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    The Kramski Case: Tales of MI7, #1
    The Kramski Case: Tales of MI7, #1
    The Kramski Case: Tales of MI7, #1
    Ebook412 pages7 hours

    The Kramski Case: Tales of MI7, #1

    By James Ward

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    About this ebook

    When a serial killer is just the tip of the iceberg...


    "Bottom Line: 5 Stars for entertainment and originality, these days I seldom lose sleep over a book unless it is truly exceptional and I was up far past my usual bedtime to finish this." - Douglas C Meeks.

    "An immensely well-written, fast-paced and obviously thoroughly researched tale, with an exciting plot, interesting and intelligent characters and some extremely skilful (and often humorous) dialogue." - Hal Marshall. 

    When someone starts assassinating paparazzi in three countries, MI7 sits up. Apparently, the killer is none other than Dmitri Vassyli Kramski, retired SVR field-operative and former Kremlin protégé. 

    True, the Cold War is long finished, but everyone knows Vladimir Putin is as unhappy for Russia to play second fiddle on the international stage as even the most strident of his Communist predecessors. In 2010 therefore, East-West relations remain as tortuous as ever.

    Kramski's trail leads deep into London's émigré community, forcing his pursuers into conflict with an unknown organisation bent on protecting him. Bit by bit, he begins to look less like a professional assassin and more like someone plotting to scupper the foundations of Western democracy itself. 

    To compound matters, the Russians are as baffled by him as anyone.

    "Espionage, murders, intrigue, and of course hot romance are billowing out of nearly every page ... JJ Ward has polished his style well and knows when and how to turn up the heat."- Grady Harp.

    "A masterfully crafted plot with well-developed characters, natural dialogue, and plot twists and action at every turn … If you like your thrillers smart, entertaining and gripping, this book won't disappoint." - Sam G.

    "From a Bond lover … terrific!" - Jay Mittener. 

    "There is clarity about the writing and the world view that feels like a breath of fresh air." - Adam "Mr B".

    "A great book for reading on the train, and is a welcome light relief in these dark and gloomy days!" - MRN Shackelford. 

    "This was a terrific thrill ride of a book." - Liz Wilkins.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCool Millennium
    Release dateOct 25, 2016
    ISBN9781540100290
    The Kramski Case: Tales of MI7, #1
    Author

    James Ward

    James Ward's London-based blog, I Like Boring Things, has featured in the Independent, Observer and on the BBC website. He is co-founder of Stationery Club and the Boring Conference, featured in the Wall Street Journal and on Radio 4. Adventures in Stationery is his first book.

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      Book preview

      The Kramski Case - James Ward

      COOL MILLENNIUM BOOKS

      Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or means, without written permission.

      Copyright © James Ward 2012

      James Ward has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

      This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. All resemblance to actual events, places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      First published 2012

      A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

      Cover picture taken by the author on 5 April 2014: shows the view from Trafalgar Square towards Big Ben.

      This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of trading or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including the condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      To my wife

      www.talesofmi7.com

      Other books in the same series:

      The original Tales of MI7

      Our Woman in Jamaica

      The Kramski Case

      The Girl from Kandahar

      The Vengeance of San Gennaro

      The John Mordred books

      The Eastern Ukraine Question

      The Social Magus

      Encounter With ISIS

      World War O

      The New Europeans

      Libya Story

      Little War in London

      The Square Mile Murder

      The Ultimate Londoner

      Death in a Half Foreign Country

      The BBC Hunters

      The Seductive Scent of Empire

      Humankind 2.0

      Ruby Parker’s Last Orders

      Chapters

      Chapter 1: Them Ol’ Paparazzi Blues

      Chapter 2: Air Rage

      Chapter 3: The Curse of Gnome

      Chapter 4: Marcie Brown, Investigator

      Chapter 5: The Priest Hole

      Chapter 6: How to Prove that x²(MI5 + MI6 - √2y) = MI7

      Chapter 7: Oh Jilly, My Jilly

      Chapter 8: The Party Animal

      Chapter 9: More Ace Stuff About Jilly

      Chapter 10: The Disconcerting Photomatic

      Chapter 11: Meetin’ the Folks

      Chapter 12: A Turn for the Worse

      Chapter 13: Nichole Moore, Superstar

      Chapter 14: The Return of Nicholas Fleming

      Chapter 15: Reading The Stage

      Chapter 16: Sacred Texts

      Chapter 17: No Blancmange in Lebanon

      Chapter 18: How Do You Solve a Problem Like Marciella Hartley-Brown, ASBO?

