The Moscow Cipher

  From his cell the guards took him through a maze of identical bare corridors. He made a mental map as they went, memorising the sequence of left and right turns, until they arrived at another plain door. One of the guards knocked and opened the door, then unclipped a ring of keys from his belt and found the one for the cuffs. The other kept a steady aim at the back of Ben’s head while his wrists were being unlocked. Then they shoved him into the room and closed the door behind him.

  Ben now found himself inside a large room that contrasted starkly with the small, naked cell where he’d just spent the last few hours. If the building was a disused military facility of some kind, then this would have been a mess room, or perhaps a reception lounge for greeting visitors. The blinds were drawn over the windows, just a glimmer of fading daylight peeking through, and ceiling lights cast a soft glow. The flooring was yellowed linoleum tiling that had seen better days. A pair of blue sofas straight from an office furniture catalogue were gathered around a low table to one side, in a weak attempt to create a cosy space. Everything about the room gave the impression of its having been prepared in a last-minute rush. An old Formica-topped table had been shunted up against one wall, its surface bare except for a tray on which sat a pair of crystal tumblers and a matching decanter filled with amber liquid, a highly incongruous-looking addition. There was a faint musty smell in the air, as though the place had been closed up and out of use for a long time.

  A tall, slender man in a well-tailored light grey suit was sitting primly on a sofa facing the door, and stood as Ben entered the room. The man appeared to be in his early sixties, of faintly aristocratic bearing with thinning silver hair neatly parted away from a high brow. His posture was very erect and he looked extremely fit. His shoes were black patent leather. So highly polished the toecaps were like mirrors. The overall package was unmistakable. Ben instantly knew he was in the company of a former military officer.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you at last, my dear fellow,’ the man said breezily, as though they were making their acquaintance at a summer garden party. ‘Please, come in and make yourself comfortable. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘You’re English,’ Ben said, hiding his surprise. He’d been expecting Chief Bezukhov, the Russian intelligence boss Yuri was so terrified of.

  ‘And I must apologise for the crudeness of your accommodation,’ the man said. ‘It was the best they could come up with at such short notice. This is Russia, you know.’ He glanced at his watch, then motioned over at the glasses and decanter on the side table. ‘Care for a drink, Major? I understand you’re partial to scotch?’

  ‘Never on an empty stomach,’ Ben said, untruthfully. ‘And never with strangers, that’s my rule. I don’t believe you introduced yourself.’

  ‘The name’s Calthorpe. Colonel Aubyn Calthorpe.’

  ‘Now you’re going to tell me you expect me to sir you.’

  ‘Not at all. Like you, I don’t tend to make much of my former rank, but the Russkies like it. They have respect for authority. Something sadly missing in much of today’s world.’

  ‘In my book, respect is something you earn,’ Ben said.

  ‘You don’t think your rank qualifies you?’

  ‘I was given my rank by killing men I didn’t know on the orders of other men I didn’t know, for reasons I didn’t know.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I just kill the ones who have it coming,’ Ben said.

  ‘I admire a man of integrity. You sacrificed a promising military career for the sake of principle. Simply walked away from it all.’

  ‘You’ve seen my record, then.’

  Calthorpe smiled. ‘Oh, I know all about you, Major Hope. I know you better than you know yourself.’

  ‘So what are you, the head honcho around here?’

  Calthorpe walked over to the ersatz drinks cabinet, plucked the stopper from the whisky bottle and poured himself a modest measure. ‘Officially, I’m the Mission Chief. Another meaningless and arbitrary title to add to my collection. Then again, officially, neither I nor any of what we do actually exists. But we’ll get to all of that later. You and I need to have a little chat.’ He motioned to the sofa opposite the one where he’d been seated. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘I’ve done plenty of sitting around the last few hours, thanks,’ Ben said.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Calthorpe said cheerily, returning to the sofa. He sat, took a sip of scotch and then leaned comfortably back, hooking one leg over the other as Englishmen of genteel breeding, or at least the semblance of such, are given to do. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You’re not an easy man to get hold of.’

