Queen & Country Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  Join our mailing list to get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  TO IAN CAWLEY, BOOKSELLER

  CHAPTER ONE

  When a sudden illness struck down Mr Noble, window cleaner in the Wiltshire village of Sherston, his place was taken by a younger man who drove a white Fiat van with ‘Cleaner Bob’ written in black lettering on the side. But there was no telephone number or website.

  Cleaner Bob was Polish, people said, although an elderly lady who had been brought up in Hungary insisted his accent was Russian. It didn’t matter; he was one of the many Eastern European immigrants everyone heard about, did a good job, charged no more than Mr Noble, made a fuss of children and pets and would clean windows when householders were out, content to collect his money next time. His cheerful visits brightened the days of the pensioners in the bungalows and small modern houses behind the handsome eighteenth-century high street. He was said to live in Malmesbury.

  Subsequent police inquires established that no one locally knew his surname. He took payment in cash – no cards, no cheques, no electronic banking. ‘I will become electric, I promise,’ he would say, smiling apologetically. ‘When I have been established and my bank account will be changed. Until then, please, cash. Thank you.’

  When investigating officers eventually discovered the name he used – Kazakov – they were unaware of its possible significance. Reasonably; there was no reason why local police recording an apparently natural death should connect the name of a temporary window cleaner with that of the long-dead Professor Ignaty Kazakov. In 1921 he had been appointed the first head of Lenin’s Special Room, established to develop poisons that successive Russian governments would use to assassinate those who opposed them. His name had been revered in Russia’s secret poisons industry ever since, though he was little-known outside it and his achievements hadn’t prevented him from falling victim to Stalin’s show trials in 1938.

  But in Whitehall a small number of officials – fewer than a handful – recognised the name when Wiltshire Police reported it. From the start they did not believe it would be Cleaner Bob’s real name. He would have left that behind in Russia, unused during his professional life. What puzzled them was whether his use of it was coincidental or deliberate. It could have been coincidental – it wasn’t rare and a Pole or Ukrainian of Russian ancestry might plausibly have had it. But if were deliberate, it could only be a sign that Cleaner Bob’s controllers were being provocatively facetious. They must have assumed that their British adversaries were too complacent, too incurious, too historically ignorant to recognise the reference. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred they would have been right.

  When Bob’s van turned into the crescent that morning he brought the weather with him, Mrs Wickens from number seven told the police. He usually did, he was such a cheerful presence. He came a little after ten, just as the sun came out. He did her windows then went to the last house, Mr Johansson’s next door. She was just going out to the shops and Bob called to ask if she knew when Mr Johansson would be back. She didn’t – she didn’t even know Mr Johansson was out. His car was in the drive but that meant nothing because he didn’t always take it, even when he was away for days at a time. Kept himself to himself, Mr Johansson. Nothing wrong with that, of course, and he was always very nice when he did speak, very polite. That came from being Swedish, she supposed; his father, anyway, he’d told her. She didn’t know about his mother.

  She was just going out, had just closed the door, when Bob asked her to tell Mr Johansson when he got back that he’d do his windows anyway and not to worry about the money, it could wait till next time. Which wasn’t unusual because people were often at the doctor’s or in hospital, being such a lot of old crocks in this neighbourhood.

  She thought no more about it until first thing next morning when she went out to water her plants. It had been a while since it had rained, and she thought she’d do Mr Johansson’s geraniums in the pots in front of his sitting-room window as well. She often did when he was away and he was always very grateful, always said thank you and offered to do the same, which he never did because she never went anywhere except to her brother in Shrewsbury at Christmas.

  Anyway, she’d just done them when she thought she’d take a peek through his window, make sure everything was all right. Not that she was being nosy, but you never knew these days and the house looked as if it hadn’t been slept in. Silly thing to say, of course, but it’s funny with houses, they look empty sometimes, you can just look at them and know. Well, it wasn’t easy because of those thick net curtains and she had to put her nose right up against the gap like a real nosy parker. Which Bob hadn’t done, obviously, because he’s not like that, doesn’t look in people’s windows, just cleans and gets on with it.

  Then, of course, she got the shock of her life. Mr Johansson was just sprawled there in his armchair, his head at a funny angle. It didn’t look right; she knew straight away there was something wrong. Gave her quite a turn, it did. So then she rang the police and the ambulance and all and they came and had to break into his house and that’s when it all started, the coming and going. Poor Mr Johansson, he wasn’t what you call old nowadays, still in his sixties most likely. But it must’ve been quick and he probably didn’t know anything about it. Heart, the ambulance woman said, probably in his sleep, so he wouldn’t have known anything at all.

  But he had known. For a few seconds he knew enough to know what was happening to him.

  The man behind the alias, Michael Johansson, had been born Mikhail Lubimov, a Russian biochemist, code-named within MI6 as Beech Tree. He had worked in Laboratory 12 of the Operational Technical directorate, a secret facility tasked by Department 8 of Directorate S of the Russian foreign intelligence service, the SVR, formerly known as the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Department 8 was responsible for assassinations and subversion on foreign soil. During the Soviet era, Beech Tree had travelled overseas as a representative of Biopreparat, the chemical and biological weapons organisation that pretended its business was civilian pharmaceutical and vaccine research. After the collapse of the Soviet Union he continued to travel on behalf of one of Biopreparat’s successor companies, with the same role and under the same pretence. During an international conference in Toronto, he was recruited by MI6.

