Chapter Fifteen
The Consulate-General of the United Kingdom in Saint Petersburg is located at Place Proletarskoy Dictatury 5, a huge stone building designed by one of the city’s finest architects. At one time an art school, now a consulate in an area dominated by the cathedral and by government buildings. Most embassies are in the area, too.
At nine o’clock in the morning, just as McBride set out in the back of the Nissan truck from the farm, a meeting was taking place in one of the elegant rooms. Around a table sat two MI6 agents. The senior was Malcolm Smith or Smitzy to his friends. The other agent was Nigel Blair-Johnson. Also in attendance was a young attaché secretary to take notes if necessary, or told not to by Smitzy.
That morning they had received a bulky file from London labelled John McBride. And a flimsy file labelled Ben Stockton. They had come over in the diplomatic bag, via MI5.
Smitzy had handed the large file to Nigel half an hour ago, and had himself glanced at the small file. Stockton’s file contained copies of his birth certificate and his passport.
“Well, Nigel, what can you tell us about John McBride? Just a précis. Isn’t he that artist bloke?” Smitzy had a broad Yorkshire accent.
“So it says here,” said Nigel in his rounded public school accent. “Was in the SAS Regiment, went into the services straight from sixth form to Sandhurst, then to the SAS. He took part in the Iraq war, well, before it actually. The SAS were dropped in to report on weapons of mass destruction. Remember that do you? Clever trick by Blair to start a war. Premiers go into the history books by the wars they lead, eh?”
“Get on with it Nigel.”
“Well the most interesting point is that he did a lot of yacht sailing in his youth. His Pa was a member of The Royal Bridlington Yacht Club. Sea sailing. Could be useful. He also sailed dinghies when he was in the SAS. Inter-regimental competition standard.”
“The only thing you pick out of that huge file is the sailing aspect. Just because you sail.”
“You would rather I told you what famous paintings he did, and how much they get at auctions? I can do that if you’ve got the time to listen. You asked for a précis.
“Look, I’ve got a plan to get them out of Russia. At the moment I’ve primed the samovar girls in the most likely spots where they might get dropped off. I think they will be hitching. I would. So if they do get out of a truck, one of the girls will phone, if I’m quick I can reach them with my car and bring them here. We issue them with temporary passports, as we’ve discussed in the last meeting, and I will take them down to the Royal Yacht Club where you know I’ve got a boat.”
“You’re going to sell him it?”
“You bastard. I’m going to lend him it.” He spoiled his magnanimous gesture by adding, “It’s well insured. I could say that it was stolen.”
Smitzy turned to the girl with notebook. “Don’t write any of this down. Yet.”
“Of course, Six might pay me a charter fee. Will you suggest that? It will look tight-fisted coming from me.” Nigel tried hard to keep a straight face. Smitzy was so easy to wind up. Smitzy ignored the joke, if that is what it was.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock, and I’ve got other work to do. Get on to London and see if they’re happy with the plan. If they are, then do it.”
He turned to the girl. “Get the notes written up, and bring them to my office for editing.” He gathered his papers from the table, pushed them into a file, and went out of the room.
“He gets so uptight,” Nigel said to the girl, whose knickers he would love to get into. “It’s lack of upbringing that does that. Oh, by the way, would you like me to take you to dinner tomorrow night?”
She looked up at him. “I’ll ask my boyfriend, can we both come?”
Nigel smiled and shook his head. Nothing fazed him.
At eleven, Nigel left the Consulate in his new Jaguar, only delivered earlier in the year and therefore still fun to drive. This didn’t mean that MI6 operatives are well paid. They aren’t, although there is a pension at the end. Inflation proofed, of course. Nigel was from a wealthy family and had a private income. And Daddy had bought him the yacht. And the car, come to that.
Nigel was concerned about McBride. He should be in St Petersburg by now. The prison camp, he believed, lay not much more than two hundred miles to the west. Any soldier should be able to march twenty five miles every day, or in this case probably every night. They would need to lay up during daylight. So it should take them not more than eight days. Take off two days that they should have saved by hitching lifts, or stowing away in lorries. In Nigel’s estimation if they didn’t arrive today then one of two things had happened.
