Chapter Seven: Smoke and Mirrors

'It isn't going to be easy getting the bugs in there.' Jo sipped her coffee, perched on a stool. 'They're both cooped up in there all the time. Nadya has the place swept periodically, apparently, and she's got a hefty security alarm in place.'

Zaf grunted in sympathy, sipped his coffee and winced. Jo never made it strong enough. She saw his reaction. 'Best make it yourself next time.'

'You are all heart, Joanna Portman.'

She smiled, rested her chin heavily on her palm. 'You've got another meeting with Sidorov today, don't you?'

'Yeah.' He set down his mug. They were opposite each other, the bar between them. Her face was closed and controlled. 'I've never heard anyone talk so much and say so little. The glories of the old Soviet Union. The great destiny of his country. How utterly amazing as a human being he is.' He rubbed his face. 'Any more and I'm going to take out my gun and shoot him between the eyes.'

'That'll please Harry.'

Zaf grunted. 'Dunno. Might be worth it.'

Their words came in short sentences. Neither were much good in the morning until after the first cup of coffee. It was one of the things that Zaf had first appreciated in her. He despised forced jollity so soon after sunrise.

He drained the mug; Jo was holding hers between her hands, staring into it. 'More?' She roused herself and smiled again.

'Please. Your turn. But not as strong as last time – I ended up with my hands shaking and my heart racing.'

'No, that was because you were standing next to me.' He passed behind her, lips brushing against the side of her neck.

'Idiot.' She turned on her stool and for a moment they both enjoyed the simple intimacy of one look. Jo reached out and smoothed a rebellious lock of his hair. Her fingers trailed across his cheek, down to his jaw line, still swollen from the assault. 'Does it still hurt?'

'It's not too bad.'

Her hand was still against his face. 'Good.'

ooOoo

The main lights on the Grid had not been switched on, but his office glowed vivid red against the gloom. Harry pushed back the door, stood in the doorway and waited until she looked up at him.

'This is becoming a habit.'

Ruth smiled. 'At least I don't burst in on you as much.'

'Mmm. And just when I was getting used to it.'

Harry crossed the floor, depositing his coat and assorted possessions on the sofa before taking a seat opposite her. He glanced around. 'It all looks different from this angle.'

'A change of perspective can be good.' She tried to sound to grave but her eyes gleamed. Just for a moment. 'Harry, I wanted to talk to you about Volkov.'

Of course, he thought, what else? In all the world, and all the things that could be said, why not talk about this? 'What about him? Is he a secret FSB stooge?'

She didn't laugh. 'Well, actually-'

'Oh, for God's sake, Ruth-'

'There's just something about his back story,' she said loudly.

A pause.

'Well? What thing?'

Ruth let out a breath. Under the table, her hands were clasped together, nails tearing at skin. 'Just- just something. I don't know exactly. It looks- It looks like a legend, Harry. A good one, but a legend. It reads like just all of the things that you'd expect to hear about a Russian ... businessman ... living in the West. It's just too perfect. And nothing can ever be perfect.'

He studied her. 'That's a rather pessimistic view, Ruth.'

Two spots of colour flaring in her cheeks. 'Maybe. But it's true, isn't it?'

He was a pragmatist. He was under no illusions about what human beings were capable of, good or bad. And he had seen mainly bad. But this brought a wave of depression. Maybe because it was her. Maybe because life and time got everyone in the end, even when you hoped it never would.

'Yes, I suppose it is. And I suppose that you want to do a little digging.'

Her head was held high, daring him to deny her this. 'Well, with what we know about his connection to that young man...' It wasn't quite an accusation. She had always hated secrets. There was an obvious irony there. 'It would seem ... prudent.'

'I can almost hear the words dereliction of duty there.'

Her eyes flashed. 'That isn't what I mea- I didn't say that, Harry.'

'No.' He allowed himself a smile. 'No, I know. And you're right – perhaps more than we realise.'

A querying look; she sat very still. Harry waved a hand. 'I don't know any more than that. Just be careful, Ruth, we don't want the whole of Moscow knowing what we're doing.'

She smiled and it lit up the room. 'They never do.'

She was almost at the door.

'I'm almost too afraid to ask what you mean by that, Ruth.'

ooOoo

Jo was becoming convinced that smoke was being used as a psychological weapon. The windows were never opened. It seemed a genuine possibility that they were welded shut. New legislation evidently didn't penetrate to this little corner of England that was forever Moscow. The smell was ingrained in her hair, her skin, it made her feel sick. She was determined not to show any discomfort, but she knew that the girl, Lara, was enjoying every moment.

Those dark eyes always seemed to be watching. She wasn't an assistant, she was a pit-bull. Badly trained.

Jo pulled the hair away from her face, tying it roughly in a band. It felt coarse against her fingers and she grimaced inwardly. She had been right about fitting the bugs: Lara and Nadya were almost always in the cramped offices, either singly or together. Almost.

An opportunity, in the shape of an unexpected ten minutes, had presented itself. Maybe less than that, but it was nearly enough for Jo to believe that if there were angels, she really was fighting on their side. Or they on hers.

She moved quickly, retrieving the tiny devices from her bag. Malcolm had briefly considered equipping her with a series of his vintage Soviet pieces. For the atmosphere, he had informed her gravely. Her face had, apparently, spoken volumes and he had duly handed over the requisite state-of-the-art technology. Malcolm was the undisputed technical genius in their midst, but she had a feeling that he imbued his mini-museum to the art of surveillance with a certain romantic yearning.

This was always the part she hated: when she seemed to be moving as though underwater and everything else was at hyper-speed. She tried to keep herself focused and keep herself distracted from the hammering in her chest at the same time.

