“Polyakov is just a pawn on the KGB’s chessboard. Donokov moves the pieces.”
Alex was speechless, then said, almost to himself, “That would explain why he’s always so well informed.” It was some time before he asked, “How did you blow his cover?”
“We have an agent working for us in Leningrad who detests the KGB even more than you do.”
* * *
Alex returned home later that evening. Now he had yet another secret he couldn’t share with his mother, or even Dimitri. Could it be possible that Dimitri was also working for Donokov? He had, after all, recommended he visit Players’ Square. Or was he a CIA operative? One thing Alex knew for certain—he couldn’t risk asking him.
He tried to continue working for Ivan as if nothing had happened, but of course it had, and he was sure it would only be a matter of time before he was found out.
It was about a fortnight after his meeting with the two CIA agents that the first interception took place. Alex was standing on the platform at Queensboro Plaza, waiting for a train to Lexington Avenue, when a voice behind him said, “Don’t look around.”
Alex obeyed the simple command, although his whole body was shaking. A few moments later the voice whispered, “What’s today’s message?”
“A package will be arriving from Odessa on Thursday, dock seven. Make sure you pick it up.”
The man left without another word. Alex delivered Donokov’s message as usual.
For the next few weeks, agents would appear on the subway, on buses, and once when he was crossing a busy intersection. He always passed on whatever message Ivan had given him that day, and then, like the morning mist, they evaporated into thin air, never to be seen again.
Alex could only wonder how long it would be before Ivan worked out that he was serving two masters. But he had to admit, if only to himself, he enjoyed the challenge of trying to convince the KGB man that he had no idea what he was really up to, although he accepted that Ivan was as good a chess player as he was, and his queen was exposed.
* * *
He couldn’t have missed him. In fact it worried Alex just how obvious he was, standing on the subway platform wearing a smart charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He even smelled CIA.
Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Never believe in coincidences, Hammond had warned him. He smiled at Alex, something no other agent had ever done, which only made him more suspicious. Perhaps he was mistaken, and it was just someone who thought he recognized him.
Alex moved away, but the man followed him down the platform. His first mistake. If he had been a CIA agent, he would have disappeared, assuming he’d been spotted. Alex looked down and noticed his second mistake. Although his shoes were highly polished, they were slip-ons, frowned upon by the CIA, who insisted on laces. Such a trivial error.
Alex heard the rumble of an approaching train, and decided to try the jump on/jump off routine, to see if he could lose his shadow. As the train emerged from the tunnel, Alex moved toward the edge of the platform and waited. Suddenly, without warning, he felt two massive hands in the middle of his back, and with one tremendous shove he was propelled toward the track.
He had no way of stopping himself from falling in front of the train. If anything flashed through his mind at that moment, it was that he was about to die, and not a pleasant death. He didn’t notice a young black man racing toward him, who tackled him at the last possible moment, as if he was trying to prevent a touchdown.
The young CIA agent left Alex spreadeagled on the platform, while he set off in pursuit of the assailant. Another tackle, as he felled the man halfway up the steps. A moment later a second agent pinned him to the ground and handcuffed him. The assailant turned and looked at Alex, who was pushing himself up from the platform. Despite the noise and clamor of the train doors opening and the passengers streaming off, Alex didn’t need to translate his mouthed words, “You’re dead.”
18
SASHA
Cambridge
Sasha sat alone in a small, badly lit basement room that he’d previously only read about in a Harry Clifton novel. He wanted to turn the page and find out what was going to happen next.
The door swung open and DS Warwick, accompanied by a female officer, entered the room. They took their places on the opposite side of the table.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” said Warwick, switching on a tape recorder by his side. “A serious allegation has been made against you, but I want to hear your side of the story before I decide how to proceed.”
The one thing Sasha did remember from Harry Clifton novels was that Derek Matthews, the bent barrister whose regular clients were all too familiar with this predicament, always instructed them to say nothing until he arrived. But Sasha wasn’t a criminal, and he had nothing to hide. He waited impatiently to discover what the “serious allegation” was, aware that by withholding that vital piece of information, the detective was trying to make him feel uneasy and nervous. He was succeeding.
“A Miss Fiona Hunter,” said Warwick eventually, “has made a statement that on Thursday, November the sixteenth—last Thursday—you climbed the fire escape outside her room in Newnham College around ten o’ clock, entered her study on the third floor, and stole a confidential file.” He stared directly at Sasha. “What do you have to say about this accusation?”
“What’s in the file?” said Sasha.
The detective ignored the question. “Miss Hunter claims that she has proof you entered the country illegally after escaping from prison, having murdered a police officer.”
“I did escape,” said Sasha, “from the biggest prison on earth. I didn’t murder the KGB officer, but only wish I had.”