Firstly, maybe they weren’t heading here. Could be trying to get over the border into say, Latvia, Estonia or Lithuania. Or maybe they had headed to Moscow. No, he couldn’t believe they would be stupid enough to do that. Secondly, they may have had difficulties with river crossings. There was a third proposition. They were dead, overtaken by some accident, their bodies not to be found for years.
He drove carefully out of the Consulate car park, and turned west, cruising comfortably through the traffic which was not busy at this time of day. He made for a favourite restaurant to grab an early lunch. He felt maybe life would get busy later on. If McBride and his buddy arrived.
He ate a light lunch at More, the Italian restaurant at the Yacht Club complex. There was a private car park at the yacht club, only $5 a day. After he had eaten, he walked down to look at his boat. He ought to move it to the guest moorings, if they were going to lend it to McBride. His mobile phone rang. It was Lada, one of his samovar spies.
She said, “Nigel, two men have just climbed from the back of a pick-up truck. They are your men I think. One is about thirty, the other about forty and dark haired. They are walking down through the underpass, I am following them.”
Bingo! This was a good lead. Lada worked the services off the M10, and that was the most likely route for the men.
“Listen, I will be there in five minutes, keep following them. And don’t tell
Viktor.”
“Who is this Viktor?”
“The other man who is paying you for information.”
He turned the phone off. Viktor was his counterpart in the SVR. He happened to know she worked both sides, but she was the best in the business. He drove fast and skilfully and was at the underpass in four minutes after speaking to Lada. He spotted her immediately, waddling sedately along. She saw his car and pointed. He looked further up the road. The two men were walking abreast, both with rucksacks. He drove past them and stopped by the side of the road about a hundred yards further on. He opened his car door, and stepped out on to the pavement, leaning against the back door of his car. He kept his hands in view, well away from his pockets.
As they approached he smiled. “Mr McBride, a very good day to you. I am waiting to take you to the UK Consulate.”
McBride eyed him with suspicion. “Have you any documentation?”
“Of course, my wallet is in my jacket pocket, left hand side. You may reach in and take it out. If I had a gun in there you could shoot me.” His eyes twinkled. He lifted his left arm well clear. McBride reached forward and withdrew the wallet. He opened it, and studied the Consulate pass inside.
He handed it to Nigel. “That seems okay, Mr Blair-Johnson.”
“Right, jump into my car. Both of you in the back, if you don’t mind. The dark windows will conceal you somewhat from your enemies.” Nigel got into the driving seat, and immediately pulled out into the traffic.
“My informant, who you will have worked out is one of the samovar ladies, also informs a man called Viktor, who works for the SVR. That way she gets paid twice. It is lucky that I got to you first. I would rather that Viktor didn’t see me, although he will guess what has happened, when he can’t find you.”
“Nice car,” said McBride, sinking into the white leather seats, stroking the walnut door inserts. “Is it a company veh
icle?”
“Hardly. Mondeos is all that the department can rustle up. Pool cars, so you don’t even get to drive them off duty. Don’t worry, our government is looking after the pennies.”
“While they squander the pounds,” said McBride. Nigel chuckled.
After a while, and several junctions and traffic lights negotiated, Nigel announced that the building to their left was the Consulate. McBride and Ben looked up at the imposing facade.
“I’m allowed to turn into the courtyard, which is down here, when I have what the department call sensitive guests.” He pulled into an archway, and up to a pole barrier, striped with red paint on white. A small sentry box decanted a man in navy blue uniform who looked at Nigel, waved and then raised the barrier. Nigel parked in a marked bay next to a Ford Mondeo, and opened the back door of his car.
“Come in and get your temporary passports. I’m guessing you haven’t got any with you?”
McBride said, “I didn’t have time to collect mine before I left England in a hurry.”
“Same here,” said Ben.
