so before.’
‘No.’
At this moment, Patrushev entered the room.
11
W HEN I’D GOT OVER the shock of Patrushev actually appearing at the Forest, it was clear that the FSB chief, our new boss of the renamed and airbrushed KGB, had been sitting in an adjoining room, wired to ours. But at the moment he entered the room, I was completely taken aback. The others, while making their respect obvious to Patrushev, looked even more astonished.
Patrushev didn’t come to foreign intelligence territory, to the Forest. He and the SVR chief were fierce rivals and there was no precedent as far as I knew for the two agencies entering each other’s ground. Foreign and home intelligence waged a low-key war against each other. It was said that three of Patrushev’s agents had been arrested in Paris a few months before while following a group of Chechens in the French capital. The Forest, angry that their rivals were performing a foreign intelligence function, had tipped off the French security services.
I had seen Patrushev a few times before, but only from afar. Hehad spoken at KGB functions and afterwards worked the room, vodka in hand, but I had never been introduced.
On this afternoon Nikolai Patrushev was dressed in his trademark grey suit and red tie. A tall, hawkish man, his receding hair was brushed over a balding patch and his thin nose appeared to hover over thinner lips. His eyes had a hard, mesmerising stare that ensured you met his gaze. He was Putin’s close ally, which might explain how he could appear at the Forest on the territory of his rival. I suppose Finn was a moving target between agencies but Patrushev’s presence could only have suggested Putin’s personal interest in the case.
Patrushev had come with Putin, like so many of the president’s acolytes, from his St Petersburg clan, the gang Putin collected around him from the time when he was deputy mayor of the city. Like Putin, he had collaborated with the KGB since he was a student. The two of them were practically born to the profession, but by nature not background.
Patrushev’s job was to guard the President’s back while the new order was being put into place before and during Putin’s rise to power. His personal guardianship of Putin was all in the name of national security, of course.
He stood in silence for a moment, instilling a sort of cold quietness into the room. A military man, tall, erect and proud of the military achievements in his family, he is the perfect KGB clone. His fitness from playing the favoured KGB sport of volleyball was evident from his lean strength. I knew he chaired the sport’s national organisation. From gossip among acquaintances over at the FSB headquarters in Moscow, I also knew he read thrillers and spy stories obsessively, after a personal assistant hired for the purpose recommended the best ones. Otherwise he attended the Bolshoi regularly, but only to listen to Russian composers. And he hunted, drank vodka and collected weaponry.
After the surprise and then their oleaginous deference to theKGB boss, the three men in the room were silenced by his arrival. I stood automatically and he looked me over with what is normally called a practised eye.
There followed a complicated procedure, as there were only four chairs in the room. Kerchenko gave up his seat to Patrushev and took Yuri’s. Yuri took Sasha’s and Sasha was told to get another chair. I sat back down where I was.
Patrushev leaned his elbows on the desk, tucked the back of his hands under his chin and wasted no time.
‘Anna, I want you to tell us what really goes on behind this man’s ramblings,’ he said in a clipped voice. ‘I don’t think any of us really believes that he is a drunk who rants on and on for nothing, do we? Or some obsessive at London’s Speaker’s Corner. His outspokenness about Vladimir Vladimirovich is a little hard to take at face value, don’t you think?’
His use of my first name, rather than my rank, indicated
‘No.’
At this moment, Patrushev entered the room.
11
W HEN I’D GOT OVER the shock of Patrushev actually appearing at the Forest, it was clear that the FSB chief, our new boss of the renamed and airbrushed KGB, had been sitting in an adjoining room, wired to ours. But at the moment he entered the room, I was completely taken aback. The others, while making their respect obvious to Patrushev, looked even more astonished.
Patrushev didn’t come to foreign intelligence territory, to the Forest. He and the SVR chief were fierce rivals and there was no precedent as far as I knew for the two agencies entering each other’s ground. Foreign and home intelligence waged a low-key war against each other. It was said that three of Patrushev’s agents had been arrested in Paris a few months before while following a group of Chechens in the French capital. The Forest, angry that their rivals were performing a foreign intelligence function, had tipped off the French security services.
I had seen Patrushev a few times before, but only from afar. Hehad spoken at KGB functions and afterwards worked the room, vodka in hand, but I had never been introduced.
On this afternoon Nikolai Patrushev was dressed in his trademark grey suit and red tie. A tall, hawkish man, his receding hair was brushed over a balding patch and his thin nose appeared to hover over thinner lips. His eyes had a hard, mesmerising stare that ensured you met his gaze. He was Putin’s close ally, which might explain how he could appear at the Forest on the territory of his rival. I suppose Finn was a moving target between agencies but Patrushev’s presence could only have suggested Putin’s personal interest in the case.
Patrushev had come with Putin, like so many of the president’s acolytes, from his St Petersburg clan, the gang Putin collected around him from the time when he was deputy mayor of the city. Like Putin, he had collaborated with the KGB since he was a student. The two of them were practically born to the profession, but by nature not background.
Patrushev’s job was to guard the President’s back while the new order was being put into place before and during Putin’s rise to power. His personal guardianship of Putin was all in the name of national security, of course.
He stood in silence for a moment, instilling a sort of cold quietness into the room. A military man, tall, erect and proud of the military achievements in his family, he is the perfect KGB clone. His fitness from playing the favoured KGB sport of volleyball was evident from his lean strength. I knew he chaired the sport’s national organisation. From gossip among acquaintances over at the FSB headquarters in Moscow, I also knew he read thrillers and spy stories obsessively, after a personal assistant hired for the purpose recommended the best ones. Otherwise he attended the Bolshoi regularly, but only to listen to Russian composers. And he hunted, drank vodka and collected weaponry.
After the surprise and then their oleaginous deference to theKGB boss, the three men in the room were silenced by his arrival. I stood automatically and he looked me over with what is normally called a practised eye.
There followed a complicated procedure, as there were only four chairs in the room. Kerchenko gave up his seat to Patrushev and took Yuri’s. Yuri took Sasha’s and Sasha was told to get another chair. I sat back down where I was.
Patrushev leaned his elbows on the desk, tucked the back of his hands under his chin and wasted no time.
‘Anna, I want you to tell us what really goes on behind this man’s ramblings,’ he said in a clipped voice. ‘I don’t think any of us really believes that he is a drunk who rants on and on for nothing, do we? Or some obsessive at London’s Speaker’s Corner. His outspokenness about Vladimir Vladimirovich is a little hard to take at face value, don’t you think?’
His use of my first name, rather than my rank, indicated
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