Lenilko in person.
It wouldn’t do to show unease in front of the two men. Lenilko allowed a flicker of natural frustration to pass across his face before he nodded.
‘Okay.’
The elevator rose in near silence, the men on either side of Lenilko watching the floor numbers tick off. When the doors opened, one man stepped out first while the other ushered Lenilko ahead of him. One in front and one behind. He was being escorted, and he didn’t like it.
The office suite was far quieter than Lenilko’s own, only a handful of secretarial staff working this Saturday afternoon. None of them raised their heads as Lenilko walked with the two men across the floor space to the heavy oak door at the far end.
One of the men knocked. A voice said: ‘Come.’
Lenilko had been in Rokva’s office countless times. He’d been awed on the first few occasions, not because it was particularly grand – it wasn’t – but because it struck him anew each time that he was standing in one of the FSB’s inner sancta.
Never before had he entered the office with such a profound sense of foreboding.
The two men who’d escorted him closed the door behind Lenilko and he was left alone with Rokva. His Georgian boss was a small man, his head bald and smooth except for the tonsure that was as neatly trimmed as his goatee and his moustache. His suit was new but, as ever, modest.
Rokva came out from behind his desk, his smile warm.
‘Semyon Vladimirovich. Sorry about the welcoming committee.’
He didn’t suggest that Lenilko take off his overcoat, but instead nodded at the pair of armchairs over to one side. Lenilko sank into one of them opposite the director. It wasn’t a welcoming committee , he thought. They came to fetch me.
‘I won’t keep you,’ said Rokva. ‘If you’re here at this hour on a weekend you must be busy. Though you look like you were about to go out. How’s it going, by the way?’
Did he mean life, generally? Or the specific project that was the reason for Lenilko’s being at the office today? Lenilko thought he must be referring to the second.
‘Very well, thank you, sir. A couple of surprising developments. I’m still trying to figure out what they mean.’
An FSB officer of Lenilko’s seniority was permitted to carry out his own investigations without formal approval from the director. As a rule, Rokva didn’t interfere, knowing that his officers would apprise him of the details as and when needed.
Rokva watched Lenilko over fingers steepled beneath his chin. After a pause he said, ‘Yarkovsky Station.’
So he knew. Despite himself, Lenilko felt perversely annoyed. ‘Yes, sir.’
Another pause.
Rokva said, ‘What I’m about to tell you, I wouldn’t say it unless it were absolutely necessary. I’ve no desire to interfere in your investigation.’
The apprehension tightened in Lenilko’s gut. He waited.
‘There’s a journalist at the station.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘John Farmer.’
‘Correct.’
Rokva said: ‘He’s not to be harmed.’
The silence hung between the two men.
‘Sir?’ Lenilko didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
‘Your asset there. The Englishman, Wyatt. You need to tell him to hold off on the journalist.’
Lenilko struggled for an appropriate response. ‘Sir, I’ve given Wyatt no instructions to harm –’
‘You know what I mean.’ The director’s voice was patient. ‘If this Farmer was thought to have information relevant to the investigation, Wyatt would use whatever means necessary to make him divulge it. I’m telling you to order him to keep away. There’s to be no coercion of the journalist.’
‘But if the interests of the State –’
‘ No coercion.’ The softening in Rokva’s tone was a dangerous sign. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’ The annoyance flared again, and, feeling reckless, Lenilko went on: ‘Might I ask who John Farmer is?’
‘Yes, you well might. And in other
It wouldn’t do to show unease in front of the two men. Lenilko allowed a flicker of natural frustration to pass across his face before he nodded.
‘Okay.’
The elevator rose in near silence, the men on either side of Lenilko watching the floor numbers tick off. When the doors opened, one man stepped out first while the other ushered Lenilko ahead of him. One in front and one behind. He was being escorted, and he didn’t like it.
The office suite was far quieter than Lenilko’s own, only a handful of secretarial staff working this Saturday afternoon. None of them raised their heads as Lenilko walked with the two men across the floor space to the heavy oak door at the far end.
One of the men knocked. A voice said: ‘Come.’
Lenilko had been in Rokva’s office countless times. He’d been awed on the first few occasions, not because it was particularly grand – it wasn’t – but because it struck him anew each time that he was standing in one of the FSB’s inner sancta.
Never before had he entered the office with such a profound sense of foreboding.
The two men who’d escorted him closed the door behind Lenilko and he was left alone with Rokva. His Georgian boss was a small man, his head bald and smooth except for the tonsure that was as neatly trimmed as his goatee and his moustache. His suit was new but, as ever, modest.
Rokva came out from behind his desk, his smile warm.
‘Semyon Vladimirovich. Sorry about the welcoming committee.’
He didn’t suggest that Lenilko take off his overcoat, but instead nodded at the pair of armchairs over to one side. Lenilko sank into one of them opposite the director. It wasn’t a welcoming committee , he thought. They came to fetch me.
‘I won’t keep you,’ said Rokva. ‘If you’re here at this hour on a weekend you must be busy. Though you look like you were about to go out. How’s it going, by the way?’
Did he mean life, generally? Or the specific project that was the reason for Lenilko’s being at the office today? Lenilko thought he must be referring to the second.
‘Very well, thank you, sir. A couple of surprising developments. I’m still trying to figure out what they mean.’
An FSB officer of Lenilko’s seniority was permitted to carry out his own investigations without formal approval from the director. As a rule, Rokva didn’t interfere, knowing that his officers would apprise him of the details as and when needed.
Rokva watched Lenilko over fingers steepled beneath his chin. After a pause he said, ‘Yarkovsky Station.’
So he knew. Despite himself, Lenilko felt perversely annoyed. ‘Yes, sir.’
Another pause.
Rokva said, ‘What I’m about to tell you, I wouldn’t say it unless it were absolutely necessary. I’ve no desire to interfere in your investigation.’
The apprehension tightened in Lenilko’s gut. He waited.
‘There’s a journalist at the station.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘John Farmer.’
‘Correct.’
Rokva said: ‘He’s not to be harmed.’
The silence hung between the two men.
‘Sir?’ Lenilko didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
‘Your asset there. The Englishman, Wyatt. You need to tell him to hold off on the journalist.’
Lenilko struggled for an appropriate response. ‘Sir, I’ve given Wyatt no instructions to harm –’
‘You know what I mean.’ The director’s voice was patient. ‘If this Farmer was thought to have information relevant to the investigation, Wyatt would use whatever means necessary to make him divulge it. I’m telling you to order him to keep away. There’s to be no coercion of the journalist.’
‘But if the interests of the State –’
‘ No coercion.’ The softening in Rokva’s tone was a dangerous sign. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’ The annoyance flared again, and, feeling reckless, Lenilko went on: ‘Might I ask who John Farmer is?’
‘Yes, you well might. And in other
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