather attaché case. He’ll be arriving by cab.’

‘Any opposition?’ Erickson was always careful.

‘Shouldn’t be.’

Erickson took a cab to the World Trade Center then another to East 52nd and walked the rest. East 54th was nondescript. He checked up and down the street, checked the streets and alleys behind it and running off it. Walked past the entrance to La Famiglia and imagined the moment Caesar stepped from the cab. The parked cars might have been a problem, because he might have lost line of vision as Caesar stepped through them, on to the pavement, and into the restaurant. Except the position he had already selected was high above, from where he could view all around him.

Joshua has arrived at Newark, Kincaid was informed. Joshua has been code-named Caesar for the tails. The tails in place at each of the cut-outs, the boys from security ready to move into position inside and outside La Famiglia, and the game running. Joshua has made contact with Langley, O’Bramsky updated him. Joshua has taken a cab from Newark and is inbound for the first cut-out. Joshua is approaching the first cut-out.

Kincaid left the safe house and was driven to East 54th.

Caesar is approaching the first cut-out, the tails reported back. Caesar is looking clean. Caesar is leaving the first cut-out and is still looking clean.

Kincaid walked down 54th and into the restaurant. The dining area was in two sections, a bar in the middle, and a corridor to the bathrooms at the rear. The tables were covered with gingham cloths and the waiters wore black waistcoats. Half the tables were occupied. He sat at the bar, in a position from which he could see the door, and ordered a Jack Daniels. Caesar is approaching the second cut-out, the shadows reported back. Caesar is at the second cut-out. Caesar is looking clean. Kincaid left the bar and checked the bathroom, checked the corridor and the door at the rear, and made sure the door would open.

In his position above 54th Erickson swept the street for any sign of the opposition.

Kincaid’s cellphone rang. ‘Mac. It’s Dennis. Managed to get those tickets for the Yankees game. The tenth be okay for you?’ Joshua through the last cut-out and with him in ten minutes. ‘Sounds good. I’ll see you.’

Erickson scanned the streets and pavements below for the first indication that something might be wrong. The cellphone rang. In the silence of his concentration the noise was like thunder. He pressed the button and held the set close to his left ear. ‘Caesar is clean. He’ll be with you in ten.’ The nerves washed away and the calm and the cold took their place.

The cab stopped outside the restaurant. Middle of the street, because of the cars parked either side. Too soon, Kincaid knew, and looked away from the window. Thank God for the security boys – those he could see but especially those he couldn’t.

Erickson saw the couple step out. Man and woman, mid-twenties, the man paying the driver and the woman walking between the parked cars and waiting on the pavement for him, then the two of them going into the restaurant. His line of vision had remained unimpaired as the woman stepped between the parked cars. Significant, or just chance that a couple arrived just before Caesar was due?

Six minutes now, five, and counting down. Another cab slowed then moved away without stopping. A man walked up 54th and entered the restaurant. Wrong age, wrong description.

One minute. Kincaid ran the Jack Daniels around the glass and told himself to relax.

The cab stopped and Joshua stepped out.

On time, Kincaid thought.

Right age, Daniel Erickson thought, right description. Dark-blue suit, early fifties, brown leather attaché case.

Joshua paid the driver, stepped between the parked cars and stood on the pavement.

Kincaid placed the glass on the table and moved slightly so that he could view the door without appearing to do so.

In the building opposite Erickson reached to his right.

Daniel Michael Erickson did not exist. As a driving licence and a social security number, as a name on a credit card and an entry on the passenger list from Boston to La Guardia. As a cover.

But not as a person.

Nikolai Alexandrovich Sherenko did.

The target’s more important than you could ever imagine, Vorkov his controller had told him; make sure you take him out.

Sherenko held his breath gently, so that his body and mind were still and controlled, and squeezed the trigger.

The last shuttle of the evening touched down at Boston thirty seconds early. Sherenko hurried through the emptying terminal, took a cab to the city centre, then a second to the North End. By midnight he was in the two-room safe house between the wine bar and the boutique.

