“That explains it then.”
The young KGB officer ate otherwise than his wife. He was all elbows and hands and exuberant bites, determined chewing.
They finished their meals and signaled for the bill.
Just as they were paying, Ninel Turinov arrived. They had graduated KGB School 1010 a year apart. They greeted each other as brothers.
“Am I late?”
Nikolai smiled. “Your timing is perfect.”
“Don’t tell Anchev. I’ll owe you.”
Ninel was tall and wiry, uncoordinated, and knew it as he carefully pulled out a chair and sat.
“Welcome to London.” He smiled and then turned to Yulia. “I am Ninel, and you are going to love it here. My wife is waiting to meet you. We have a baby.” Then he turned back to Nikolai, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And the Brits, impossibly naïve! It’s an intelligence feast every day!” His bright eyes sparkled, and he laughed at their good fortune.
They walked outside. A car from the Soviet Embassy was waiting with a driver. It drove them into the West End of the city, a desperate urban sprawl, old houses lining street after street, garbage in the gutters, and traffic on all four sides, some moving, most not.
“It’s exciting,” Yulia said on the ride over. “Our first look at London!”
Nikolai was watching out his window. “It’s so dirty here. Streets running willy-nilly, doubling back, crossing each other. It’s bewildering and chaotic. Perfect for KGB takeover.”
Laughter followed.
They pulled in through the electric gates at the Russian Embassy, a large, older building of white sandstone. Nikolai saw it was three stories, maybe four if there was a basement. It had been well-preserved, and the Soviet flag hung above the main portico. At No. 13 Kensington Palace Gardens, it was only a short distance to Bayswater Road, the main thoroughfare along Hyde Park, making it easier to get around town.
Turinov showed both husband and wife into the ambassador’s office to meet the man under whose posting Nikolai would work. Nikolai took the chair indicated by the ambassador. Turinov remained standing while Yulia sat down beside Nikolai and planted her feet solidly on the floor in young ladies’ school style.
The ambassador bustled around his desk to shake hands. “I’ve heard good things about you.”
“Well,” Nikolai said, “let’s hope I can live up to them. How do I begin here?”
The ambassador wasted no time. “That will be up to KGB London, but I would look for entry into a gentleman’s club if I were you. We haven’t cracked that nut yet, but that’s where the bluebloods go after five.”
“Gentlemen’s clubs? I will make a note.”
General Anatoly Anchev, the rezident of the KGB station, paged them. Turinov showed them to his office, done in amber wood with wall hangings of Moscow winter scenes. Anchev, the rezident, welcomed the newcomers and offered coffee. As the mouth-breathing sixty-year-old poured, Nikolai studied him and saw a friendly enough character who copied Elvis Presley’s sideburns—Elvis, whom the Party hated. But Nikolai knew there would be another side to Anatoly Anchev, too, a KGB side, when those eyes would flash with lightning and strike dead Russia’s enemies.
Anchev spoke to Nikolai in English, asking about his training in the language, the plane flight, etc. Then he announced that Nikolai would immediately enroll in two special KGB English language classes for localization. He would learn what Britons called everyday items, what different geographical accents sounded like, and how to tell social levels apart, place names and pronunciations—all the things that would make the Britons comfortable with him.
“I would like that very much,” Nikolai responded.
“Good, consider it done. You will begin tomorrow, your first full day on the job.” Anchev then paused before he continued. “Turinov, would you please show Mrs. Semenov around the grounds while I speak with Nikolai momentarily?”
“Of course.”
After they were gone, Anchev’s smile faded. “One of my officers witnessed the melee at the airport.”
“It happens.”
“Who were they?”
“Franz Rákosi, Hungary. First name unknown—Chin, Beijing.”
“Why?”
Nikolai shrugged. “Rákosi lost a platoon in Budapest in the Hungarian Revolution. I’m on their list.”
“Lost them to you?”
“My soldiers, yes. We captured him. He was lucky he got out alive.”
“Was he tortured?”
“Yes.”
“I see. So, he was looking for you?”
“I didn’t torture him personally.”
“That wouldn’t make any difference. You captured him.”
“Yes.”
“What about Chin? What do we know about him?”
“China. Said I was on the flight manifest, ten-thousand U.S.”
Anchev shook his head. “Welcome to London, Major Semenov. It can happen here as anywhere.”
“To their regret.”
“Go home now. KGB flats are beautiful in London. Your wife will be very happy here.”
“She is already happy.” He was as well. But the man sitting across from him was the last man he could ever let know.
“Take these keys. Black Morris Oxford in front.”
Nikolai nodded. “Spasibo.”
“Now, please find Ninel. Moscow will be calling to complain.”
“Rákosi was waiting when we arrived.”
“Can’t be helped. Ninel’s job was to be there before you arrived.”
“Solid KGB, Ninel.”
“Consider it handled.” He brushed him away.
Nikolai went outside to the grounds and found his wife and Ninel. “Your turn,” Nikolai told him. “I tried, for what it’s worth.”
Ninel took off at a trot.
“I know,” he said to Nikolai without looking back.
4
In the first days, he drove London streets, walked London downtown, learned entries and exits, and dead ends. He monitored dead drops and received microfilm canisters in brush-bys. Defense industries and military emplacements came next, photographing those he intended to penetrate. He felt very professional and now understood all the intense training and preparation the KGB required. It was good they had taught him to deceive, to coerce, to blackmail. He was going to need these skills to produce intelligence if he wanted to stay in London.
He threw himself into learning colloquial English, spending four afternoons a week in the station’s classroom setting and three nights a week at Berlitz Language School at his own expense for help with his dialect. Yulia enhanced the rest of his study with her degree in teaching English. Within weeks, he spoke English like a native and received his certificate. He took it home framed and hung it in the kitchen.
On the night of the certificate, Nikolai went hunting. KGB expected him to apply his new language skills and start recruiting. He would go where the British were vulnerable, where the lubricant of alcohol loosened tongues. He had studied the local papers and decided the most popular watering hole was the Flamingo Club in Soho. He wore his best Savile Row suit of clothes, provided by Moscow, and a gold Rolex watch. It must appear that he was a very successful businessman.