The Tontine Trap E-Book

Paul Purnell

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 469

Beschreibung

Escape from Kazakhstan lands James Ballantyne in a Russian prison. What seems to be an easy way out turns into a dead end. Only the charm of Ocksana Petrova, his girlfriend, gets him away from a penal colony and back to London. But he has to pay the price by agreeing to infiltrate an international conspiracy known as 'The Tontine.' His boss at the Foreign Office details him to identify the leading members and steal the Matrix which is the secret weapon they mean to use to disrupt Oil Supplies to Europe. He is sent to Romania for an undisclosed objective. It turns out to be the assassination of a rival member. The team travels together and when the killing is set up Ballantyne cannot bring himself to shoot in cold blood. He has to manoeuvre to avoid taking the shot and comes under suspicion. Can he escape discovery? He offers to undertake more work for the group to shield himself. Among hired mercenaries and professional killers, he moves through the underworld of Paris, Malta and Italy. An accidental slip by a Foreign Office clerk reveals his true identity to one of the gang masters and Ballantyne is forced to kill to protect his own life. From then on he puts aside his misgivings and is prepared to do whatever is necessary to finish the job. He finds himself in a whirlwind of violence and treachery. The climax comes when the most powerful Tontine member Count Fosco plans to use the Matrix to eliminate the others. How can James stop him? The book closes with James Ballantyne taking his own special revenge against international treachery.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

By The Same Author

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Copyright

Also by the same author

“The Hireling”

“Scaramouche”

“The Storm”

“Dangerous Cargo”

And

“The Kazak Contract”

(First of the James Ballantyne Series.)

PROLOGUE

‘Get me his file!’ Melford sent the filing clerk scuttling across the office to the bank of computers in search of Ballantyne’s records. The whole office could read his mood from the scowl on his face and the bark in his voice. He was the Head of Agent Control at the FCO, and had lost track of one of his ‘disposable agents’, James Ballantyne.

When the pages appeared on his screen, he sat scratching his chin while he read the CV and the HR Report.

REVIEW REPORT CV

HR REPORT

‘Where is he now?’

‘We don’t know, Sir. The last time we heard from him was in southern Kazakhstan. But there has been an enquiry from Omsk consulate about a man using the name of Ballantyne.’

‘What the hell would he be doing there? He was sent to Astana! Get me Sir Edmund on the phone.’

The conversation between Melford and the head of the Kazakhstan desk was ‘lively’, and it emerged that the last contact was some three weeks before. Most of the exchange between the two controllers was who was to blame for failing to keep contact with an agent. They had no way of knowing that Ballantyne had crossed over into Russia, and were even less aware of the links with Ocksana Petrova, his Russian girlfriend.

CHAPTER 1

The grey concrete walls were depressingly familiar. James smelt the mixture of disinfectant and urine common to most hard prisons. What was new was the fact that he had been banged up in a Russian one. He had crossed the border from Kazakhstan illegally, but had not expected to be locked up. As a minor diplomat of the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office, he believed the local consul had been informed. It should have been sorted out when stopped by the border police.

‘I am entitled to contact my embassy,’ he said, ‘and they will approve my release.’ He spoke in Russian.

The prison sergeant shrugged. ‘Just your name.’

‘My name is James Ballantyne and my ID shows my credentials.’

‘Credentials?’ His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. ‘You talk of credentials? You have no documents.’

James, for once, lost his cool. ‘I brought my ID to the police station when I got arrested. You must have it with my possessions!’

‘No ID. Move along.’

A squat, bullet-headed officer pushed him on with a shove and he found himself in a large, bare room with bars on the windows where a collection of men squatted or stood against the walls. Some glanced up as he came in; others simply ignored him, slouched in a world of their own.

The day when he and Ocksana arrived in Omsk, they were separated, but they discussed how they would deal with the situation. She had important connections in the Russian Air Force and in the Foreign Service.

‘Don’t fret, my darling, things will work out as soon as I am free of this mess!’ She meant the trouble involving her sudden departure from the Kazakhstan Service. ‘We will alert the British Embassy and get you away from here.’

His confidence was never as strong as hers. After all, he was the one who crossed the border illegally and was wanted in Kazakhstan. Still, he had diplomatic status and had committed no crime in the Russian Federation. A few days in prison would do no harm. Now, with his essential ID missing, he realised that it was not so simple. A general knowledge of prison procedure in Eastern Europe told him it would be more than a few days before he was with Ocksana again.

Several hours passed before the clanking arrival of a food wagon. A rush for the door ended up with a few casualties on the floor. Ballantyne stayed where he was, aware of the hidden danger of struggling with the crowd. He sat against the wall and waited. No food was better than a shiv in the guts.

A man in rags came and sat beside him. He was lean and tall, so when he crouched down against the wall his bony knees peaked in front of him. He looked sideways at Ballantyne.

‘So, you don’t like the food?’ he said.’ Better in the Palace Hotel, I suppose?’

‘Where’s that?’ James did not want to start a contest with this sad figure.

‘Anywhere!’ said the thin man. ‘I see you are a foreigner. Maybe you need help?’

‘What makes you say that? Do I look needy?’

James used the Russian word ‘mannomyu’ to express his indignation. He knew how important it was to speak confidently in such circumstances. The tall man raised his hands and said, ‘Peace! Brother, I am a man of peace! Just to find out if you need some stuff!’

Every prison had its ‘servicer’ – a man who could provide supplies of contraband, if you could pay for it. If you had no cash, then you could still get help, but you paid one way or the other. Ballantyne shook his head and turned away.

‘Okay, milord.’ The servicer shrugged and pulled a cigarette out of a packet tucked into his sleeve, ‘You want one?’

‘No, if I need one I’ll contact you.’