      Chapter 19: Inside a Big Old House

      Chapter 20: Serve the Lord With Gladness

      Chapter 21: Securitavan Shenanigans

      Chapter 22: Rumble at GCHQ

      Chapter 23: The Other Side of Nichole Moore

      Chapter 24: The Obligatory Car Chase & Sundry Other Business

      Chapter 25: Fleming at Thames House

      Chapter 26: Bedford then Kafka

      Chapter 27: Kramski Opens Up

      Chapter 28: Call for the Cavalry

      Chapter 29: Burning Rubber

      Chapter 30: Hung Parliament

      Chapter 31: One Out, One In

      Chapter 32: Epilogue

      Other Books by James Ward

      Note on Language

      THIS NOVEL WAS PRODUCED in the UK and uses British-English language conventions (‘authorise’ instead of ‘authorize’, ‘The government are’ instead of ‘the government is’, etc.)

      Chapter 1: Them Ol’ Paparazzi Blues

      KENDAL, CUMBRIA.

      Someone called Jilly’s name, then the name of her band, Four Girls on Fire. At first, she thought she was dreaming – they’d just won the nation’s biggest talent show all over again, and from now on, life was going to be really amazing! - then her stomach turned over.

      She disengaged herself from Rob, got out of bed and went to the window. Bloody hell, yes, down in the narrow cobbled street that fronted the guest-house. Paparazzi, sixteen or seventeen of them, all men, full of last night’s chip fat and strip-club testosterone, leering up at the net curtain like they could see through it. She swallowed.

      The other girls had warned her about dating a member of a boy band, but only tongue in cheek. Twice the publicity, babes, sure you can handle that? She couldn’t help herself, though. Two years ago he’d been her hero and she’d been a nobody. Now they were equals.

      They’ve found us, she told him.

      Rob stretched and yawned. He discarded the bedclothes, picked up his boxer shorts and put his foot in one leg. The press?

      You don’t seem very bothered.

      You were bloody brilliant last night, Jilly.

      How did they know we were here?

      I mean it. Outstanding.

      She realised she didn’t even like him much. Did you tell them?

      Me?

      Wake up, Rob! It’s the press! I said the press have found us!

      He pulled on his boxers and put his arms round her. She disengaged herself, plonked herself at the dressing table and brushed her long brown hair, pulling halfway down as if it was full of knots. She was trying to stop herself shaking.

      Anyone could have told them, he said. It definitely wasn’t me, babe.

      Put your clothes on. We’re leaving.

      Why? They can’t get in here.

      She fished her bra from the pile of clothes on the floor and put it on. We’re in the bloody Lake District, Rob. We’re supposed to be miles from anywhere. How did they find us so quickly?

      She looked round the room: the plaid curtains, the beds with valances, the 1920s lampshades, all the varnished wooden surfaces, so unlike the places she always stayed when she was touring with the girls. She’d fallen in love with it at first sight. She’d been drunk, true, but she’d never wanted to leave.

      Rob pulled his socks and T-shirt on then looked at her. You’re not frightened, are you?

      They’ve probably got the place surrounded. And yes. Yes, I am frightened.

      We’ll just call a taxi. We can be downstairs and in the car before anyone knows it.

      I’m not bothered about us, Rob. I’m bothered about them. Tights, tights, where were her bloody tights?

      ‘Them’?

      Yeah, ‘them’. The photographers, journalists, whatever they call themselves. Them!

      He laughed. First time anyone’s cared what happens to paparazzi. Anyway, what could happen to them?

      Haven’t you been watching the news recently? Are you really that self-obsessed?

      Hey, now -

      Four photographers shot dead in four weeks. Following Bobby Keynes, Zane Cruse, Mikey from Bad Lads Zero, Stallone Laine -

      No such thing as bad publicity, from what I hear. Not that you need it, girl, but it won’t hurt. Besides, they’re all douche bags, right?

      She pulled her dress on and smoothed the waist. She’d had enough now. She wanted out. Of everything. I misjudged you, Rob. They’re still human beings.

      No, they ain’t. Anyway, what are the chances?

      I don’t want to think about it.

      He picked up the telephone. Is that reception? Hi, yeah ... Room ...

      Fourteen, Jilly said.

      Fourteen. Could you get a taxi pronto for me and the shorty? And fetch us the bill for the room? ... Yeah, we’re leaving ... Yeah, all good things have to come to an end sooner or later ... Yeah, we’re disappointed too. He put his hand over the receiver. She knows us, he told Jilly. It’ll be her that told the reporters.

      Bitch.

      He put the phone down. About fifteen minutes. Get your face on, gorgeous.

      I’m not waiting for her taxi to come, Rob. Not if she’s with them. I’ll get my own. There’s a rank down the road. Come on.