  ‘Another rule of mine,’ Ben said, ‘is that I don’t generally engage in polite conversation with people who’ve been trying to kill me.’

  Calthorpe smiled. ‘Then you’ll be delighted to hear there’s been a change of plan in that regard.’

  ‘That was obvious enough, from the way your sniper missed me by a cat’s whisker this morning. Call me silly, but I got the distinct impression that the bullet that took out Grisha Solokov was meant for me.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Calthorpe replied with a chuckle. ‘Case of the old itchy trigger finger, I’m afraid. Even a Mission Chief can’t guarantee that things will always go according to plan. There’s invariably an element of luck involved, as you know. Anyhow, here we are, safe and sound.’

  ‘I suppose I should be counting my blessings that you brought me here to this delightful place. I gather you have your reasons?’

  ‘Indeed. We’ll come to them soon enough.’

  Ben said, ‘I can’t wait. What about Yuri Petrov and his daughter Valentina? I’d like to think they’re somewhere nearby, and in good condition.’

  ‘We’re not animals, old boy. The child is being cared for by expert personnel. As for her father, we do have a bone or two to pick with him. There’s a lot of history there.’

  ‘I’ve already heard it.’

  Calthorpe took another sip of scotch and smacked his lips. ‘I’m aware of that. You’re fairly well informed about a lot of things, thanks to Messrs Petrov and Solokov. Other things, not quite so much.’

  ‘Informed enough to know that Yuri Petrov worked for Russian intelligence,’ Ben said. ‘Which either makes you the new Kim Philby, or I’m missing something. Who’s “we”?’

  Calthorpe waved his hand in a casually dismissive gesture. ‘Oh, Russians, Brits, Yanks, Chinese, what does it matter any more? The concept of nations, of “them and us”, is no more than a public relations exercise these days. The rivalry that existed between our countries all those years ago, the space race, the arms race and all those other silly areas of conflict, we long ago agreed were getting us nowhere. Russia and the West being a case in point. We all work together now, in the interests of global stability. The rest of it’s nothing but a puppet show. A very well-orchestrated – and very expensive, I might add – puppet show, whose purpose is to keep the populace entertained, make them believe they actually have some role to play in how the world is run. Keeps the little children happy, by and large.’

  ‘So nice to know you’re looking after their wellbeing,’ Ben said. ‘I take it you must be one of the guys holding the puppet strings. I’m sure I should be honoured to be in your presence.’

  Calthorpe gave a modest little shrug, as if to say, ‘Someone has to do it.’

  Ben continued, ‘As you’re so tight with your Russian pals, I daresay you know the real identity of the woman who was passing herself off as Tatyana Nikolaeva. I’m curious to know her present condition.’

  ‘That would be Agent Yakunina. You’ll be pleased to hear that she appears to be recovering nicely from her trauma. In fact she has no memory of what happened. And may I say, I find your concern for an enemy agent rather touching. I had no idea you were so sentimental.’

  ‘That’s me, all heart,’ Ben said. ‘Am I allowed to know her first name?’

  ‘Why, of course. It’s Katya Yaku
nina. Captain Katya Yakunina, in point of fact, to give her her proper title. Putin’s female military officers are far more than just the miniskirt army they’re often made out to be. She’s been a great asset to us thus far. A very capable lady indeed.’

  ‘That didn’t stop you from planting one of your little devices inside her head, though, did it?’ Ben said. ‘Grisha was right. If I’d let him dig around in her brain, we’d have found something. The modern version of Object 428, whatever kind of new toy you sick bastards have been concocting in your secret labs all these years.’

  ‘There you are,’ Calthorpe said, obviously amused. ‘I need say no more. You’ve got it all worked out, Major.’

  ‘And a few other things besides. Such as the fact that the gadget you implanted in her brain was more than just a way to control her. It was a homing device. That’s how you were able to direct your goons to find us so easily, not once but twice, and even before that. You were tracking her the whole time.’