Instinct told him that it was dangerous to rebuff this man outright. He must have important connections within the prison. The man unfolded himself from the wall and drifted away to talk with others. Ballantyne watched to see who his associates were. One was a small, wiry figure wearing a denim jacket and grey tracksuit pants. His face looked lopsided; a scar ran down his cheek and one eye had been displaced, giving a grotesque contortion to his expression. He stared at Ballantyne and spoke to the tall man. The man returned and stood over James.

‘Come milord, Vadik needs to speak with you.’

Ballantyne nodded at the ugly little man. He crossed the room casually and looked down into the one good eye of the short man.

‘Yes?’

The man came close to Ballantyne and stared up at him. His mouth gaped and showed his teeth like a worried dog.

‘You, an American spy? You need friends in Russia.’ It sounded matter-of-fact but the subtext was protection.

‘Forget it, Tovarich, I shall be out of here within a few days.’

It was a mistake.

Two other men, bulky, hard-faced men, moved alongside him. They stood close and looked at him with stony expressions.

‘You need help every day of your life here, friend,’ said the weaselly little man, ‘otherwise accidents happen.’

Ballantyne shrugged and said, ‘What’s the deal?’

‘Just come to me when you want a phone or some sniff, then you owe me, ponimayu (understand)?’

He had heard it in other prisons. In Afghanistan and in Iraq, where he had undergone detention. He nodded. He needed a phone to speak to Ocksana and ensure some rapid action by the British Embassy.

‘I need a phone now!’

The little man’s face cracked into a distorted smile, showing his fangs.

‘Meet me at dinner time.’

He nodded to the two minders and they moved away.

Time past slowly, partly because Ballantyne half expected a visit from the embassy, or at least the consul, and partly because he was keen to discover how Ocksana got on with her high-ranking connections. It gnawed at him that perhaps Kazak Security had managed to influence the Russians against her. He chivvied himself for the thought, since he marvelled at her ingenuity and resources. She was a special person.

The dinner hour arrived. Hunger pushed him into the scramble for food and he fought as keenly as the next man for his plate of stew and lump of bread. He knew that he was protected against attack. He squatted down against the wall and waited, scooping up every last drop and crumb.

The man Vadik came to sit beside him, showing his left profile with the scar and drooping eye. He did not turn to face him but spoke out of the side of his mouth.

‘You pay now or want credit?’

‘How can I pay now? Look at me!’

‘You have a watch.’

James surrendered his few items, including his watch, when he was arrested.

‘Sure, but it’s in the property bag.’

‘What type?’

‘Breitling Voyager.’

Vadik grunted, his hand to his mouth as if pondering the deal.

‘Okay,’ he said at last, ‘I look at it and we do deal.’

‘How come? It’s in the police store?’

Vadik said nothing but raised his good eyebrow.

James cursed himself for keeping his favourite watch when he could have got by with a digital junk one, but it was too late now. He needed a phone.

‘I see you tomorrow.’

There were no bunks in the holding room but a gate was opened to allow the men to access to a corridor of open cells. Most of the prisoners filed into cells, but Ballantyne felt safer in the big room. He bedded down in a corner and pretended to sleep. There was little movement among the men who stayed in the big room, and Ballantyne was not approached. Later, he saw Vadik creep across the space and tap at the iron gate. A policeman came close and talked to him in a whisper, then he passed something across and went away.

In the early morning, the tall man in rags beckoned to him from the corridor leading to the cells. He had James’s watch in his hand.

‘Okay, we can do a deal. I get the phone for you.’

Ballantyne gripped the hand holding the watch, using sufficient force to lock it inside the man’s fist.

‘Good! But I hold the watch till I see the phone works.’

The man grunted with pain and nodded. He released his hold and James removed it from his grasp. Within a minute he was back. In his hand, a black shiny object, no bigger than a disposable lighter.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘try it!’

James could not believe that this little black object could work, but he dialled Ocksana’s number using the tiny keyboard. It was a finicky operation but it worked.

The number rang but there was no answer. He rang off immediately; maybe her phone was tapped and the longer he rang, the greater the possibility of a trace being made.

‘See?’ The gaunt man grinned. ‘Chinese tech is good, no?’

There were traces of cellophane still wrapped around the stem and it dawned on James how the object had been brought in; a normal body search would not reveal it, only a cavity search . He spat on it and wiped it on his sleeve.

‘Okay, I want more than this for my watch. What else can you do? I want a single cell.’

The man frowned and turned away, then walked through to the open cell area. In a minute Vadik appeared and limped across the room, his face contorted, fist clenched.

‘You think you can bargain with Vadik?

Ballantyne held up his hands as if to push him away.

‘Listen, you know my watch is valuable and all I need is a space to use the phone. I can’t do it here, can I?’

The little man was taken by surprise by his disarming reply. Maybe he expected a physical face-off, but instead had to respond to a sensible suggestion.

He paused for a moment then threw his head back and grinned.

‘You are one wily bastard, English! Alright, if you are here for short time we find you some space.’ Then he stabbed his finger at James. ‘But no more crazy ideas, the watch is mine!’

One of the henchmen went ahead and cleared out a cell, pulling two of the unfortunate inmates into the corridor. Ballantyne handed over the watch and stepped in and closed the heavy door; it had no lock.

This time she answered. ‘My darling! Are you all right? Listen, I have the consul set up and he will come today, sometime, with a discharge paper, so hang on! Is there a payphone in the prison?’

James grinned. ‘Better than that, we have our own supplies. I’ll explain when I see you. Are you all right? No problems?’ He rang off promptly and stowed the phone away in his pocket.

Outside in the hall a guard peered through the gate. He beckoned to Ballantyne. ‘Come out England, a visitor for you.’