      What about your make-up?

      She rammed a pair of sunglasses on and picked up her travel bag. He followed her downstairs. They didn’t stop at reception. Rob reached into his wallet, pulled out four fifties and thrust them at Mrs whatever-she-was-called, the proprietress. Keep the change.

      Suddenly, they were out on the street. Paparazzi to their right, shouting Jilly. Jilly take off your shades, Jilly flick your hair, Jilly wave, Jilly smile, Jilly stop, who’s that with Jilly, that’s Rob from Simply Boyz, Rob give us a smile, Rob –

      She took off her glasses, grabbed Rob’s hand and turned left and accelerated. She almost changed direction. There was a loud crack and she jumped like she’d been hit.

      Behind them, the paparazzi roared. One of them – a photographer, about twenty-five - lay prostrate and bloody. Four others photographed him, ten or twelve were in full flight, one was trying to get a signal on his mobile. No one was interested in Jilly and Rob any more.

      Rob looked at them then at her. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

      Jilly started screaming.

      Solikamsk Prison, the Urals.

      Colonel Orlov came in looking lean and muscular. Bald, sunken eyes, sinewy hands. Much as Deputy Commissioner Khrantsov had been told to expect: like a skull on the body of a statue. He was forty-three, but he looked older from the neck up, younger from the neck down. He wore the regulation prison outfit: coarse grey jacket and trousers, white vest, black boots.

      He sat at the table, straightened his back and flattened his hands on the Formica surface. Above him a single strip light buzzed and flickered. The walls were grey plaster, never painted. A patch showed where the portrait of Brezhnev had once hung.

      Commissioner Khrantsov, ten years younger than the convict, with a shelf of blond hair and hard Kamchatka eyes, removed his greatcoat and bearskin hat to reveal an expensive blue suit, and sat leisurely opposite him. He nodded for the guard to wait outside.

      I’ve read a lot about you, he said when they were alone.

      I haven’t the inclination to play games with the FSB. Either tell me what you want or leave me alone.

      Khrantsov lit a cigarette and leaned back. I’m not in the FSB.

      I’ve no means of verifying who you are or aren’t, so once again, why not just come to the point?

      We’ve looked after you well while you’ve been in prison.

      ‘We’.

      And I’m here to tell you you’ll soon be released.

      After I’ve done one year of a twenty-five year sentence.

      You’ve got a lot of friends in high places, Colonel Orlov, and they think your country needs you.

      I’m in here for treason, tell them.

      Khrantsov smiled. Thank you. Like I said a moment ago, I’ve read your files.

      These ‘friends in high places’, they wouldn’t happen to have names, would they?

      Khrantsov ignored him. He took a small gift-wrapped box from his pocket and pushed it across the table. This is for you.

      Orlov looked at it then opened it. A chess set. His chess set. He slid back the lid and took the thirty-two pieces out, spacing them equally for a full minute till they were all accounted for. He looked at Khrantsov. Where did you get it?

      I understand it was stolen from you two days ago.

      Orlov gathered the pieces and dropped them back in the box. And how did it find its way into your hands?

      As I said earlier, we’re looking after you. The thief’s being raped and beaten as we speak. It won’t happen again.

      Orlov’s expression filled with contempt. He pushed the container back across the table.

      Joke, Colonel, relax. Can’t you take a joke?

      It remained in the middle of the table. Khrantsov sighed. If you ever hear of anyone being maltreated on behalf of your precious chess set then, yes, I’m with the FSB. Which I’m not.

      Orlov hesitated then retrieved it.

      Khrantsov smiled. Every man has his weakness, Colonel. Yours is your intellect. If we were other than we are, we might wish for something a little more malleable. But we aren’t.

      When are ‘we’ going to secure my release?

      I’m only here to tell you to be ready when the call comes. It’ll seem trivial. Don’t despise it.

      Community service, you mean.

      Not exactly. You’re going to England in the first instance.

      England?

      That’s right. We’d hardly send you to England if we were FSB now, would we?

      What’s in England?

      Khrantsov ground his cigarette into the floor and stood up. It was a pleasure meeting you, Colonel.

      2 Marsham Street, Westminster.

      The Home Secretary’s office epitomised tidiness, polished walnut and the cultural triumph of the desk. Three floors below, men in yellow jackets with drills dug the road and the traffic was at a standstill, but the soundproofing in here was so complete you could hardly hear it. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Colin Bowker, came in holding his cap and waited to be asked to sit on the chair obviously reserved for him.