The Black Label was in the drinks cabinet. Sherenko would have preferred Stolichnaya, but vodka might have threatened his cover. He threw a handful of ice into a glass, topped it up, and switched on the television. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he really was too old for this game; perhaps he was thinking of his family too much. At least Vorkov had talked about going home soon.

The local stations were all running news reports on the progress of Hurricane Bob up the eastern seaboard and the threat to Boston and the surrounding area the following day. He flicked to CNN, went through to the bathroom, began to strip, and heard the sudden change in tone of the newscaster.

‘This is a news flash. We are just getting reports from Moscow that there has been a coup in Russia. President Gorbachev has been placed under house arrest in his holiday dacha in the Crimea. First reports say that hard-liners from the KGB and the Red Army have taken over.’

The morgue was white-tiled and silent, an echo somewhere down a corridor and the smell of disinfectant in his nostrils. There were no staff present, no pathologists or attendants, no clerks to note down the details and ask for a signature against release of a corpse. Kincaid stood alone and stared at the body bag on the slab in the centre of the floor.

I was point man for you – for the past hours he had tried to push the confessional from his mind. I was babysitting you, Joshua; I was the one who was supposed to bring you through. I was the one in whose hands you put your faith and your trust and your life. And I let you down.

He ran his fingers along the body bag.

So what game were you playing, Joshua? Was whatever you were doing connected to the events in the Soviet Union? Langley was going ape-shit, of course: Langley and State and the White House and Christ only knew who else. Tanks on the streets of Moscow. Swan Lake being run non-stop on Soviet television, and the new order, the new Russia, which Gorbachev was promising, suddenly under threat and the image of a return to the bad old days looming large.

He unzipped the body bag and looked at the face.

The Agency had covered itself, of course. Pulled everything and everybody out of East 54th, so that even in the handful of seconds before the first blue and whites of the NYPD arrived there was no link. Just a businessman with an attaché case shot through the back. No ID, no name or plastic or driving licence.

Plus Langley had made certain arrangements. The Club took care of its own, even though they were from different sides. So not even Langley, in a way especially not Soviet Division, wanted Joshua to spend the statutory two weeks in a freezer in the county morgue at Belle Vue, then be consigned to a city burial along with the other John Does. Therefore Langley had made the call – discreet, person to person, the same way that Joshua had sought to contact Leo Panelli.

No autopsy, though, no incision in the chest, no rib cage cut open. Partly because Joshua had only been of use alive, partly to say to the opposition: he’s yours, we had nothing to do with it, so take him home and lay him to rest where his wife and his daughter can mourn over him. Whatever lies you tell them about where and how he died, because lie you will. As we would.

In forty seconds the footsteps would come down the corridor.

‘Sorry, my friend …’

He zipped up the bag and left.

Sherenko stood at the window and looked across the street at the first winds and the first black rain.

The epicentre of Hurricane Bob was scheduled to hit Boston shortly after four. Now it was 3.45 and the sky was black. Down the coast torrential rain and winds were whipping off roofs and throwing trees in the air as if they were the devil’s playthings. In Boston the streets were deserted and the city waited, emergency services on full alert.

On the television set in the corner of the room CNN was running updates from Moscow, retired military and intelligence specialists being wheeled in to comment, and politicians renting their opinions about what might or might not happen.

Sherenko turned from the window and flicked back to one of the local channels.

‘The epicentre of Hurricane Bob is five minutes from Boston.’ The newscaster was tense. ‘Do not go outside. Repeat, do not go outside.’

Sherenko went to the bedroom, stripped, and put on shorts and Nikes.

‘The epicentre of Hurricane Bob is one minute from Boston.’ The newscaster’s voice was almost shrill. The rain outside was horizontal and the trees bent in the wind.

‘Hurricane Bob is one minute, repeat, one minute, from Boston city centre.’

Sherenko stepped outside, locked the door behind him, and began to run.

Kincaid left Langley and drove to the bar on the edge of McLean which the old-timers used as one of their watering holes. O’Bramsky was waiting for him. The evening was closing in and the bottle of Black Label was on the table. Kincaid settled in a chair and nodded as O’Bramsky filled his glass. ‘So what’s new from Moscow station?’