In a bare room in the police station, a man in a sheepskin coat sat at a table. He removed a fur cap and ran a hand through his hair.

‘Good morning. I am Sergei Bassilev, the British consul in Omsk. You need my help.’

‘I expected embassy staff. I am a diplomat, even if low-ranking!’

James was conscious of his remark but could not resist the comment; after all, he was senior rank.

Bassilev shrugged his broad shoulders. His face reminded James of a turnip ready for the pot; his skin was pasty but coarse and his hair stood up like a vegetable stalk.

‘I do what I’m told, Mister Ballantyne, and the embassy contacted my office to come here.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry!’ James shook his head and held out his hand. ‘How do we get me out of here?’

‘Well, I need to take your photo and send it to the embassy for verification. It should not take more than a few days.’

‘I was told you would have a release paper with you.’

‘I’m afraid you were misinformed. The British Consulate has agreed a specific protocol for alleged criminals.’

James could feel his temperature rising. ‘Look! I’m not a criminal, but I do need my credentials verified to get out of here. Contact the embassy to send someone with my verification.’

Bassilev stared at him impassively. He had heard similar complaints before.

‘Okay, I take your photo and speak to the embassy. You realise the embassy is in Moscow; there is no office in Omsk?’

At once, James could envisage the grindingly slow procedure this limp official would set in motion. He needed a different method of getting clear of this morass.

‘Okay. Take the photo and please expedite your instructions.’

The man took two photos and Ballantyne noted he took a typical set of mugshots – full face and profile. It dawned on him that this was a huge mistake; perhaps within minutes, his mugshot would be broadcast on websites throughout Russia and beyond.

He grabbed the camera and wrenched it out of Bassilev’s hands. The man struggled with him, but he punched him away.

‘What you do?’

Ballantyne went through the menu of the camera, deleting the photos.

‘Okay, you can go now!’

Bassilev’s face took on a purple tinge and he began to curse, but James pushed him out of the door and turned away in case he tried to take another photo before he left. The last he heard was the noise of uplifted voices in the outer office, as he found refuge of a sort in the detention room.

CHAPTER 2

‘But I spoke directly to the embassy in Moscow!’ Ocksana’s voice sounded strained in the tiny phone that James held to his ear. ‘It was all arranged for the consul to clear it up.’

‘Well, they must have thought again, or I am persona non grata at the moment.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They are making a point at my expense for what happened in Astana. After the trouble with the Kazaks, they are punishing me for going off-limits!’

‘Let me think.’ Her practical mind began to whirl. It was one of the things James loved about her, her resourcefulness and her fighting spirit.

‘Look, I am keeping out of sight at the Severnyj Air Force base outside Omsk. I’ll get together with old friends and we’ll figure out a way to get you out. Just wait it out, my love.’ She switched off.

Ballantyne joined the queue to get his share of bread and tea, staying within sight of the gate which led back into the police station. Not much happened for the next two hours; no one paid special attention to him, even Vadik kept a distance from him as if sensing he was already outside his domain.

The sound of raised voices caught James’s attention. Through the limited view of the iron gate he could see a group of blue uniforms crowding round the station officer. They were arguing and pushing the duty officer towards the gate.

‘Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!’ A large, bull-faced Air Force officer was shouting. ‘I tell you I have ministerial authority to detain this man.’

By the time he reached the gate, the police officer was fumbling for his keys, only to have them snatched from his hands by one of the Air Force officers.

‘You,’ said the big man. ‘You Ballantyne, you go with us.’

James got the message, and allowed himself to be pulled out of the detention block as a reluctant prisoner. They rushed him outside into a large Zim truck and were away in a minute. Inside, as he expected, was the figure of the one woman in the whole world who he could rely on. She hugged him and kissed him in front of the men. They raised a scornful cheer and James felt the colour rising in his cheeks. She looked radiant with her dark hair and ivory skin glowing in the shade of the lorry cover.

‘To hell with the English embassy,’ she said, and the group cheered enthusiastically. From the cab of the lorry, the broad face of the senior officer grinned through.

‘You see, Tovarich – how bullshit baffles brains?’

James had to agree; the rules were the same in every country.

They drove directly to the airbase and went into the officers’ quarters, in a block nearest to the runways. Out on the airfield, two fighters taxied out to the runway. SU30’s. Ballantyne tried to avoid attention as he examined their equipment, to identify if they were the latest designs. He noted their heat-seeking missiles and non-standard 50mm canons, and memorised it for future reference.

The big, bull-faced man was Grigor Vasilich, the station commander. He had put on his full parade uniform with medals and braid for the bluff at the police station. He beamed at James.

‘You see how we love our little songbird Ocksana? She should never have left us for those Kazak peasants!’

He gave her a hug that crushed her shoulders and she winced and rolled her eyes.

‘You never let me fly the MIGs,’ she said, ‘so I flew away!’

Shots of vodka did the rounds once or twice. No one seemed to care about the consequences of their ‘kidnap’.

James managed to catch her amid the raucous celebrations and arrange a quiet spot to talk.

‘Wait till after the midday meal and we can talk at last. I’ll give you a sign when we can get away.’

She kissed him lightly on the lips and drifted back into the noisy crowd. He spent the next ten minutes chatting to a young officer on secondment from Chechenya attending a fighter course. His information was interesting about the state of relationships between Federal Russia and its satellites.

Then the meal began. Ballantyne had some experience of meals with various military units, but this was beyond anything he had ever tried. A long table covered in a white cloth at the side of the dining room was crammed with food. In the centre of the room sat several round tables laid with immaculate care. The whole crowd of guests and officers moved simultaneously to attack. No one had precedence; the rush for seats nearest to the food was alarming. The noise of the assembly made it almost impossible to hear conversation, so James joined in the bunfight and his thoughts went back to the prison where the morning scrabble for food was not very different from the wave of diners in this group, apart from the quality of the food.

