are.” Lermov took the Putin letter from his pocket and passed it to him. “Go down to the cell block, order the commanding officer to provide you with two military police sergeants, women, but the type who look like prison officers. Proceed to Lieutenant Greta Bikov’s home. You will remind her she is still an officer in the GRU and that duty calls. The sergeants will assist her into her uniform, if necessary.”
There was a kind of admiration on Ivanov’s face. “Of course, Colonel.”
“I’ll give you an hour, then I’ll present myself in the cell block and start her interrogation. So get on with it.”
Ivanov went away, almost running, and the old tea woman came back along the walkway. She paused, “Another tea, Colonel, you look stressed. What’s wrong?”
“It’s the acting, babushka, it always takes it out of me playing somebody I’m not,” Lermov told her.
“What you need is another glass of tea.”
“I don’t think so.” He smiled. “But you can give me one of those cigarettes, if you like.”
The house overlooking the river was definitely tsarist in origin, as Ivanov had expected. The Bikov apartment was on the top floor and served by an ancient lift with a metal lattice door. Before going up, Ivanov gave his two forbidding-looking women police sergeants instructions.
“I doubt if you will ever handle a matter of greater importance than this.” He produced the Putin letter, opened it, and held it before them. “We are here at our Prime Minister’s bidding to arrest a serving officer of the GRU who needs to answer grave charges, one Greta Bikov.”
Neither woman showed any emotion, not a flicker on the face. The senior said, “How do we handle the matter, Captain?”
“No need to get too physical, Sergeant Stransky. Let’s just frighten the hell out of her, put her in the right frame of mind for her interrogation.”
The bell sounded like a distant echo from another time, but the maid who answered it was young, dressed in jeans and a smock, rubber gloves on her hands, obviously engaged in cleaning. A look of dismay appeared on her face.
Sergeant Stransky barked with infinite menace, “Lieutenant Greta Bikov.” She moved straight past the girl and led the way along a short corridor. Which opened into an arched entrance with drapes on either side and, beyond, a large sitting room.
There was a piano, a fine carpet, too much old-fashioned furniture, and wingback chairs. Having studied Greta Bikov’s service record, Ivanov knew that the woman in the wheelchair beside the fire was the mother, crippled with rheumatoid arthritis in spite of being only fifty years of age. Greta was sitting opposite her, wearing a bathrobe and what looked like pajama bottoms. She’d been holding a cup in both hands and, in scrambling to her feet, spilled some of its contents. Her face was wild with fear.
Her mother cried out, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Peter Ivanov saluted with infinite courtesy. “You must excuse the intrusion, madam, but your daughter must return to duty.”
“This is nonsense,” Mrs. Bikov told him. “She is ill.”
To Greta, confronted by Ivanov in that magnificent uniform with all the medals, it was as if the Devil himself had come to fetch her.
She said desperately, “I’m on indefinite sick leave.”
“Terminated on the orders of Colonel Josef Lermov, now Head of Station for the GRU in London.”
“No, surely it cannot be?” she said faintly.
Ivanov took out the Putin letter, unfolded it, and held it up in front of her. “The Prime Minister himself requests your presence.”
She seemed to stagger, clutching at the back of her chair. Ivanov nodded to Stransky and her partner, who came forward and took an arm each. “Don’t be alarmed. These women are simply here to assist you to dress. You must make your appearance in uniform. Go with them now.”
They took her away to her bedroom. Her mother had started to weep, holding a handkerchief
There was a kind of admiration on Ivanov’s face. “Of course, Colonel.”
“I’ll give you an hour, then I’ll present myself in the cell block and start her interrogation. So get on with it.”
Ivanov went away, almost running, and the old tea woman came back along the walkway. She paused, “Another tea, Colonel, you look stressed. What’s wrong?”
“It’s the acting, babushka, it always takes it out of me playing somebody I’m not,” Lermov told her.
“What you need is another glass of tea.”
“I don’t think so.” He smiled. “But you can give me one of those cigarettes, if you like.”
The house overlooking the river was definitely tsarist in origin, as Ivanov had expected. The Bikov apartment was on the top floor and served by an ancient lift with a metal lattice door. Before going up, Ivanov gave his two forbidding-looking women police sergeants instructions.
“I doubt if you will ever handle a matter of greater importance than this.” He produced the Putin letter, opened it, and held it before them. “We are here at our Prime Minister’s bidding to arrest a serving officer of the GRU who needs to answer grave charges, one Greta Bikov.”
Neither woman showed any emotion, not a flicker on the face. The senior said, “How do we handle the matter, Captain?”
“No need to get too physical, Sergeant Stransky. Let’s just frighten the hell out of her, put her in the right frame of mind for her interrogation.”
The bell sounded like a distant echo from another time, but the maid who answered it was young, dressed in jeans and a smock, rubber gloves on her hands, obviously engaged in cleaning. A look of dismay appeared on her face.
Sergeant Stransky barked with infinite menace, “Lieutenant Greta Bikov.” She moved straight past the girl and led the way along a short corridor. Which opened into an arched entrance with drapes on either side and, beyond, a large sitting room.
There was a piano, a fine carpet, too much old-fashioned furniture, and wingback chairs. Having studied Greta Bikov’s service record, Ivanov knew that the woman in the wheelchair beside the fire was the mother, crippled with rheumatoid arthritis in spite of being only fifty years of age. Greta was sitting opposite her, wearing a bathrobe and what looked like pajama bottoms. She’d been holding a cup in both hands and, in scrambling to her feet, spilled some of its contents. Her face was wild with fear.
Her mother cried out, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Peter Ivanov saluted with infinite courtesy. “You must excuse the intrusion, madam, but your daughter must return to duty.”
“This is nonsense,” Mrs. Bikov told him. “She is ill.”
To Greta, confronted by Ivanov in that magnificent uniform with all the medals, it was as if the Devil himself had come to fetch her.
She said desperately, “I’m on indefinite sick leave.”
“Terminated on the orders of Colonel Josef Lermov, now Head of Station for the GRU in London.”
“No, surely it cannot be?” she said faintly.
Ivanov took out the Putin letter, unfolded it, and held it up in front of her. “The Prime Minister himself requests your presence.”
She seemed to stagger, clutching at the back of her chair. Ivanov nodded to Stransky and her partner, who came forward and took an arm each. “Don’t be alarmed. These women are simply here to assist you to dress. You must make your appearance in uniform. Go with them now.”
They took her away to her bedroom. Her mother had started to weep, holding a handkerchief
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