Music on a cracked radio ... I hate that song ... Smell of burnt toast, just like this morning, Zaf's face...

She had done this too many times to count and her fingers still felt thick, heavy. A trickle of sweat ran down her back; she leant across Nadya's desk, balanced precariously.

Stay calm. Just remember to breath ... Zaf always says easy as falling off a log ... Damn thing won't stick, what crap has Malcolm given me ... Fall off a log, the boy hasn't been near a bit of nature in years, wouldn't know a log if he did fall off ... Shit. Nadya? Lara? Shit, shit, shit...

'What are you doing?'

Lara. Her voice had deepened with suspicion. Hard, sharp. Jo didn't move at once, leant a little further over.

'I'm just-' Words cut off in an indistinct grunt. She straightened up, brushing hair away from her face, smiled cheerfully. 'Serves me right for playing with it the whole time. It rolled right under the desk.' A heavy silver ring. It had been her grandmother's and she had longed for it since she had first seen it at age four. At age sixteen it had become hers. Larisa Ivanovna took a few steps closer, too close. She breathed heavily, bringing a cloud of cloying perfume and coffee.

'What do you want here? You're not one of us, you stupid English girl. Why are you here?'

Jo eyed her levelly. 'I came to work. Just like you.'

Her mouth twisted. 'You are nothing like me.'

'Lara!'

The girl stiffened. Nadya, moving from the doorway to her desk, looked at them both with cold distaste. 'Do you have nothing to do, eh? I pay you to gossip?'

'She was at your desk,' Lara stated. The petulance of a child.

'I wasn't at her – your – desk, Nadya, I just dropped my ring. I had-'

'I don't give a damn about your jewellery.'

Jo felt mild hysteria rising, laughter she could barely contain. A strange recklessness. 'Actually, Nadya, I was wondering if we could open a window – it's a bit stuffy in here.'

Cigarette in her mouth, Nadya searched her desk for the lighter. She shrugged. 'Do what you want. Lara, open a window.'

Coal black eyes burnt. Jo smiled back.

ooOoo

'You bloody idiot.'

Mace's eyebrows raised. 'What?'

By the time Harry was escorted to the small, whitewashed room, his patience was all but worn down. Over half-an-hour spent kicking his heels in the governor's office had done nothing to improve his temper. He rested both fists on the table, leant heavily and stared at the man's upturned face.

'I am talking about you and Yakov Uspensky.'

'Oh, for the love of God.' Mace sank back, folded his arms, stared at an unremarkable spot on the wall opposite. 'I thought we had been through all of this. Don't tell me you've tracked down that little tramp of his. By the sound of her she'd say anything for five quid.'

Harry gritted his teeth. Violence was not a way of life but there times he could feel himself slipping into it all too easily. The desire to inflict pain seemed too much. When he trusted himself to speak he said, 'Oliver, I am in no mood for games. There are no rumours, no bargains, no lies. I want the truth, and I want it now.'

'Oh, very impressive, Harry. Tell me, do you practice these speeches in your shaving mirror?'

The hand slammed against the table made him jump. It brought a grimly satisfied smile to Harry's lips.

'I'll start it from the other end, Oliver. Stepan Yefimovich Volkov. Known to his friends, of whom there are few, as Styopa. Are you one of them?'

There were beads of sweat on Mace's upper lip. A faint, perpetual wheezing as he breathed.

'Who the hell is Stepan Whatever Volkov?'

Harry leant closer, his voice dropping so low Mace had to strain to hear him.

'He is someone who counted amongst those few friends of his Yakov Uspensky.'

'A Russian émigré friendly with another Russian émigré. Shocking. It's good to know that MI5 is still shedding light on such mysteries.'

Harry barely blinked, watching every twitch of the muscles in the hands resting on Mace's knees, in the flaccid face.

'Volkov is Russian mafia, Oliver, and he is a known arms dealer. And he may very well be about to sell sarin to a group of Belarus terrorists who have joined forces with a splinter cell of Al-Qaeda sympathisers. So, I'll ask you again, Oliver – do you know Stepan Volkov?'

There was silence for a moment. Mace's mouth opened but no sound came out. 'Harry, I- For God's sake, you can't honestly believe that I would be involved with the Russian mob.'

Harry's head tilted. 'Can't I?'

Mace looked appalled. 'I know we've had our differences-' A bitter laugh. 'Our differences,' he continued. 'But you don't- Just what do you think I am?'

His eyes glittered dangerously. 'Oh, Oliver, I really don't think you want to hear the answer to that question.' He was pacing the meagre length of the room, harsh lighting sending his shadow in a giant's sarabande across the walls. 'At the moment, you appear to be posing a bloody great risk to national security. Where did you meet Volkov?'

'I never met Volkov. I've never even heard the name before tonight.'

Harry crossed the room, shoved a photograph across the table.

'You and your damn photographs. It's becoming a fetish, Harry.'

'Just look at it.'

Mace obliged, studying the image for a moment before letting it drop. 'I've never seen this man in my life.'

A heavy breath, in and out. 'Where did you meet Uspensky?'

'Harry-'

'Where did you meet Uspensky?'

'It was a long time ago.'

'Damn it, Oliver, I don't have time for this. None of us do. We have a terrorist threat against God knows who, God knows when and the only things that I know for certain that are mixed up in all of this are a Russian criminal of very shady provenance and you. So start talking. Where did you meet Yakov Uspensky?'

'A party. There were no mobsters there. I-it was a party. We were introduced.'

He looked genuinely rattled. A rare sight and Harry felt a descending coldness.

'By whom?'

'Kazakov. It was his party. Lev Kazakov.'

TBC