The meal continued into the mid-afternoon. It seemed endless. Course followed course, each interspersed with a speech and a toast. Ocksana squeezed her way between two jolly, roaring young men and managed to pull James out of the room. The corridor seemed like a silent cave after the noise inside.

‘Poor darling! Is this your first meal with our Russian military? I should have warned you.’ Her eyes sparkled with amusement and she put her hand in his with a tender touch.

He looked into her eyes and felt an immense rush of pure affection for this wonderful woman. Words were worthless coins in this currency, only the instincts of the heart mattered. They stood together for a while, leaning forward without touching, eye to eye.

‘You’ll never leave me, will you?’

His question was direct, as if his life depended on her answer.

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and she kissed him, holding his head with her hand gently.

By four o’clock the lunch was almost over, and individuals settled in a variety of chairs and alcoves. They slipped away to a quiet room in the barracks and spoke about the future.

‘What will you do?’ he asked.

She shrugged and said, ‘The first thing is to straighten out my situation with the Kazaks.’

‘How?’

She smiled and her eyes sparkled. ‘My godfather will help me out, I think!’

James thought of godfathers who turned up at a christening, then maybe sent a ten-pound note once in a while.

‘Do you know who my godfather is?’ Her grin told him he was in for a surprise.

‘Papa Grigor, my lovely general! How do you imagine we got you out of prison?’

James felt a fool; here he was, free, not from his diplomatic status but because this wonderful girl could call on her connections to help him out.

‘But what can he do about the Kazaks?’

‘Listen, I will go to Moscow and he will find me a job in the ministry. That will shut the Kazaks up; they will not dare to take on the government!’

She looked into his eyes and read the fear they expressed.

‘Darling, we have to be apart for some little time, don’t we? You must go back to London to explain yourself so we have to be separated for a while.’

James liked the expression ‘go back to explain himself’ – if only she knew the storm he faced in Whitehall when he got back! Still, she was right; they would have to sort themselves out if they were to be together.

He looked at her quizzically. ‘Does everything in Russia depend on who you know?’ He grinned and shook her before folding her in his arms.

Later that night they spent what they knew would be the last one together for some time. They slept deeply after their passionate love and woke happily in each other’s arms.

‘Think of me, my love,’ she breathed, as they lay together in the dawn light.

‘Always,’ he whispered, and yet he could not stop his mind from flying away to London and the prospect of his meeting with Sir Edward Cavendale, his desk chief.

While they had breakfast in the officers’ quarters, a young officer approached. He was dressed in a flight uniform and saluted.

‘General Vasilich asks you to attend a flight meeting in half an hour.’

They took it as a command.

‘Of course.’

‘Please bring your effects with you.’

Ocksana furrowed her brows. ‘Effects?’

‘General says you should be ready to fly!’

James’s effects amounted to a pair of trousers and an aircraft shirt he had begged from a friendly officer. Ocksana grabbed her overnight bag and they went to the briefing room.

It was a large, bare room with a wall screen for projecting maps. In front of a desk were two rows of folding chairs and eight crew were already sitting there. Vasilich bustled in and James noted the puffy, purple shade of his face as he got to the podium.

Not a happy general this morning, James reflected, and sat up to hear the plan.

‘Gentlemen,’ he nodded to Ocksana by way of apology, ‘we have to move quickly. I do not intend to have the whole Omsk police force on my back as a result of our little enterprise yesterday. We all know it was necessary and I intend to resolve the situation in this way. A troop transport flight is scheduled for Moscow today, and you crew members will carry two extra passengers with you. As far as you are concerned, they are security personnel. Flight crew to the briefing room, ready for take-off in one hour. Dismissed.’

When the men had filed out, Ocksana gave him a hug and told him how much he meant to her. He patted her arm and looked at Ballantyne.

‘This is my little bright star; you must look after her, English.’ His eyes were moist and James wondered if he would start to cry, but instead he punched him on the shoulder and pointed his stubby finger at him.

‘More like, she will look after me,’ James said and he put his arm around her.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We need to clear out of here before the shit hits the fan!’

Ballantyne made a mental note to try to unlearn her of the Americanisms she had picked up.

Out on the runway, the dark green Antonov warmed up. Forty minutes later, they were high on their way to Moscow. Ballantyne looked at his woman, happily chatting away with the navigator, and began to work out what he could do to avoid the avalanche of trouble waiting for him in London.

CHAPTER 3

A clear blue sky, a sunset glowing over the snow-tipped mountains – the descent was perfect. James and Ocksana stepped down to a smiling welcome from the duty officer at the Kubinka airbase, outside Moscow.

‘Good evening.’ The officer saluted and offered his hand to Ocksana. He turned to James, and nodded. ‘General Vasilovic has briefed us concerning you, Mister Ballantyne. I understand there is some urgency about your return to London?’

James nodded. ‘I need to contact the British Embassy at once and get a travel warrant to fly to London.’

He did not think it would help matters to explain further; the embassy would need to know, but no one else.

The base was very similar to Omsk but much bigger. There was little chance of observing the military planes since it was getting dark and the runways were clear. Ballantyne got on to the embassy right away. A recorded voice took him through the usual tedious set instructions, with the ‘Press one for X’ routine, and he waited till that was over. Then a woman’s voice came on the line. She sounded slightly familiar.

‘This is the emergency line for the British Embassy. What is the subject…’

At that point, it dawned on James.

‘Carol? Is that you Carol? It’s me James, James Ballantyne!’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘James? Good God! We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where are you?’

Carol Stevens had shared a desk with him some months before he joined the Kazak Desk.