  Chapter 41

  ‘Not particularly advanced technology, really,’ Calthorpe said. ‘Not when you consider that every civilian mobile phone on the planet contains a chip that intelligence agencies can activate to track and pinpoint the whereabouts of its owner to within a few square metres, should they become persons of interest for any reason. But you’re quite correct. We were onto you from the moment Agent Yakunina first met you on the tarmac at Vnukovo airport. We knew exactly where you and she were, at all times, first while you were running around Moscow and later when you set off on your little escapade into the countryside. Not to mention, we were listening in on every word of your conversation the entire while. I thought we detected a certain rapprochement between the two of you. Seemed like it might get really interesting at a couple of points; sadly, that wasn’t to be.’

  ‘The marvels of modern technology,’ Ben said. ‘And that’s why she didn’t try to snatch the evidence when Yuri showed it to us. Because it wasn’t part of her programming to take it. Only to lead her controllers straight to it. That was when she changed. The chip in her head was flicking switches inside her brain, shutting her down like a machine. Am I close?’

  ‘Remarkably close,’ Calthorpe said, smiling. ‘Her mission was simply to locate Petrov and Object 428, nothing more, while allowing us to monitor your own efforts to do the same. An entire network of agents was on standby to close in the moment either of you succeeded in locating the target. As it turned out, the remoteness of the location caused a delay in mustering the necessary personnel, which I now much regret. I missed an opportunity to have Agent Yakunina take possession of the item, by force if necessary.’

  ‘Easy as pressing a button, is it?’ Ben said, staring at him and thinking how much he’d love to tear this man’s head off.

  ‘A simple matter of resetting her command parameters, which I could have done from my control room in an entirely different part of the world. You’d be amazed at how far the technology of brain–computer interaction has come since the days of Object 428. As revolutionary as it was back then, it’s an antiquated old relic now. It should really be in a museum – that is, if we could allow the public to be aware of its existence.’

  Calthorpe paused, eyeing Ben with a curious expression. ‘You’re one of the very few people to have ever physically come into contact with it, you know. Something I should very much like to do myself. I was rather hoping you might be able to clue me in on its current whereabouts. It would appear to have been, shall we say, mislaid, along with the microfilm.’

  ‘If I knew the answer,’ Ben said, ‘you’d have to persuade me to divulge that information.’

  ‘I would have expected no less,’ Calthorpe said. ‘But bear in mind that persuasion is something we’re rather adept at.’

  ‘I’ll bet you are. I’m sure you have a gang of your best persuaders working on Yuri Petrov right now to make him tell where he’s hidden the loot. But they’re obviously not getting results, or else you wouldn’t have asked me the same question.’

  Calthorpe gave an inscrutable smile. ‘Let’s just say your Russian friend is helping us with our enquiries. Chief Bezukhov’s men are highly experienced at this sort of thing. I’m told Petrov’s being a little stubborn, but he won’t hold out forever. Nobody does.’

  For all Calthorpe’s display of smooth, calm confidence, Ben sensed that the man was being eaten up with worry. ‘Object 428 really has got you in a flap, hasn’t it? You’re absolutely terrified that your filthy little secret might come out.’

  ‘Damage limitation is a priority of ours,’ Calthorpe said. ‘We have whole departments devoted to flooding the airwaves with all the usual fake news and disinformation to muddy the waters, should the worst happen. We would do all we could to pass all this mind-control malarkey off as empty conspiracy theorising, while at the same time convincing evidence would emerge to show that the so-called Object 428 was in fact a medical device designed to treat seizures, psychosis, memory problems and suchlike. By the time we were done, the ordinary citizen in the street would be persuaded there was nothing remotely sinister about it.

  ‘In any case,’ Calthorpe went on, ‘Object 428’s workings are so radically different from the latest models that there’s little to be gleaned from it about what we’re doing now. It bears as much resemblance to the primitive technology of the 1950s as the laser-guided wonder the modern soldier carries to war does to the crude flintlock musket of the eighteenth-century British infantryman.’

  ‘But your disinformation smokescreen wouldn’t fool everyone,’ Ben said. ‘You’re getting people wrong if you think there aren’t a lot of folks out there who can tell a big pile of steaming bullshit when they see it. If the evidence was out that mind control was a reality, there’d be a lot of folks in power facing some pretty uncomfortable questions. This would be hanging over you like a dark cloud for a long time.’

