Just after three, Umar Gunayev, backed by heavy personal protection, came to visit Monk. This time he was living with a Chechen family in a small apartment just north of the Sokolniki Park Exhibition Center.
“I don’t know how you managed it, my friend, but a very large bomb went off last night.”
“It’s a question of self-interest said Monk. “Petrovsky had a considerable interest in pleasing his superiors right up to the office of the acting president during the week of the visit of the World Bank team. That’s all.”
“All right. Well, the Dolgoruki are in no position to launch a war against me. They will spend weeks trying to repair the damage.”
“And to trace the leak inside the Black Guards,” Monk reminded him.
Umar Gunayev tossed a copy of Sevodnya onto his lap.
“Have a look at page three,” he suggested.
There was a report from Russia’s leading opinion poll organizers to suggest electoral support for the UPF was at fifty-five percent and falling.
“These polls are mainly taken in the cities,” said Monk, “for ease and convenience. Komarov is stronger in the cities. The key will lie with the overlooked teeming masses in the countryside.”
“You really think Komarov can actually be defeated at the polls?” asked Gunayev. “Six weeks ago there would not have been a chance.”
“I don’t know,” said Monk.
This was not the moment to tell the Chechen leader that defeat at the polls was not what Sir Nigel Irvine had in mind. He recalled the old spymaster, still revered in the world of the Great Game as the ultimate practitioner of deception by disinformation, sitting in the library at Castle Forbes with the family Bible open in front of him.
“The key is Gideon, dear boy,” he was saying. “Think like Gideon.”
“You’re miles away,” said Gunayev. Monk snapped out of his reverie.
“Sorry, you were right. Tonight I have to visit the Patriarch again. For the last time. I will need your help.”
“To get in?”
“I think to get out. There is a good chance Grishin has the place under surveillance, as I told you. One man would do, but that man will call up others while I am inside.”
“We’d better start planning,” said the Chechen.
¯
COLONEL Anatoli Grishin was in his apartment preparing for bed when his mobile phone rang. He recognized the voice without introduction.
“He’s here. He’s here again.”
“Who?”
“The American. He’s back. He’s with His Holiness now.”
“He suspects nothing?”
“I don’t think so. He came alone.”
“As a priest?”
“No. All in black, but civilian dress. The Patriarch seemed to be expecting him.”
“Where are you?”
“In the pantry, making coffee. I must go.”
The phone disconnected. Grishin tried to control his elation. The hated American agent was almost in his grasp. This time there would be no East Berlin. He called the leader of the inner-core group of the Black Guards’ enforcers.