Within a minute, he explained his need to get back to London on the first available flight.

‘Too right!’ she said. ‘The Kazaks are steaming and accusing us of spying in Astana. What have you been doing?’

‘No time to explain. Can you get me a travel warrant, pronto?’

‘Hold on a second.’ He could tell she was reading something. ‘There’s a flight to London leaving at eleven-thirty tonight. I’ll get a courier to meet you at the gate. Don’t go to the check in – there may be a check there.’

‘Yes, but I need my ID as well.’

‘What?’ She sighed. ‘Okay, but get out of my hair, will you?’ She managed to mix exasperation and amusement in the same breath.

Ocksana caught the gist of the conversation and slipped her arm round him.

‘So soon? My love?’

He nodded, reminding her of their talk about separation.

‘Yes, but so soon!’

They sat together for a while; there was nothing to be said. They both knew it was inevitable. Then she sighed and kissed him, pulling him to his feet.

‘Come on. Let’s get to the airport and get you started.’

A taxi drove them to Moscow Main Station and they took the shuttle bus to Domededovo, avoiding the Metro Train Express service, which was new.

‘Best to be safe, the express will be monitored,’ she said.

They left each other in the main gallery and checked their phones. He held her close and whispered his love to her, then they went their own ways, not looking back.

As he approached the embarkation gate, a young man, evidently English, wearing a sports jacket and corduroy trousers, stepped up to meet him. Ballantyne silently cursed when he set eyes on him; the fresh-faced youth stood out like a neon sign, advertising British Embassy. Did they want him to be detained?

‘I’ve got your travel docs!’ he said. His voice brayed across the hall. Ballantyne grabbed the envelope and muttered an abrupt thank you, rushing to the security area as fast as possible to get away from him.

‘Ungrateful sod!’ said the courier, and made his way back to the exit.

The flight took off on time, and four hours later he was looking out of Terminal Three at Heathrow, in the mist and the never-ending bustle of the airport. He booked in to the Hilton to get some shut-eye, knowing that the morning would bring a summons from the FCO. He needed all his rest to be fit for what was to come.

CHAPTER 4

Breakfast at the Heathrow Hilton was no gourmet meal. A dish of congealed scrambled eggs and a pile of soggy toast was on offer and Ballantyne turned it down. The coffee stewed quietly on the hot plate, and he decided a cup of tea was sensible; he brewed it himself. The double-glazed windows showed the airport like a panoramic screen, with traffic moving silently along the adjacent motorway and planes taking off in an unnatural silence. It was not the ideal homecoming.

The mobile lay next to his cup like a jack-in-the-box waiting to spring to life. The chief of the Kazakhstan desk was going to strip him of his diplomatic status for the incidents in Astana and elsewhere.

But hell! They can’t hang me! At times like these, a bit of gallows humour is invaluable. He looked down at the miserable machine and it buzzed as if it read his mind.

‘Good morning, James,’ a breezy voice, ‘Sir Edward is expecting you at twelve. Where are you staying?’ The voice was recognizable but James could not place it; a young man’s voice, with a clipped accent.

‘I’m at the Heathrow Hilton.’

There was a slight pause. ‘Oh! I see…’ Plainly the Hilton was not on the Foreign Office’s list of acceptable hotels. ‘Well, see you at eleven forty-five.’

Ballantyne went into the foyer and found a small kiosk selling ‘English-Made Shirts’ at ridiculous prices. He bought one and a tie; he could not appear in front of Sir Edward without a tie. Doing his best, he smoothed his hair, shaved carefully and caught the shuttle bus into town. Despite the heavy traffic, it was a pleasant contrast to be back in the tidy world of London, with its pavements and trees. Ocksana would like it too, he reflected, and his thoughts flew back to Moscow, wondering how she was getting on.

The Foreign and Colonial Office forms the corner of Parliament Square. The grand stone building imposes itself on the visitor, demanding respect. As James ran up the front steps, he recalled days long past when he faced a beating for some schoolboy crime. Ruefully, the comparison seemed appropriate. The uniformed doorman narrowed his eyes.

‘Yes Sir?’

Ballantyne held out his ID card and stared at the man.

‘Room Eight, Block B.’ The abrupt response added more than a jot of hostility to his return and he felt his temperature rising.

For God’s sake, get a grip! You haven’t seen Sir Edward yet!

He knew his way to Block B, and passed through the ornate hallway to a corridor in the building behind. The marble was replaced with brick as soon as he passed from the first building to the next. Long passageways painted in faded magnolia stretched in each direction. A comparison with the Russian detention building rose in his mind – the same seedy, worn look – but his spirits rose a little. At least he was among his own at last. Room Eight had a door which looked even more distressed than the others. Its paint was chipped and an area around the door handle was grey with use. He entered without knocking.

‘Good morning, Mister Ballantyne.’ The woman at the desk stood up and came round to meet him. She was a thin figure dressed in a brown cardigan and a grey skirt. Her eyes behind her spectacles regarded him with curiosity, as if she wanted to imprint on her mind the picture of his face, before and after Sir Edward had dealt with him. She smiled faintly and James’s heart felt like lead. She showed him into the office.

Sir Edmund Cavendale had spent twenty years in the army before taking up his post at the Kazakhstan desk. He had overruled a negative assessment on Ballantyne, and personal endorsed James’s application to join the Service. He would have to justify it now.

He had become accustomed to military life and it never occurred to him to change his ways. He did not rise to greet James. Instead, he stared at him silently. James stared back, determined not to fall for such an old trick.

At last he spoke. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘I got caught up in a trap with an American agent, but I did get the treaty initialled.’

‘Fucked up, you mean! I’ve had the Kazak Embassy on my back and what’s worse, the bloody Permanent Secretary, moaning about ‘commercial disaster’.’

