Moscow, July 2011
Very quiet, very secluded and ridiculously green, the quiet man thought as he passed an imposing pillared gate and began to ascend a damp, mossy, stone pathway towards the concrete and glass building that jutted forcefully out of the rampant foliage, seeming to float in mid-air. The severe angles of the house contrasted starkly with the plant life and partly disappeared into the mist that was still clinging to the top of the small ravine in which it was built while the bluish glass that dominated the front was water stained and patchy with condensation. Considering he was on the outer edges of greater Moscow, he mused, climbing steadily, you could almost be forgiven, this morning, for thinking that you were somewhere somewhat farther south and more temperate than you really were. An interesting, exclusive, wealthy and very Western European enclave for a self-styled Russian Nationalist to choose as a home…
The young man continued on his measured way until he arrived at the entry to the building. An entry that was hardly welcoming: a heavy-gauge steel wired cage with an even heavier-duty frame, there was an equally heavy-set, dark haired and bearded man standing guard on the inside, a man who subjected him to patently suspicious scrutiny as he stood, composed, on the outside. The quiet man, however, was unperturbed, announcing calmly,
"I have an appointment with Mikhail Levrov. He's expecting me."
The beard continued his scrutiny but he knew that his employer was indeed expecting an English visitor this morning so eventually he unlocked the door and stood back to let the man through. Ignoring the hostile guard completely, Tom Quinn, implacable, made his way towards the inner staircase.
Five weeks before. Thames Embankment.
They met at the usual bench, the one they all used to escape the office, with the magnificent view over the river towards the Houses of Parliament. Not that either was admiring that view on this fine, sunny day. The older man had a face of stone, hard and impenetrable and, on first appearances, completely emotionless. Until he turned his eyes on you. Dark eyes that were a bottomless well of tears but not quite dead: a relentless, vengeful fire burned there, a fire that would not be quenched until justice had been served, a sentiment with which the younger man fully concurred. His own blue eyes were alight with the same fire in a face equally impassive: two weeks after her funeral and a week after accepting the confirmation, this commission was becoming more and more personal for him with every passing day.
Few words passed between the two at this meeting. A tiny thumb drive had been exchanged when they shook hands in greeting, before they sat. The older man said, bluntly,
"All the details are on there. You will have assistance on site that can be completely trusted." The younger man allowed the briefest expression of surprise to cross his face; later, when he studied what was contained on the memory stick, he would no longer be surprised. "As you know, I would prefer to do this myself but obviously cannot. That you are willing to do it for me means more than I can ever say, Tom."
"You wouldn't make it through customs over there, Harry. Leave it to me." As serious as ever. Harry had been relieved beyond words when he had first mentioned the plan, after the funeral, and his former employee had, unprompted, unhesitating and instantly, offered to carry it out. "I have a personal stake in this as well, remember, and I am honoured to be carrying out the task."
The older man nodded, once.
"The US and Russian sources also have personal stakes in the operation, hence the speed and thoroughness of their assistance in providing the information. The faster we move the better. Absorb the contents and we will meet again for final planning before you leave."
They had left it there. There had been two more meetings. Everything came together. Then it was time.
Moscow, July 2011.
Levrov was going through the paperwork relating to the arms deal proposed by the Englishman when he received the signal that the visitor had arrived. He looked up as a measured tread became audible and turned to see a tall, dark-haired man, younger then he expected and dressed casually in jeans, blue shirt and dark overcoat, enter the doorway. Despite knowing that the man was unarmed – he would not have made it past the gate otherwise – Levrov still had an uneasy feeling as he looked at him but dismissed it as unimportant. His visitor was an up-and-coming arms dealer with a developing reputation for efficiency and ruthlessness and was here to sign off on a very lucrative deal supplying the Libyan resistance, nothing more. Standing, he approached the visitor with an outstretched hand.
"Mr Donovan."
"Mr Levrov."
They shook hands, briefly, as they studied each other. Apart from physical appearance, neither could read much from the other so they moved on quickly. Gesturing to the furniture, Levrov returned to his seat but the Englishman remained standing, instead walking over to the floor-to-ceiling picture windows and gazing out over the sea of nodding green. No neighbours in sight. Levrov picked up the paperwork and commented, in very good and only mildly accented English,
"This is quite a deal we have here. Shall we get down to the details?"