‘A handful of politicians are standing up and being counted.’ O’Bramsky ran his fingers through his white hair. ‘Yeltsin’s in Moscow and on his way to the White House. The first crowds are gathering outside to defend the building against the army and the KGB, but there are reports that KGB Alpha teams are already in the building with orders to assassinate him.’

‘What about Joshua? How does he relate to what’s going down in Moscow?’

‘At this stage nobody’s sure. One theory is that he knew of the plans for the putsch but didn’t know who was behind it, therefore didn’t know who to alert in order to stop it, so he contacted us.’

They both knew what Kincaid was going to say.

‘And we let him down.’

Bram refilled their glasses. ‘Don’t take it personally, Jack.’

‘Difficult not to, Bram.’

Difficult to stand in the morgue at Belle Vue and not think that you betrayed the man in the bag. Difficult not to try and work out what little thing you might have done that would have made the difference.

He swilled the Black Label around the glass, downed it in one, reached across the table and poured them each another. ‘Funny, isn’t it? In five years nobody will remember what happened in August ’91. Nobody will remember the attempt to depose Gorbachev.’

‘What are you getting at, Jack?’

‘I guess that some things you remember for the fact that they were a crossroads for the world. Some things you forget, even though at the time the world thought they were cataclysmic. Some things you remember for what they meant to you as an individual.’

O’Bramsky looked across the table at him. ‘Like I said, Jack, don’t take it personally.’

At eleven the next morning Kincaid took his seat before the panel investigating the Joshua affair. No Jameson or O’Bramsky, he noted. Miller was present, so Ed had covered his ass, and thank Christ for that. Some faces from the seventh floor, plus a woman he didn’t know. Early forties, good-looking, ash-blond hair and cut-glass English accent. So London had been cut in on the deal somewhere along the line and were now demanding their pound of flesh.

In Moscow the crowd defending the White House had grown to a hundred thousand, the KGB Alpha teams which had been sent to assassinate Yeltsin had changed sides and were now protecting him, key units of the army were also going over, and the coup showed every sign of collapsing.

Where were you when you were first informed of Joshua …? the questioning began. When did you first hear the code-name Joshua …? Who told you and who did you speak to after that point …?

The Leningrad sun was hot on her back, and the sweat ran in streams down the faces of the men carrying the coffin. Anna Buskova stood at her mother’s side and held her mother’s arm. An hour earlier, before they had screwed down the lid, she had kissed her father goodbye for the last time.

Love you, she told him again now. Remember so many things, remember the toys you made me when I was young and before you and Mamma had any money, remember how you were away so much later. Remember the porcelain horseman you gave me. Remember not just the gifts you brought back when you returned, but how you brought them back. As if they were no more or no less precious than the dolls you made for me at the kitchen table.

And now, my father, you are dead. Now you lie in your KGB uniform, and the other generals have come to say goodbye, though the times are strange and the conversation before the service was muted and conspiratorial, as it will be after.

The coup has ended, probably Communism as well. All of which is irrelevant to me because the only thing I will remember about August 1991 is the fact that my father, whom I loved dearly, was taken from me.

The KGB still takes care of its own, though. So that when your body was returned to us, after you had suffered the heart attack, you were already in dress uniform, your eyes closed and your hands folded in peace across your chest.

A heron flew overhead. She heard the ruffle of its wings and looked up. The guard of honour snapped to attention and the first volley echoed into the sky.

The December snow was on the ground and the sky was a dark threatening grey. Anna Buskova picked her way between the headstones, the white of the snow like mantles on them, till she came to the mound in the corner. In the spring, when the earth had settled, they would erect a proper headstone, now the grave was marked by a simple cross.

The snow fell from the sky again, and her hands and feet were cold. She removed her gloves and took the envelope from the pocket of her greatcoat. The envelope was thick, as if something was folded inside it. She took the second envelope from it, then the letter from inside it. The envelopes had been delivered by an American friend ten days earlier, when she was in Moscow. The snow was falling more heavily now. She brushed the flakes from her eyelids and opened the single sheet of the letter. There was a date on it, a date in August, but no names, neither hers at the top nor her father’s at the bottom.