Despite the complaint, Ballantyne sensed there was an undertone of sympathy below the surface. Cavendale’s brows were drawn together but the corners of his eyes betrayed a slight twinkle, as if he was playing a part.

James decided to explain a little further. His first plan had been to keep to the minimum, on the basis ‘Never complain: Never explain’, but he followed his instincts and outlined the escape through Kirghizstan, leaving out his links with Ocksana.

Cavendale leaned back in his chair, fingers entwined, and listened closely. When it was finished, he stood up and walked to the window. Outside, Horse Guards Parade was lit up by a sudden shaft of sunlight. The harsh sound of a Guards sergeant drilling a platoon echoed off the buildings.

‘D’you see that?’ He turned and motioned Ballantyne to the window, ‘That’s what soldiers do! They obey orders!’

Ballantyne looked down on the parade ground and the file of scarlet uniforms marching across the smooth gravel.

‘Yes, Sir, but marines have to use their heads as well!’

‘And you used your head, did you? Lying to the Kazak Ministry and abusing our diplomatic immunity?’

Keep shtum! a little voice inside him warned James.

‘Nevertheless. I want to discuss something with you, to see if we can get out of this mess.’

Sir Edmund moved back to his desk and motioned James to the chair in front.

‘Do you know what a tontine is?’

James shook his head. ‘Isn’t it some horse-racing betting ring?’

‘Not far off. It is a special investment device: a group of investors put a fixed amount into a fund, and the fund is shared out after a set period. If it makes money, they all win; if it loses, they share the losses, obviously.’ He leaned forward. ‘But here is the nub of the scheme. Every time a member dies, the shares of the remainder increase. If all but one fall away, then that man gets the lot.’

Ballantyne frowned. ‘What sort of figures are we talking about?’

Cavendale smiled thinly. ‘A billion each!’

‘How many investors?’

‘Eight that we know of, maybe more. This one started in the States, but has taken a nasty turn.’

‘What do you mean? It doesn’t seem anything to do with us.’

‘When I tell you that two of the eight have already died mysteriously, maybe you can see that this directly affects us here.’

James frowned, still mystified.

‘Don’t you see? Two Eastern European oligarchs have died in the UK, and our standing in the Eastern Europe Block is at risk. They believe we are supporting American investors by condoning the elimination of their members.’

‘Where do we come in?’ Ballantyne began to feel uneasy. Was he being set up for a hospital pass?

‘We can restore our position commercially by helping them discover who is behind these killings.’

‘Who says they were killed? Maybe they died and it’s a coincidence?’

Cavendale reached over, pulled out a file and threw it across the desk. It contained two reports. The first was a forensic report on the death of Casimir Kubalov, Russian COE of Rastov Chemicals. He had died as a result of a fall from a fourth-floor window onto railings in the street below.

The second report listed the cause of death of Grigor Yassivich, a Rumanian oligarch. Cause of death was by fatal injection of an excessive dose of cocaine.

‘The point is, they died in our country, and they were both members of the Urals Tontine.’

‘It could still be coincidence.’ James could feel the faint stirring of interest, and was determined to fight it. After all, he deserved a break from slumming it around the Russian Federation.

Cavendale pressed his lips together and leant forward. ‘Of course, this investigation would be arranged on a wholly different basis. This is not a FCO job; the operation is a joint one with the USA, and we can arrange special agent remuneration for the contract.’

Ballantyne knew of the big difference in pay between the US operators and his own meagre salary, which reminded him of the fact that he had received no pay for the last three months. He sensed this was the moment to speak up. It was obvious the FCO needed someone to take on this sticky job, and he would not let them buy him off cheaply.

‘I am owed three months as it is, Sir.’

Sod them, they owe me!

Cavendale raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you think your performance so far deserves commendation or special status?’

‘I did the job and helped a US agent, so would say yes, Sir.’

There was a pause, then James saw the slightest twitch of the moustache and he knew he’d won the point.

‘Well, all considered, I can endorse your claim, but,’ here the older man pulled rank, ‘we expect full reports and discipline in the future!’

‘Of course.’ Ballantyne looked him straight in the eye. They both sensed it was a charade.

‘Well, go and see Melford in Operations, and keep me posted.’

Ballantyne felt instinctively like saluting, but caught himself in time and turned to leave the room.

‘Is that Russian girl still with you?’ James paused, struck by the fact that FCO knew about Ocksana.

He faced about, and saw Cavendale was grinning at him. ‘You see, James, we aren’t so dim as you believe. We’ve checked her out and she seems straight!’

Not sure whether to be angry or glad, Ballantyne nodded and made his way out.

It was only afterwards, as he walked down the corridor, that he thought what he should have said – but it was too late.

As he walked away, he tried to sift through the various feelings running through his mind. The first was relief; he had escaped dismissal for the obvious breach of diplomatic conduct. Hard upon that came the urge to get involved in this mysterious new enquiry; it suited his instincts, since it would get him away from the routine diplomatic drudgery. Yet he was concerned about Ocksana, and how he could combine a role in this covert enquiry with his desire to be with her. What he was reluctant to admit was the excitement he felt at going undercover and the appeal of danger. This conflict engaged him as he searched for the Operations Bureau among the indistinguishable corridors of Whitehall.

He persuaded himself he could make up his mind after he had seen what Operations could offer him. In his heart, he knew this was just a deception he had set up to postpone a decision.

Operations was a large room, with an open-plan layout of several desks and assorted workstations, each location set up with computers and printers, plus one or two machines he did not recognise. Nobody paid him any attention.

Adrian Melford worked from an office at the end of the big room. One of the staff pointed James in that direction, and he could make out the figure of a man tapping furiously at a computer keyboard.