The young man – oddly quiet, Levrov thought – turned his back on the window and responded, without any trace of expression,
"Not quite yet. There is another issue that needs discussing first."
Tom gazed at the older man and, as usual, wondered why the worst of the worse always appeared so nondescript. So ordinary. None of the real fanatics ever appeared as they were drawn in popular culture and this man, responsible for so much pain going back so many decades, was a classic example. Average height, average build, grey hair and beard, both neatly trimmed, glasses: he could have been anyone. But he wasn't. The files recovered from Jim Coaver's laptop, as well as those provided by the other sources, proved that beyond doubt. Well, now was the time of reckoning.
Levrov saw something flicker briefly in the blue eyes regarding him so steadily and the feeling of unease suddenly returned. Dropping the papers back on the table he asked, reasonably,
"And what would that issue be?"
"You will not be familiar with the names Ruth Evershead and Tariq Masood." The blank expression on the Russian's face confirmed that. "You may be slightly familiar with the names Max Witt, James Coaver and Anatoly Arkanov. And you are most certainly familiar with the name Elena Gavrik."
The sudden stillness that enveloped the room was as deep as the ocean and Tom thought he detected a slight paling in the other man's face but nothing else. The truth was that Levrov's heart, contracting at the emotionless litany of the London dead, almost stopped when he heard the last name and the feeling of unease began to turn to something that was almost entirely unknown to him: fear. However, the iron control that had taken him through the ranks of the KGB and beyond kicked in and he replied with the briefest of frowns,
"No, I do not know the names Arkanov, Witt or Coaver, was it?, but I do, of course, recognise the name of Minister Gavrik's wife, who so recently died. In your country."
Tom continued with his un-nerving gaze. He was almost beginning to enjoy this game of cat and mouse but knew there was no point in dragging it out much longer: they were running to a fairly tight schedule. Instead, he sighed as though in disappointment and responded,
"The expected answer and a lie. You ran Elena Platonovna for thirty five years as your close ally, that is known and proven. Through her, you also knew of Max Witt and James Coaver from that era in Berlin and you would have more recently become aware of Ruth Evershead, although Elena may have left her name out of the intel she was returning to you. Tariq Masood was just collateral damage to your operation, as was Anatoly Arkanov, who was one of your own, but they also had friends who care."
Levrov shrugged and leaned back against the cushions. All that had been said was true but he could not see what this had to do with an arms dealer. Unless, of course, he was not an arms dealer at all.
"What of it? And what does it have to do with our business together?"
"You are responsible for the deaths of all six people and, no doubt, many, many more. But it is those six for whom you are, today, to be held to account." The younger man had continued on as though Levrov had not spoken and the fear in the Russian's belly began a creeping, ice-like spread.
"None of these deaths have anything to do with me. I have heard rumours that Elena Gavrik was murdered by her husband; of the others I know nothing."
The response was quick, quiet and emotionless.
"You are lying again but whether you know anything or not is immaterial; it is your actions that make you culpable."
The older man made the mistake of smiling dismissively.
"Again, what of it? This is inconsequential small-talk and I am a busy man, Mr Donovan. Shall we get on with the business at hand?"
It was the combination of the smile and the term 'inconsequential' that did it for Tom. Taking a single step forward, away from the window, he allowed a slightly quizzical expression to cross his face and said gently, explaining as though to a child,
"This is the 'business at hand', Mr Levrov. You are to pay for your actions. Now. In this room."
The ice clawed its way into the Russian's chest. There was something about this quiet man that was remorseless but Levrov nonetheless continued to feel for a way through the trap, as trap he now realised it was. Making a show of looking around the empty room he spread his hands and asked,
"But how? You are not armed, and are alone. I am in my own home, not alone, with many weapons nearby." Even as he said it he realised he was wrong: all of the family were away at the dacha outside St Petersburg and most of his staff were also either absent on holidays or, in the case of two of the three guards, had not arrived this morning.
"I am not armed but I am also not alone, whereas you are. Now." Tom knew that, by this stage, the beard at the gatehouse would have been neutralised. Reaching into a pocket he withdrew a small vial of powder. "We are willing to give you a choice. Either you take this, in that glass of vodka by your elbow, and do what you did not allow your victims to do – die with some dignity - leaving your family out of it and safe or you do not, and you die anyway, violently and knowing that your family will be taken into custody, never to be seen again, before lunch. The teams are already on standby outside St Petersburg to pick them up. Your choice."