  ‘Well, certainly, I’d much rather not see Object 428 making its media debut on YouTube for all the world to see,’ Calthorpe admitted. ‘Containment is a far preferable option, not just for me but for my superiors, to whom I’d much rather not have to explain what went wrong. Why do you suppose I went to all this trouble to locate Mr Petrov in the first place?’

  Ben couldn’t quite believe that he was really hearing this. ‘I have to say, Calthorpe, you’re being remarkably candid. Anyone would think you were actually confessing the truth.’

  Calthorpe laughed. ‘Seems that way, doesn’t it? Does it surprise you?’

  ‘What I find surprising is that you chose to tell me, of all people.’

  ‘No mystery there. You’re a man who appreciates transparency,’ Calthorpe replied. ‘It’s why you fell out with your military superiors, when you took a dislike to the way mid-rank SAS officers were being kept in the dark with regard to the real purpose of certain operations. I don’t want you to regard me that way. That’s why I’m being completely honest with you. Full disclosure. You have my word.’

  ‘Why? You’re not planning on letting me walk out of here.’

  ‘Oh, please. If I really wanted you dead, Major, this meeting would never have taken place.’

  Ben had an uneasy feeling he was being offered an option, but what?

  ‘All right, full disclosure,’ he said. ‘How about you start by telling me where Yuri and Valentina are?’

  ‘Gladly. Mr Petrov is being kept at a separate facility, where his hosts are best served in their efforts to take care of him. The little girl is right here in this very building, in a room just down the corridor. And as you very gallantly expressed concern for the welfare of Agent Yakunina …’

  Calthorpe raised a hand and motioned past Ben’s shoulder in the direction of the doorway. ‘Why, here she is now.’

  Chapter 42

  Startled, Ben turned to look in the direction Calthorpe was pointing. The door opened. The same pair of shaven-headed guards stood outside in the corridor, as though they hadn’t budged the whole time. With them was a familiar face. And yet, a
total stranger.

  Tatyana, or Katya as Ben would now have to make an effort to think of her, was brought into the room. The guards closed the door and took up positions either side of it, standing in that relaxed-but-ready position, feet slightly braced and arms loosely crossed, that armed security guys and close protection personnel adopt when trouble might be just instants away.

  She walked into the room, slowly, paying no interest to her surroundings. She had changed into a plain dark outfit, like a jumpsuit. Her short blond hair had been shampooed and neatly brushed. The cut on her lip had been cleaned up and there was just a little bruising that would soon heal. The only other damage was the redness and slight swelling to one cheek where Ben had slapped her.

  But it was her eyes Ben was staring at. Though she appeared to be walking and moving normally, the faraway emptiness of expression that had come over her after the raid on Grisha’s farm now seemed to have grown deeper and more vacant. Her pupils, so vivid and full of colour before, were faded like dead butterfly wings and her facial muscles were slack, as though she’d been fed some kind of powerful mind-numbing drug like they gave to dangerous mental patients. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk.

  Calthorpe made no attempt to greet her and didn’t move from his seat, cradling the remains of his drink. Ben turned to glare at the man and demanded, ‘What’ve you done to her?’

  ‘Her mind has been purged,’ Calthorpe explained casually, as though purging people’s minds was the most normal and routine thing in the world. ‘As I said, she has no memory of the last few days. It’s all been taken out.’

  ‘Taken out? What the hell do you mean, taken out?’

  ‘It’s much the same as removing files on a computer,’ Calthorpe said with a little wave of his hand. ‘A familiar enough concept for most people. When you delete a data document, it’s binned but not permanently erased, able to be restored at any time. Likewise, the former contents of her mind are still complete and unharmed, but they’ve been electromagnetically ring fenced and isolated, as though they’d been relocated to a sort of cerebral recycle bin. At this point she has little idea of who she is, her name, history, where she grew up or who her parents were. Tabula rasa . A clean slate. In fact, at this moment she’s not really processing any conscious thought of any kind.’