‘Sit down; get a mug and help yourself.’ The little man nodded towards a kettle on a filing cabinet. James made a cup of tea after examining what was on offer. Nescafe and Bournvita featured predominantly, but he found a few teabags among the scattered packets. He sipped the tea and examined the figure still working the keyboard.

Melford was about fifty years old, with a large head and thick, horn-rimmed glasses. His hands drew Ballantyne’s attention; they were encased in thin black gloves with the fingertips cut off, so that the ends of his fingers poked out like pink stubs as he kept up the staccato on the keys. Suddenly, he stopped typing and turned to look at James. His eyes, magnified by the strong lenses, looked bigger than normal and the brown pupils almost filled the frames.

‘Cavendale is a bit of a shit, isn’t he?’ The question was tossed Ballantyne’s way as if they were old friends chatting together. James sensed an ambush.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘he did me a favour some time ago, so he’s not so bad.’

‘A favour?’ The mouth twisted into a smile. ‘There’s always a first, I suppose!’

Ballantyne could think of nothing to say in response, so he kept quiet.

Eventually, Melford stopped typing and got up.

‘Look, we can’t talk here. Let’s find a quiet spot to have a chat.’

James wondered what ‘the chat’ would reveal.

CHAPTER 5

Summer in Moscow can be hot. Ocksana walked to work along the square, feeling the warm wind from the Urals breathing heat into the dry air. She wore a summer dress, and knew that by noon, her office in the Ministry building would be stifling. She longed for the air conditioning she’d enjoyed in New York. Promises of promotion inside the FSB, arising from her sponsor General Vasilovic, had not come true, and she found herself in a section dealing with Chechen suspects under supervision. It was mostly office work, keeping files up to date, and well below her official status in the service. She decided to remain in the tasks assigned for the moment; James had not yet reported the result of his London interview with the FCO.

Her sense of disorientation continued. Ever since she reunited with her lover, her perspective had changed. Excitement and danger became a secondary aspect of her life; she loved her active role, but felt more vulnerable once she fell for this like-minded Englishman. The urge to phone him to find out what had occurred when he’d confronted his boss at the Foreign Office became irresistible.

James’s number rang a few times before he answered.

‘Hello, my darling, what happened?’

‘Well, I’m still alive! Cavendale is a bit of a bluffer…’

She broke in, ‘What is that? A tyrant?’

James laughed, ‘Sorry, my love, no – what the Americans call a ‘bullshitter’.’

‘In what way?’

He explained in more detail how the interview went.

Ocksana’s voice took on a worried tone. ‘Does this mean you have to undertake more danger to be accepted again? It sounds like dirty tricks, not bullshit to me!’

James realised he had made a rod for his own back. Now he would need to placate her, if he wanted to do the operation Cavendale offered.

‘Don’t worry! It’s not tricky. I haven’t got the details yet, but it’s checking out European personnel – nothing interesting.’

He began to realise that bullshitting was a convenient tool sometimes; he had no idea what Melford would suggest when he saw him in the Operations Room. They exchanged notes and enjoyed this contact, while hoping to meet within the next two weeks.

‘Just keep me posted, my darling!’ she said.

Back in the office, thoughts of London and James still buzzed round her head as she opened a new file on her desk. It was an unusual colour. Most files on Chechen suspects were brown: this was red.

It contained instructions MOST CONFIDENTIAL. She read the brief with interest. It dealt with a recent source of information, about transfers of large sums to continental banks from the Chechen Treasury Funds. The enquiry sought to identify the nominees involved. It was far and away more significant than the routine tasks she had been given, and sparked her interest immediately. She checked her hair, straightened herself and went down to the director’s office.

Max Rubin was a man who rose high in the service through the Akademi. A brilliant mind, from a family who served in Soviet organisations for the last fifty years. He had risen within the service of the Federal Republic, just as his father and forefathers in the Soviet, and he knew his worth.

‘This is not a surprise, my dear Miss Petrova. I expected you.’

Ocksana’s graceful eyebrows furrowed.

‘You see, I left that file on your desk! Like a bait for you!’ He laughed and sat with his hands behind his head.

She smiled and pressed her lips together, frowning slightly. ‘Am I a golden carp, or a minnow?’

‘Oh certainly, a magical fish from the deep pool.’ A reference to the Tales of Gorodin. ‘This interesting file; would you care to comment?’

‘Have we contacts with the continental banks? After all, Swiss banking is difficult.’

Rubin sat up and held out his hands across the desk, palms up; she kept her hands in her lap. His podgy face was set in a close-lipped smile, and she noticed a drop of spittle formed in the corner of his mouth. His eyes betrayed him; there was no warmth in their gaze but they burned with fire.

‘Let me take you into my confidence,’ he leant forward, and it was difficult to avoid his outstretched hands. She sat back. ‘I have looked for a suitable junior officer to handle this complex case for some weeks. I believe you could deal with it.’ His smile became more aggressive as if he demanded her agreement. He tried to make eye contact and his fingers touched her arm.

‘I don’t know what you mean. What is involved?’ She left her arm under his touch for a second before moving away.

‘Maybe we could discuss this in more congenial circumstances?’

His smile took on a different aspect; she thought he looked like Red Riding Hood’s grandma, his teeth projecting from his crimson mouth.

‘I never discuss my work outside the Bureau,’ she was hard pressed to think of the best line of defence, ‘it might arouse suspicion.’ Even she realised this sounded pretty feeble. ‘And,’ she began to think harder, ‘my fiancé is returning tomorrow from London.’

Rubin subsided into his chair and looked intently at his papers.

‘Well, I may have to reconsider what to do; it is a difficult assignment.’

She got up and nodded and left the room.