That was the instant Levrov realised it was over. If he knew where the family was… whomever the Englishman was, he was not an arms dealer but the Russian would not acquiesce to his demands that easily. With a snort of derision he said,
"So where are these friends of yours? And how can they deal with me before I can arm myself, if I refuse your generous offer and kill you instead?" A sudden thought struck him and, with it, a shaft of pure horror as he realised that his personal Nemesis was finally moving towards an inevitable retribution. "This has Harry Pearce's name written all over it. You are MI5. But surely even he would not have the gall to attempt this, here of all places."
For the first time the younger man smiled, brilliant and utterly intimidating.
"I am not MI5 but you are correct in your other assumptions. Harry is behind the plan but he has a friend in your country, in a very high place, and on this operation he is more than willing to help. In fact he already has – two of your three guards were diverted to the cells of the Lubyanka on their way here this morning, in case you were wondering where they were."
Levrov's face went hard, despite his sinking heart and the first stirrings of panic.
"He may have a powerful friend here but so do I, and more than one. Your attempt to kill me will not go unpunished—"
"Oh, but it will because you will appear to have nothing more than a heart attack. Whichever choice you make, with honour and safety for your family or without, there will be no repercussions, our highly-placed friend will ensure that. I believe his influence out-ranks that of any of your associates."
Suddenly infuriated, the Russian leapt to his feet, paperwork scattering in all directions.
"What 'friend'? You are lying and I will kill you with my bare hands—"
The blinding red of a laser gun sight bore into his right eye before settling on his forehead, causing the older man to freeze. Tom Quinn had not moved but his deep voice went on, as measured as his tread had been earlier.
"You won't have time. I am wired, Mr Levrov, and transmitting to our friend who is sitting not very far away from your front gate, listening to every word and in charge of the man on the trigger of that gun aimed at you. Our friend also has the ear of the most powerful man in Russia. In fact, he was your Prime Minister's senior officer and mentor while they were both stationed in Dresden with the KGB in the second half of the 1980's. Have you worked out who it is yet? And do you really want to annoy Vladimir Vladimirovich that much by upsetting one of his very closest friends?"
Levrov's face turned as ashen as his heart at that moment as he finally realised the full power of the people he was up against. MI5 and the CIA were formidable enough as opponents on their own but now, conjoined, they had added Ilya Gavrik and, presumably, the FSB to their equation and Levrov knew it was Ilya who was going to make this happen, presumably in personal revenge for what Elena, at Levrov's bidding, had done to both him and Sasha.
Gavrik himself, silent until now in the back of the unmarked FSB surveillance van at the bottom of the driveway, spoke quietly in Tom's ear.
"Enough. He has sixty seconds, Mr Donovan. Then I will order the sniper to shoot."
Tom continued to hold the older man's gaze and reiterated,
"You have a choice but you have no choice, Mr Levrov. And now your time for thinking is up, so make your decision. If not, you will be dead in sixty seconds anyway and your family will vanish into the 'protection' of Minister Gavrik and Prime Minister Putin." The quiet man twisted the top off his vial, picked up the vodka glass and poured the powder in and they both watched it dissolve into nothingness. He held the glass out to the other man. "Death with safety for your family, or not. Choose."
"30 seconds," Ilya rumbled into his ear and he repeated it.
"30 seconds, Mr Levrov."
The older man stared at the drink, hypnotised, before looking over again at Tom, unable to resist a final snipe.
"I wouldn't have though Elena meant this much to Harry. He certainly didn't to her."
"She doesn't," the Englishman explained, continuing his even, gentle tone. "For Harry, this is about the names you didn't recognise: his old colleagues Jim Coaver and Max Witt as well as Tariq Masood and, very particularly, Ruth Evershead. As for Minister Gavrik, neither he nor the Prime Minister will ever forgive you or your organisation for what you have done, or tried to do, to him, his son, his son's best friend and your country. The rest of your associates have already been dealt with this morning so now you are truly on your own. 15 seconds. Your family's safety, or not."
Levrov, impotent and infuriated, also recognised defeat. There truly was no choice for him, personally, but for his wife, children and grand-children… Staring with loathing at the younger man as the latter very obviously stepped to one side, well clear of the shot that was about to come, Mikhail Levrov did the one decent action of his life: he reached for the proffered glass and, in one movement, threw the contents down his throat before slamming it back onto the table. The pair of them stood, motionless, watching and waiting for the drug to take effect, which it began to do within seconds. A brief coldness spread from the Russian's stomach before the sudden, searing pain of the heart attack crushed his chest, and his life with it.
