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It was common knowledge that since the fiasco of the civil war in Yemen in January 1986 the USSR had pulled out completely, leaving the pro-Moscow Yemeni government impoverished and embittered. Consumed with rage at their humiliation, as they saw it, Aden had to go to the West for trade credits and cash to keep going. From then on a Russian’s life in Yemen would hang by a thread. Heaven knows no rage like love to hatred turned. …
By the end of 1987 the USSR had opened a full-fledged embassy in the distinctly anti-Communist Oman were wooing the pro-British sultan.
“I don’t,” said his colleague, “but I’ll bet the Brits will.”
It was only a step down the road from the maze of narrow and humid corridors that made up the American Embassy to the more elaborate British one. They penetrated the vast carved wood doors, nodded at the gate-keeper, and headed across the courtyard. The whole complex had once been the mansion of a wealthy trader rand was steeped in history.
On one wall of the yard was a plaque left behind by a Roman legion that marched off into the desert and was never seen again. In the center of the space was the British flagpole, which long ago would guarantee a slave his freedom if he could reach it. They turned left toward the embassy building and the senior SIS man was waiting for them. They shook hands.
“What’s the prob, old boy?” asked the Englishman.
“The prob,” replied Monk, “is that I have just seen a guy in the souk I think may be a Russian.”
It was only a small detail, but the man in the souk had worn the collar of his open-necked white shirt outside his jacket, as Russians tended to do but Westerners avoided.
“Well, let’s have a look at the mug book,” said the Brit.
He led them through the steel filigree security doors, down the cool and pillared hall and up the stairs. The British SIS operation lived on the top floor. From a safe the SIS man took an album and they flicked through it.
The newly arrived Soviet staff were all there, caught at the airport, crossing the street, or at an open café terrace. The young man with the dark eyes was the last, photographed crossing the concourse of the airport on arrival.
“The local chaps are pretty helpful to us about this sort of thing,” said the SIS man. “The Russians have to preannounce themselves to the Foreign Ministry here and seek accreditation. We get the details. Then when they come we get a tip-off so we can be handy with a Long Tom lens. This him?”
“Yes. Any details?”
The SIS man consulted a sheaf of cards.
“Here we are. Unless it’s all a bunch of lies, he’s Third Secretary, aged twenty-eight. Name of Umar Gunayev. Sounds Tartar.”
“No,” said Monk thoughtfully, “he’s a Chechen. And a Moslem.”
“You think he’s KGB?” asked the Britisher.
“Oh yes, he’s a spook all right.”
“Well, thanks for that. Want us to do anything about him? Complain to the government?”
“No,” said Monk. “We all have to make a living. Better to know who he is. They’d only send a replacement.”
As they strolled back, the CIA man asked Monk, “How did you know?”
“Just a hunch.”
It was a bit more than that. Gunayev had been sipping an orange juice at the bar of the Frontel in Aden a year earlier. Monk had not been the only one to recognize him that day. The two tribesmen had spotted him and decided to- take revenge for the insult to their country.
¯
MARK Jefferson arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow, on the afternoon flight on August 8 and was met by the bureau chief of the Daily Telegraph.
The star political feature writer was a slight, dapper, middle-aged man with thinning ginger hair and a short beard of the same hue. His temper, it was reputed, was the same length as his body and beard.
He declined to join his colleague and wife for supper, and asked only to be driven to the prestigious National Hotel on Manege Square.
Once there he told his colleague he would prefer to interview Mr. Komarov unaccompanied and if need be would engage a limousine with driver through the good offices of the hotel itself Well rebuffed the bureau chief drove off.
Jefferson checked in, and his registration was handled by the manager himself, a tall and courteous Swede. His passport was retained by the reception clerk so that the appropriate details could be copied out and filed with the Ministry of Tourism. Before leaving London, Jefferson had instructed his secretary to inform the National who he was and how important he was.
Once up in his room he called the number he had been given by Boris Kuznetsov in their exchange of faxes.