Outside, she felt a mixture of emotions. Obvious repulsion at the cheap seduction technique, yet a feeling of regret at losing the chance of a task she knew promised travel and excitement. It made the humdrum office job almost unbearable, and she began to wonder how she could stay in Moscow when her heart was in London.

Within minutes, the eyes of the whole Bureau were upon her. As she returned to her desk she wished they still had the old-fashioned offices from Soviet times. She discovered what the women called ‘The Rubin Call’ was common practice in the office, and she was told to ignore him. One of the older women confided, ‘He always tries it on, but don’t worry, the jobs are allocated at a higher level so he has little say in it.’

Ocksana got back to work with just a spark of interest, hoping that a chance of transfer might still be open.

Later that day, her phone rang. ‘Hello, Miss Petrova. Will you come to my office and bring the confidential file with you. This is Eva Brod.’

‘Certainly, where is it?’

The voice took a sharp edge. ‘Ask!’

Biting her lip, Ocksana tried to control her rising temper and made enquiries to find out.

The third floor was noticeably different from the rest. The corridors were lined with paintings and photographs; the floor was carpeted, and an air of calm soothed the spirits. At the end of the passage, a woman stood in the doorway and beckoned her sharply. Inside were two other people: an elderly colonel in uniform and another man, who sat in a corner. The woman, Brod, pointed to a chair. Ocksana took her time to be seated. She had taken an instant dislike to this woman with the rude manner, and was wary of this call, which seemed to be some sort of interview.

‘I am Colonel Zhukov.’ The man in uniform spoke softly and smiled. ‘I am head of International Enquiries at the Moscow Bureau. You already know Madame Brod.’

Ocksana interrupted. ‘No. I have never met Miss Brod.’

She deliberately did not use the courtesy title. She went on, ‘I work in the Chechen Section, under Mr Rubin.’

A slight flicker passed over Zhukov’s face at that name, but he went on.

‘We know you have seen the red file. Is it correct that you have contacts in London?

She thought quickly. ‘No contacts, but I know some people in London, yes.’

‘And you spent some time at the Washington Embassy, did you not?’

‘That was before I moved to Kazakhstan Security, at the request of Central.’

Madame Brod snorted, ‘Kazaks are barbarians and pirates, with too much money swimming around their country.’

The colonel grinned and his eyes widened. ‘You must be a brave girl to survive with those brutes!’

She began to warm to him, but watched the woman out of the corner of her eye, sitting stiffly in her chair and apparently making notes. It was time to take a little initiative.

‘Who is this gentleman?’ nodding towards the man in the corner.

Surprised by her direct approach, he stood up and bowed slightly. ‘I am Dr Aflak. I work for the department.’ Then he sat down without another word.

‘You may have guessed, Miss Petrova, he is a psychologist, an indispensable addition to our staff.’ Zhukov’s dry remark left her in no doubt of his opinion.

‘Is this a reassessment?’ She wondered why this review was necessary.

‘Do not be alarmed,’ the older man smiled disarmingly. ‘Modern personnel tests have to be applied, you know. It is nothing personal.’

To Ocksana it seemed very personal, but she bit her tongue and smiled. She noticed no sympathetic response from Madame Brod. There followed a quarter of an hour in which she was asked about her time in Kazakhstan and her return to Russia. She omitted her connection with Ballantyne and the interview ended without incident.

On her way back to the ground floor, she decided to take the elevator. As she stepped in, Dr Aflak got in beside her. There happened to be no other person in the cabin. For a moment, they stood side by side in awkward silence. As they reached the ground floor he spoke for the first time.

‘I wonder if you can spare me a few minutes?’

His timid enquiry disarmed her and as she turned to look at him, he took her arm and directed her away from the general office. She pulled away from him.

‘What do you want?’

‘Please! I must speak with you.’ His hunched shoulders and urgent whisper compelled her attention.

He walked ahead of her into the rest area where staff ate their meals, and sat down at one of the corner tables.

It was the first time she had looked at him closely. Aflak was a dark-skinned man about five feet six with cropped black hair. Pockmarks disfigured his face and he wore heavy-rimmed spectacles. He fidgeted, twisting a ring on his finger and looking down at the plastic surface. She waited for him to speak, aware that she was dealing with a doctor who would interpret anything she said.

He paused for a second, then burst out with a gush of words as if he had waited till now to unburden himself. ‘I have to find somebody to help!’

Ocksana sat back and watched him intently. Was he setting her up for something? Was this some sort of test of loyalty? What could be the reason for this outburst?

She said nothing and waited.

CHAPTER 6

‘How could I help?’ Her question was a guarded response to his sudden outburst.

‘I need someone to talk to…’ again he hesitated. ‘You are the only person I know outside the apparatchik of Government services.’

‘But I am not that person.’ Ocksana did not want to be drawn into some subterfuge, or worse, a trap to catch her.

‘But you are newly returned from foreign service, and have been in touch with Western authorities. Are there connections which might help?’

He rubbed his eyes, and she noticed how he wrapped his arms around himself as he spoke.

‘Please hear me out! If I can’t find help, terrible things will happen, and it will be too late to stop them!’

She had no doubt in her mind that he was in fear; she felt obliged to listen.

‘Go on,’ she said, and made sure she sat back so that anyone watching would not see them in close conversation.

‘I’ve been attached to the Russian medical service for three years, but I am Syrian by birth. Moscow has maintained close support to the government in Syria for a long time, but now things have changed.’

‘In what way? Everyone knows of our support for the regime in Syria.’

‘We are the White Helmets. Do you know what that means?’

‘Some sort of relief team at work in Syria?’

‘We are not government relief, we are independent people.’

Ocksana was puzzled. ‘So why would you need help?’

‘Russia has turned against us and intends to treat us as insurgents! I have to get a message to my brothers before it is too late.’