After a few more moments Tom Quinn knealt to check that there was no pulse; satisfied, he spoke again, quiet as ever.
"It is done."
In the vehicle, Ilya Andreivitch Gavrik felt the smallest amount of satisfaction that the job had been completed so efficiently but his expression did not change from its one of world-weariness. Now he could turn his full attention to helping his son recover from the physical and emotional trauma he had suffered (if Sasha ever returned from the catatonic state into which he had descended on that dreadful day and if he ever forgave his father), while his contacts dealt with Levrov's family and associates. He had not told the mysterious Mr Donovan that, of course, there was no need and it had made Harry's man so much more convincing, as he had himself believed the lie that the Levrov family would be safe if their patriarch did the right thing. Harry, of course, had understood the truth from the start and had displayed no qualms at the prospect. He was, after all, a man who fully appreciated expediency in their line of work...
"Thank you, Mr Donovan. Your driver will return you to the airport. Give my regards to our mutual acquaintance."
The quiet man turned and left the room and the building, leaving the body where it had fallen.
Thames House, seven hours later.
He returned to the Grid, barely able to see the floor through his tears, and walked straight to his office without a sideways glance, collapsing into his seat and oblivious to the concerned looks coming from the trio of youngsters out on the main floor. He had known it would be bad on this day, the first day that her name had been put on the wall, but not this bad. Everything – every instant -- of that afternoon had returned in force as he stood before the glassy vale of tears and the power of the memories threatened to drown him. It had been eight weeks, six since he had returned to work, but now it was as though everything had happened that morning…
Outside, the trio also knew it was bad just from the way he had walked across the floor, without even seeing the expression on his face, and they had all paled, knowing how hard it had been for him to return even though he felt he had no other option and how much effort it was taking on an hourly basis for him to keep himself together. Erin tried to distract them by returning to the summary of the latest threat but it didn't work: her heart wasn't in it and, like the two men, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the shattered figure, drawn in black and white, seated in front of that blood-red wall. Dimitri, unable to bear it any more, suddenly went to stand up and go to the older man but Erin reached out a hand and said, with perspicacity, knowing he would need more time,
"No. Leave him…"
Harry stared sightlessly at the folders on the desk in front of him, one finger tapping gently as he struggled to retain his composure. Tonight, he would go home and write himself off with the whiskey bottle one last time, knowing it wouldn't ease the pain but deriving some sort of masochistic satisfaction from drinking himself into unconsciousness anyway. It was the only way he could avoid the dreams… In the meantime he was wondering how the hell he would go on, now he had fully realised that the insane idea of buying Ruth's house and retiring to it was exactly that, insane, and that he would never be able to cope with the ghosts of impossible futures embodied in that building, when the phone on his desk began to ring. It took three rings for it to even register and another three before he finally snatched it up, angry at the interruption to his thoughts.
"Harry Pearce," he snapped, voice harsh, allowing the anger to deflect the tears.
"Mission accomplished," came the quiet, even reply, pulling Harry back into the present. It was Tom. Somehow, the past hour had managed to make him forget that today was the day… Breathing carefully, all Harry felt was relief that Tom had made it through, that all their plans had worked, and that justice had been served for Tariq and Jim. At the moment, he didn't think anything that could be said or done would ever mean anything when it came to Ruth.
"Where are you?"
"Half way back from the airport. Do you still want to debrief today?"
Shutting his eyes briefly Harry responded in the affirmative and confirmed the meeting point before the call was terminated. Eventually opening his eyes again he became aware of three other sets of eyes watching him from three equally worried faces. Before stepping out to tell them, he made one more extremely short call, to the Home Secretary, then picked up his car keys and mobile phone and headed out to the trio.
"Levrov has been dealt with. I am going to debrief the operative and after that will meet with the Home Secretary. I will update all of you in the morning but in the meantime thank you, for everything."
They all looked solemn but relieved.
"It was the very least we could do for them," Dimitri said quietly and the older man's eyes suddenly filled again. With a curt nod he turned and walked away and through the pods while the trio watched him in silence, every one of them wondering what his, and their, future would be.