      The Home Secretary, already seated, donned his glasses and leaned forward. His spiky hair, long eyes and hawk nose all seemed drawn to a point ready to poleaxe his visitor. Sir Colin was much slighter and in his retirement year. He guessed he didn’t cut much of a retaliatory figure. But he had his stratagems. It was just a case of deploying them in the right order.

      Sit down, sit down, the Home Secretary said. I take it you’ve seen the papers?

      For what it’s worth, yes. I have.

      ‘Serial killer’? ‘Police apathy’? ‘Amnesty International expresses concern’?

      Sir Colin brushed his right cuff. We went through this a week ago. Up until Tuesday hardly anyone gave a damn. Because the fifth victim happens to be Harriet Johnson’s nephew, all hell’s been let loose. The truth is, I’ve got officers working on it flat out. Any ‘apathy’ has been the media’s not ours.

      "You’ve been lucky so far. The press has been itching to make more of this since day one, but they know they’ve got their work cut out drumming up public sympathy for gutter rats. Now Harriet’s on board, though, they’re on a roll. And I don’t bloody deserve it."

      Sir Colin chuckled. Have you told the Secretary of State for Education you think her nephew’s a gutter rat?

      I didn’t drag you here to bandy witticisms, Colin. I want to know how far you’ve got. If anywhere.

      We’ve made a lot of progress, actually.

      Amaze me.

      I’ve come up with a plan to take the heat off.

      The Home Secretary sighed through his teeth. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what it is. I’m not in the mood for teasers.

      Firstly, we’ve been in contact with Interpol. I know what you’re thinking. Whose bright idea was that? My reaction too. I’ll come to that in a minute. Anyway, it turns out to have been very germane.

      You mean – what? - there have been similar crimes, elsewhere?

      About a year ago. Four in the USA, within the space of about a month. And another five in Russia, of all places.

      So someone’s been killing paparazzi in three countries.

      It seems so, Sir Colin said.

      A copycat, you mean ... or copycats?

      There’s a ballistics match. The same make of weapon. None of that’s public knowledge.

      You’re saying it’s the same culprit?

      Or group of culprits.

      The Home Secretary looked hard at his own reflection in the desk. I can imagine a murderer operating in the USA, say, then coming to Britain to continue the slaughter when the net starts closing in. But Russia? Why Russia?

      We don’t know.

      I mean, did it begin in Russia? Is it a Russian weapon we’re talking about?

      I see where you’re going. Russian murderer, starts domestic then branches out, goes international. But the first murder was in the USA, only a few hours before the Russian one. There wasn’t time for a single murderer to get from one location to the other.

      So how? I’m a busy man, spell it out for me.

      Possibly some sort of internet cult. That’s speculation, of course.

      Look, I’ll be blunt, Colin. I’ve a cabinet meeting in fifteen minutes. Harriet Johnson’s going to chase me down the corridor with a cricket bat if you haven’t got something better than ‘speculation’.

      We’re creating a special unit.

      Details.

      Three persons. One British, one American, one Russian. We each put up a third of the cost.

      And the Americans and the Russians have agreed to that, yes?

      The US Department of Justice has already named its man. We’re waiting to hear from the Russians.

      Who’s our man? I mean, rank? What’s he do?

      He’s an Inspector. You might know him. Hartley-Brown.

      No relation, surely?

      His son.

      The Home Secretary laughed. Sons, nephews, whatever next? Is he any good?

      A bit wet by all accounts but exceptionally good at putting two and two together. A First in Computing and Electronics. Very good at searching information for patterns, that sort of thing.

      The Home Secretary pinched his chin. What my grand-daughters would probably call a ‘geek’, I suppose.

      It’ll get Harriet Johnson and the papers off our backs. Next time she decides to chase someone down the corridor, it’ll be the Shadow Foreign Secretary. In any case, I don’t expect there will be any more shootings. There were four in the USA and five in Russia. We’ve had our quota. If I’m right, and I usually am, the murderer’s already looking to move on.

      Let’s hope so. I’m not sure it’s the point.

      These things tend to follow patterns.

      Who are the Americans sending? Just out of interest?

      A ‘Lieutenant Detective Commander’ from the New York City Police Department, name of David Bronstein. Brilliant investigator, by all accounts.

      The Home Secretary sighed. Let’s hope so, for your sake as well as mine. There’s a very low limit to how stupid I’m prepared to look in public.

      Yekaterinberg, the Urals.

      Khranstov’s office was carpeted and freshly painted, with a dado rail that ran the perimeter halfway up. In the middle of the wall, facing the desk, hung a picture of a woman, barely more than a teenager, with blonde hair and a long coat, presenting something to a much older man. Vera Gruchov. The man was Khrantsov himself.