They followed Nigel through a door into a wide corridor, and took another door on the left, and entered a doctor’s or hospital waiting room. At least that is what it looked like. Banks of linked seating, upholstered in medium blue with a pattern which disguised any soiling. Across on the other side, it looked like a post office counter. Lots of bulletproof glass, small apertures to speak through, and stainless steel trays let into the counter where documents could be transferred. And money, too presumably. There were no electronic scales of course, so the resultant space was for applicants to sign their forms. The room was sparsely populated by several hippy type young adults, and some middle aged couples who may have been Russians seeking English visas.
Nigel stood in the entrance with McBride and Ben until a member of the counter staff shouted “Next”, and Nigel approached the counter with speed that defeated the hippy who was actually next. The hippy glared and mumbled some oath before sitting down in his seat.
“Hello Mark,” said Nigel, “I want you to process these two guys with temporary passports within the hour if you can. Their birth certificates and photostats of previous passports came in the diplomatic bag this morning. Names of John McBride, that’s the big guy here, and Ben Stockton.”
He turned to the two. “If you’re processed before I’m back, just sit here and wait, if you would.”
As Nigel was walking down the corridor to his office, he met Smitzy coming the other way.
“Got McBride and Stockton, you’ll be pleased to know. I’ve left them getting their temporary passports.”
“Well done,” said Smith. “Oh, by the way, I asked London about your charter idea. You didn’t expect that, did you?’
“No, I didn’t. Did they tell you to fuck off?”
“They said they would pay you the price of four single airfares Moscow to Heathrow. Two for the escapees, and two for minders.”
“Very good, I owe you one. That will be eight hundred times four, three thousand two hundred, eh?”
“You forget. The department gets discounted tickets. Two thousand eight hundred.”
“I’ll use it to get some charter insurance.”
He picked up the phone as soon as he reached his office, got a line and phoned his broker in London. He explained that he wanted to charter his boat for a couple of weeks. He knew the client, had checked him out, grew up sailing yachts like his, sailed in competition dinghy sailing during his military career, and would be accompanied by another crew. The broker went away briefly came back onto the phone, told him one thousand three hundred pounds, and he must tell them when the charter started and finished.
“It starts this afternoon actually. It will be in the Baltic, possible the North Sea, too.” They said they would send him the bill.
He did some work on his inbox, mostly files he had to read and initial, or rather in Nigel’s case to scan before initialling the rubber stamped grid. He looked at his watch. The men had been in the waiting room for over an hour. He had better go and rescue them.
McBride was reading The Dalesman, he was after all a Yorkshireman. Ben had a copy of Country Living, and looked bored.
“Got your passports?”
“Yes. Christ the cost could go towards paying off the national debt.”
“Did you have any money?”
“A debit card that I smuggled with me, and kept in my sock. Old soldier’s trick.”
Nigel smiled. “You can have an early evening meal on me, at the yacht club. Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? The idea is, I am going to lend you my yacht. Then you can either sail to say Stockholm, or even to Britain if you wish. Well, to be honest the department, that is Six, if you hadn’t guessed is chartering from me. By the time I’ve paid the extra insurance, it’s no big deal. So I’ll take you down to the club, we’ll have a look at the boat, we can take it round to the visitors’ berths. It will allow me to show you the ropes, so to speak. Then we dine, and you push off into the night.”
“Sounds good to me,” said McBride. “What experience have you got Ben?”
“Absolutely none. I throw up on the Dover to Calais ferry, even if it’s calm.”
“Well, this trip will either cure you, or make you a lot thinner.”
On the way to the yacht club, while they waited for a red light, Viktor’s car pulled up alongside. Viktor instantly recognised the car. As far as he knew it was the only one in Saint Petersburg. The only white one, anyway. He glanced across and could see passengers on the back seat, vague shadows through the tinted glass.
Viktor put two and two together, and when the lights changed, he pulled in behind the Jaguar, one car between them. There was some horn blowing, so he retaliated, but that was what driving was about in this city.