She wiped the snowflakes from her cheeks, except they were not snowflakes and began to read.

When you receive this it will be over. If I have been able to achieve what I am about to do, then I will tell you; if not, then others might not. If others tell you, judge them, not me, by what they say. What I do, I do because I remember the day you were born and wish that others might know such happiness. What I do, I do because even now I know I have a smile on my face at the memories of our family together, and wish that others might also smile. But that they may smile in freedom and in joy. What I do now, I do because I am a patriot. What I do now I do for Mother Russia. Always be strong, always smile.

She wiped her cheeks again, then she folded the sheet of paper and placed it inside the first envelope. The envelope had no name or address on it. Then she folded it and tucked it inside the second envelope. The second bore the name and address of the friend in Boston who had hand-delivered it to her, the stamp in the top right corner was a United States 32 cents issue, and the postmark indicated Moscow, though the date and the state were blurred and barely legible.

Tomorrow she would bring flowers, she decided. Tomorrow, even though the snow would be deep and the ice would be packed hard, she would place the flowers on the grave of her father. Anna Buskova turned, placed the envelope in her coat pocket, and retraced the line of her footsteps.

The snow was turning to ice on the pavements outside and the windows of the bar were steamed with condensation. Sad night, Kincaid thought, sad faces: Jameson and Panelli, himself and O’Bramsky. Ed Miller there with them, even though he’d survived the night of the knives.

Miller rose, pulled on his coat, and patted each of them on the shoulder. Sorry, the gesture said. Can’t find the words, but you know how I feel. He turned and left, Jameson and Panelli followed him into the snow ten minutes later.

Kincaid called the waiter and asked for two more Black Labels. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

‘Why ironic?’

‘If Joshua had been aware of his death, then he would have thought he had failed. But he didn’t need to try anyway, because the putsch collapsed and the old days are over for ever.’

That morning the Soviet Union had ceased to exist.

O’Bramsky nodded. O’Bramsky hadn’t spoken much all evening.

‘So what did the enquiry report say, Bram? Because you’ve seen a draft and I haven’t.’

‘That Joshua was trying to make contact with us to prevent the Gorbachev putsch, and that his own people suspected what he was about to do, tailed him, and took him out.’

‘No other reason why he should contact us?’

‘Not according to the draft report.’

‘But we carry the blame.’

O’Bramsky laughed.

‘What about Moscow, Idaho?’ Kincaid asked. ‘What about the fact that Joshua made the first call from there?’

‘The enquiry will decide that Moscow USA was irrelevant, that Joshua was covering his tracks and trying to confuse us.’

Kincaid drained his glass. ‘So what you going to do now, Bram?’

‘What I should’ve done long time back; do up the house on the Chesapeake, paint the Hobie, and tell myself the last twenty-five years didn’t end like this.’

And what about you, Jack? – it was in O’Bramsky’s stare. I know that there’s something on your mind, but I can’t tell what.

‘I had a dream last night, Bram. I dreamt I met up with the bastard who took out Joshua. Actually I’ve had the dream every night.’

‘Why?’ O’Bramsky asked.

‘Because I feel guilty about Joshua, I guess. Almost as if I’d betrayed him.’

‘And it’s eating you up?’

‘Yeah, Bram, it’s eating me up.’

They stood to leave.

‘You got to shake it off, Jack.’ O’Bramsky pulled on his coat. ‘What happened was business, not personal. You can’t carry Joshua’s ghost with you for the rest of your life or it will devour you, every day you live and every second you breathe.’

They stepped outside. The snow was falling thicker now; as they walked down the street it was a mantle on their shoulders.

‘I know, Bram. But I’d still like to get whoever pulled the trigger.’

‘Forget it, Jack.’

‘Because it was business not personal?’

‘No.’ O’Bramsky sunk his hands deeper into his coat.

‘So why?’

The snow was falling even heavier; the sounds around them were muffled and the street lamps hung like halos in the white.

‘You know the game, Jack. You’re part of the Club. You know there’s no way the two of you will ever meet.’