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“I hadn’t realized it had got so bad,” he muttered. “Last time, I just went from the airport to the National and back out again.”
“It’s full winter now, Sir Nigel. Always worse in winter.”
As they drove out of the forecourt a militia truck swung in front of them. Two stone-faced policemen in heavy greatcoats and fur shapkas sat in the warmth of the cab. The truck swerved past and they could see into the back.
Rows of feet, the rag-bound soles of human feet, were visible for a second as the canvas flaps swung open with the movement of the truck. Bodies. Bodies frozen rock solid and stacked one on top of the other like corded timber.
“The stiff wagon,” said Vincent shortly. “The dawn pickup shift. Five hundred of them are dying every night in the doorways, along the quays.”
They were booked into the National, but did not wish to check in until late afternoon. So the taxi dropped them at the Palace Hotel and they spent the day in deep leather armchairs in the residents’ lounge.
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TWO days earlier Jason Monk had made a brief transmission, in code, from his specially adapted laptop computer. It was brief and to the point. He had seen General Petrovsky and all seemed to be well. He was still being moved around the city by the Chechens, often in the guise of a priest, an army or police officer, or a tramp. The Patriarch was ready to receive his English guest for a second time.
&n
bsp; It was the message which, beamed across the world to the headquarters of InTelCor, had been retransmitted to Sir Nigel in London, still in code. Sir Nigel alone had the replica one-time pad to unlock the cipher.
It was the message that had brought him from London-Heathrow to Kiev and thence by train to Moscow.
But the message had also been caught by FAPSI, now working almost full-time for Colonel Grishin. The senior director of FAPSI conferred with Grishin while the Kiev-Moscow train steamed through the night.
“We damn near had him,” said the director. “He was in the Arbat district, while last time he was out near Sokolniki. So he’s moving around.”
“The Arbat?” queried Grishin angrily. The Arbat district is barely half a mile from the Kremlin walls.
“There is another danger I should warn you about, Colonel. If he’s using the sort of computer we think he is, he need not necessarily be present when transmissions take place or are received. He can preset it and leave.”
“Just find the set,” ordered Grishin. “He’ll have to return to it, and when he does, I’ll be waiting.”
“If he makes two more, or a single one lasting half a second, we’ll have the source. To within a city block, maybe the building.”
What neither man knew was that according to Sir Nigel Irvine’s plan, Monk would need to make at least three more transmissions to the West.
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“HE’S back, Colonel Grishin.”
The voice of Father Maxim down the phone was squeaky with tension. It was six in the evening, pitch-dark outside, and freezing cold. Grishin was still at his desk in the dacha off Kiselny Boulevard. He had just been about to leave when the call came. As per instructions, the switchboard operator heard the word Maxim and passed the call straight to the head of security.
“Calm yourself, Father Maxim. Who’s back?”
“The Englishman. The old Englishman. He’s been with His Holiness for an hour.”
“He can’t be.”
Grishin had spread a large sum of money throughout the Immigration Division of the Interior Ministry and the FSB Counter-intelligence apparat to receive forewarning, and it had not come.
“Do you know where he is staying?”
“No, but he used the same limousine.”
The National, thought Grishin. The old fool has gone to the same hotel. He was still bitterly conscious that he had lost the old spymaster the last time because Mr. Trubshaw had moved too fast for him. This time there would be no mistake.
“Where are you now?”
“In the street, using my portable.”