  Over the next few years, before defecting, he provided a comprehensive account of Russian BCW – biological and chemical weapons – research and deployment in contravention of international treaties, including the results of experiments on prisoners. During his debriefs he said he had long felt guilty about the use to which his scientific achievements were put, and that it eased his conscience to tell British scientists at Porton Down all he knew of these secret weapons and techniques. Thereafter his ambition, he said, was to live out his natural life in undisturbed anonymity. He had a great fondness for railways and his absences from Sherston, which Mrs Wickens had noticed, comprised solitary train and walking holidays throughout Britain. He wanted no publicity nor any continuing involvement in his old field. He had seen enough of Russian liquidations, he said, not to risk facilitating the death sentence passed on him in Moscow.

  He saw Cleaner Bob arrive that morning, the morning of his death. He was in his armchair in the sitting-room, his laptop open on his knees. He was planning a walk in Teesdale, County Durham, looking for a branch line that would take him nearer to the inn at Romaldkirk than the mainline station at Darlington. The id
eal line, from Barnard Castle to Middleton-in-Teesdale, had long been closed, though six miles of it was still open for walking. He would have to get a bus from Darlington. When he saw Cleaner Bob come round from Mrs Wickens’s next door with his ladder and bucket, he got up and went through to the kitchen to find his wallet on the table. He owed for Bob’s previous visit, having been away. In fact, he had spoken to Bob only once. He did not encourage strangers, especially strangers who spoke foreign-accented English, like himself. Mrs Wickens had told him that Bob was Polish. He had shown no interest. Like many Russians, he didn’t like Poles.

  He opened the back door as Bob was setting up his ladder to do the upstairs windows. ‘Good morning. I owe you money for last time,’ he said.

  Bob nodded and smiled. ‘All part of service, sir.’ He settled the ladder against the wall and picked up his bucket. ‘May I please have clean water?’

  ‘Of course. Help yourself.’ Beech Tree backed away from the door to let him in, there being no outside tap. It had suited him to continue the social-distancing habits of the coronavirus scare. There was peace in distance; he wanted distance from everyone and from the entirety of his past, with one exception. But that was impossible, so he tried not to think of it. Distance was safer, anyway, in every respect. He searched his wallet while Bob stood at the sink with his bucket. ‘I do not have enough cash. I thought I did. Perhaps I put it somewhere else. But I can give you what I have. Or will you take a cheque or bank transfer? Or wait again until next time?’

  ‘I can wait. Thank you.’ Cleaner Bob lowered his bucket into the sink then reached into the thigh pocket of his overalls for a face mask and small spray can.

  ‘Maybe I put the money in the sitting-room,’ said Beech Tree. He left his wallet open on the kitchen table and walked through to the sitting-room, adding over his shoulder, ‘I would like to pay now if I can because I may not be here next time.’

  Cleaner Bob followed him. ‘That is true, you may not.’ He spoke in Russian.

  Beech Tree turned sharply. Bob was wearing the face mask and holding the spray can before him at eye level. ‘Farewell, Mikhail,’ he said, again in Russian.

  The few seconds of life remaining to Beech Tree were enough for him to realise he had been discovered but not enough to avoid the concentrated stream of tiny droplets sprayed directly into his face. It felt as if a great fist was clenched inside his chest, gripping and twisting him with a pain that overwhelmed everything. Then blackness, then nothing.

  He collapsed backwards as his knees buckled. Cleaner Bob, who had done this before, stepped nimbly around and caught him in an embrace, carefully pointing the spray can away while lowering him into the armchair. He put the can on the carpet, checked Beech Tree’s eyes and pulse, and heaved him farther up into the chair. Then he gently, almost reverently, placed his hands one on top of the other in his lap and lifted one leg over the other so that they crossed at the ankle. The leg was heavy and the right slipper had come off. Bob edged it across the carpet with his own foot until it was beneath the crossed leg. Finally he tipped Beech Tree’s upturned head towards the left shoulder where it lolled, eyes and mouth open.

  He removed his face mask, picked up his spray can, went to the kitchen, replaced the lid on the spray, put it and the mask back in his overall pocket, ran some water into his bucket and went out, opening and closing the kitchen door with his elbow. Then he cleaned the windows.

  Mrs Wickens thought it quite a coincidence because Mr Noble, their old window cleaner, had also passed away suddenly, at home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Charles Thoroughgood took the call in Swinbrook, the Oxfordshire hamlet where his wife Sarah owned a house. It came at a good moment, just after he had wriggled out from beneath his car after changing the oil and fitting a new filter. All had gone well, the old filter had come off with less trouble than he feared, but he now had to dispose of the old oil. The call came as he stood wiping his hands on a discarded pyjama jacket. He ran into the house and picked up the phone with a clean bit of sleeve.

  ‘Mr Thoroughgood? The Office. I have DCEO for you.’

