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It was Monk’s second visit to the USSR on a black mission. When he returned home it was to learn he had secured a further promotion. Also that Nikolai Turkin, agent Lysander, was moving to East Berlin as commander of the whole Directorate K operation inside the KGB complex there. It was a prime position, the only one giving access to every single Soviet agent in West Germany.
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THE hotel manager and the British Head of Station arrived at the Botkin within seconds of each other and were shown into a small ward where the draped body of the dead man awaited them with Inspector Lopatin. Introductions were made. Macdonald simply said, “From the embassy.”
Lopatin’s first concern was a positive identification. That was not a problem. Svenson had brought the dead man’s passport and the picture in it was a perfect match. He completed the formality with a glance at the face.
“Cause of death?” asked Macdonald.
“A single bullet through the heart,” said Lopatin.
Macdonald examined the jacket.
“There are two bullet holes here,” he remarked mildly.
They all examined the jacket again. Two bullet holes. But only one in the shirt. Lopatin had a second look at the body. Only one in the chest.
“The other bullet must have hit his wallet, and stopped there,” he said. He gave a grim smile. “At least the bastards won’t be able to use all those credit cards.”
“I should get back to the hotel,” said Svenson. He was visibly badly shaken. If only the man had taken the proffered hotel limousine. Macdonald accompanied him to the hospital door.
“This must be terrible for you,” he said sympathetically. The Swede nodded. “So let us clear things up as fast as we can. I presume there will be a wife in London. The personal effects. Perhaps you could clear his room, pack his suitcase? I’ll send a car for it in the morning. Thank you so much.”
Back in the private ward Macdonald had a word with Lopatin.
“We have a problem here, my friend. This is a bad business. The man was quite famous in his way. A journalist. There will be publicity. His newspaper has an office in this city. They will carry a big story. So will all the other foreign press. Why not let the embassy handle that side of things? The facts are clear, are they not? A tragic mugging that went wrong. Almost certainly the muggers called on him in Russian, but he did not understand. Thinking he was resisting, they fired. Truly tragic. But that must have been the way it was, don’t you think?”
Lopatin grasped at it.
“Of course, a mugging that went wrong.”
“So you will seek to find the killers, though between us, as professionals, we know you will have a hard task. Leave the matter of the repatriation of the body to our consular people. Leave the British press to us also. Agreed?”
“Yes, that seems sensible.”
“I will just need the personal effects. They have no bearing on the case anymore. It’s the wallet that will be the key, if ever it is found. And the credit cards, if anyone attempts to use them, which I doubt.”
Lopatin looked at the kidney dish with its meager array of contents.
“You’ll have to sign for them,” he said.
“Of course. Prepare the release form.”
The hospital produced an envelope and into it were tipped one signet ring, one gold watch with crocodile strap, one folded handkerchief, and a small plastic bag with contents. Macdonald signed for them and took them back to the embassy.
What neither man knew was that the killers had carried out their instructions but made two inadvertent mistakes. They were told to remove the wallet containing all identifying documents, including ID card, the pazport, and to recover the tape recorder at all costs.
They did not know that the British do not have to carry ID cards on their person inside Britain and only use the full passport for foreign travel. The old-style British passport is a stiff booklet with hard blue covers that ill fits in an inside pocket, and Jefferson had left his behind with the reception clerk at the hotel. They also missed the slim plastic room key in the top pocket. The two together had provided complete identification within two hours of the killing.
The second mistake they could not be blamed for. One of the two bullets had not hit the wallet at all. It had struck the tape recorder hanging over the chest inside the jacket. The bullet destroyed the sensitive mechanism and tore the tiny tape to pieces so that it could never be replayed.
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INSPECTOR Novikov had secured his interview with the director of staff and personnel at the party headquarters for ten o’clock on the morning of August 10. He was somewhat nervous, expecting to be treated with blank amazement and given short shrift.
Mr. Zhilin affected a three-piece dark gray suit and a precise manner, accentuated by a toothbrush moustache and rimless glasses. He gave the appearance of a bureaucrat from an earlier age, which in fact he was.
“My time is short, Inspector. Please state your business.”