  He recognised the voice of an MI6 switchboard operator who must have served longer than he had. He recalled that voice from his training days and he had now been retired some years. At least they still maintained a manual switchboard. That was something. There had been two attempts to get rid of it during his time as Chief, which he had overruled on the grounds that sometimes agents who rang in needed a person, not a machine.

  There was a pause, then another voice. ‘Charles? Apologies for bothering you. Martin Manners. You probably don’t remember me. I was OS/1 – Ops Security – when you were Chief.’

  ‘Morning, Martin.’ He remembered the name but not the man. Ex-army – Guards? Rifle Brigade? Paras? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t recognise the DCEO designation.

  ‘There’s something we were wondering if you could help with. It’s not screamingly urgent but we need to crack on with it. Any chance you could pop in for a chat in the next day or two? Today ideally, if you’re in London. You still live in Westminster, don’t you? You know we’re back in Vauxhall Cross now?’

  ‘So I read, yes, but I’m in Oxfordshire. Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Thanks, that’s very kind. Oh-nine-hundred if that’s okay? Sarah well? Good, haven’t seen her for years. Very fond memories of Swinbrook. Please give her my best wishes.’

  It wasn’t uncommon for Sarah to know Office people whom Charles didn’t. She had never served but had been married to his predecessor as Chief, who had been keen on entertaining.

  Rubbing his hands again on the pyjama jacket, he returned to the car, started it, lay down and poked his head under. Gratifyingly, there was no oil leaking onto the gravel. But the problem was the bowlful of dirty oil. Not all recycling centres would accept it. The one that did was miles away and he wouldn’t be able to take it in the bowl without spilling it, having no cans in which to decant it neatly. He was tempted to tip it onto the earth in a remote part of the garden where Sarah might not notice. After all, oil came from the earth so presumably there was no harm in returning it. Or perhaps he could pour it on the bonfire and burn it before returning to London that evening. Sarah was at work in London and by the time they came down at the weekend, there should be no trace. It struck him, not for the first time, that marriage and retirement seemed to demand as many subterfuges as spying. Though the consequences were different. He emptied the oil into a patch of nettles behind the compost bin.

  ‘Smarmy,’ was Sarah’s prompt response when he mentioned Martin Manners that evening. ‘A real smoothie. Thinks he’s God’s gift, though I can’t for the life of me see why. He’s not even good-looking. What does he want?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘Well, watch out. He’d put on a lot of weight, last time I saw him. Wears his paunch with pride. Not that that’s catching but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

  * * *

  Martin Manners was indeed large, with dark hair, heavy-framed glasses, a loud voice and a brisk, welcoming manner. He was dressed in expensive-looking jeans, trainers and a crisp white shirt with no tie. His paunch bulged over his brown leather belt, his hands were wide and hairy, his handshake firm and he wore a wedding ring and a Rolex. Charles wore suit and tie, as used to be the norm in the Office.

  ‘Good of you to come in,’ Martin said. ‘Must be a few years since you were in Vauxhall Cross? Few changes since then too. Denim permitted, ties no longer de rigueur, as you see.’ He smiled.

  Charles nodded. He had read the LGBT notices in the lift and the offers of counselling.

  Martin’s office faced the river. It was one of the largest in the building, in Charles’s day occupied by the director of operations. Martin pointed to a percolator bubbling on a side table. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They sat in low armchairs by the coffee table. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Beech Tree. Russian biochemist. You were
his case officer. You ran him until he defected and was resettled.’

  Charles nodded again. Beech Tree had not been a difficult case to run, apart from the elaborate security precautions surrounding any Russian case. A clever, calm, focused man who knew what he wanted and had no illusions about what he was doing, or why. Charles had liked him.

  ‘Thought you ought to know he’s dead,’ said Martin. ‘Poisoned, we believe. Ironically appropriate, you might say.’

  He described what was thought to have happened. ‘Turns out the window cleaner wasn’t who he said he was. He was traced to Malmesbury but disappeared immediately after the murder, vehicle vanished, rented flat emptied and professionally cleaned. The Poles have no trace of the name he used, no passport issued in that name. Must have entered and left the country on another. In other words, a classic, old-fashioned, Cold War-type Russian Illegal op, infiltrating an intelligence officer under alias who has no contact with the residency, though they may have provided logistical or information support without knowing for whom or what. Different class of op altogether from the Skripals in Salisbury. That was perpetrated by those two GRU clowns, Chepiga and Mishkin from Unit 29155, their destabilisation unit. Anyway, the Beech Tree op was much more sophisticated, planned long in advance. They went to great lengths to make it appear natural, like a heart attack. In fact, it was a heart attack. That’s what he had, that’s what killed him.’

  ‘How do we know it wasn’t natural?’

  ‘As a result of Skripal, the body was examined more carefully than in an ordinary autopsy. Porton Down was involved. They looked first for traces of Novichok, as used on the Skripals, then they went through the whole family of nerve agents, everything the Russians are known to have researched since Lenin. Nothing. Then they suspected sodium fluoroacetate, a metabolic poison that occurs naturally in plants and causes heart failure if administered properly and is untraceable afterwards. But they’ve ruled that out too.’