      Rostov entered with his cap under his arm and came to attention. Khrantsov swivelled on his chair and spread his hands. Well?

      It’s just been confirmed.

      When?

      A week today. Eleven hundred hours.

      Does Colonel Orlov know?

      Excuse me, sir, but I understood you’d already informed him.

      I told him to expect it, Khrantsov said. I mean, he needs to know when.

      I’ll send word to the prison authorities.

      He needs to be prepared. Make sure he’s got an Ots-33 and sufficient ammunition. And a light aircraft. If we can get him out of the country, we’ll drop him in Minsk and he can proceed by commercial flight from there.

      ‘If’? You mean there’s a chance he might not make it?

      His enemies have been trying to get him released from prison for months. They know we’ve got him covered in there. Once he’s free, he’s entirely in the open. Do you really think we could have secured his release without their cooperation?

      I hadn’t thought about it.

      Khrantsov shook his head. You’ll never get promoted if you don’t learn to look ahead, Alexei.

      What do you think his chances are?

      Of making it out of the country alive? Not even fifty per cent. But we can’t keep him locked away for ever. We need him.

      Do the British know he’s coming?

      Not yet. It seems pointless telling them, given how precarious it all is.

      What will we do if he doesn’t make it? Send someone else?

      I don’t know. All I know is that the situation over there’s more complex than the British can possibly imagine. It’s not remotely what they take it for.

      Chapter 2: Air Rage

      DAVID BRONSTEIN ARRIVED at Heathrow carrying the wallet of papers he’d been instructed to read en route and a disordered copy of The Independent. He was thirty-two, stocky, clean-shaven, with heavy glasses and a skull-cap. A pair of unkempt eyebrows and scuffed shoes seemed to unite his upper and lower extremities, giving him the aura of a distressed scholar. He wore a black blazer.

      Beneath an electronic billboard, just to the right of the benches, he caught sight of a young man in a bespoke suit with his hands folded behind his back. Definitely the guy in the photo he’d been given. Their eyes locked and they gripped hands.

      David Bronstein, Lieutenant Commander, NYPD.

      Jonathan Hartley-Brown, Metropolitan Police Inspector.

      Hartley-Brown was a good two inches taller than most men, and according to Bronstein’s notes, twenty-four. He had brown hair with a side parting, well-proportioned facial features and shiny brogues with grey socks.

      They exchanged half-hearted quips about transatlantic flights, sent Bronstein’s luggage ahead and installed themselves on the back seat of a pre-paid London cab. As per protocol, they spoke about the weather and the traffic till it reached Scotland Yard, where they disembarked in a drizzly mist. Hartley-Brown gave the driver a tip. Then they took the lift to an open-plan office to examine two forlorn-looking faux-pine desks with matching PCs and an inch-high midway fence to curb proliferating untidiness. Secretaries, photocopiers, and softly ringing telephones surrounded them as far as the eye could see.

      My apologies for the world’s greatest anti-climax, Hartley-Brown said. You can take either one. I’m not fussy.

      Any progress on the case?

      Not yet. I was only informed I was being deployed last night and my brief today is to help you settle in. I believe we’re simply supposed to spend time getting to know each other.

      "Yeah, that’s what I was told."

      I’ll show you your flat next and we can eat a meal, then go to a bar or a West End musical or whatever you prefer. All expenses paid. Work begins in earnest tomorrow at eight am sharp, so I suppose we’d better not burn too much midnight oil.

      Bronstein smiled. He could tell Hartley-Brown didn’t buy the ‘bonding’ crap, either, and just wanted to get started. Which meant they were going to hit it off. It’s ‘Johnny’, yeah?

      Jonathan. But you can call me that.

      ‘Hartley-Brown’. Your parents are divorced?

      Not last time I checked. It’s an old family name.

      Some kind of peers of the realm, then.

      Well, not in this generation but -

      My dad’s a Hasidic rabbi, incidentally. See this? He twiddled a tassel sticking out from his belt. This is in deference to him, although I’m not that heavily into it myself. You ever heard of a tallith?

      A Jewish prayer shawl, yes. While we’re on the subject of fathers, mine’s the Shadow Foreign Secretary. Thought I’d better say early since you’d have found that out soon enough anyway. I’ve overheard people say I wouldn’t be more than a sergeant now otherwise.

      Sheesh, you don’t believe them, do you?

      I don’t beat myself up over it. Everyone’s born with advantages. You’ve just got to do the best in the position you’ve been given. I do try hard. I am dedicated.

      Good enough for me. What side’s your dad on, just out of interest?

      You probably haven’t heard of the Conservative Party much in America - "

      The Republicans writ small, yeah?

      I don’t know about that. He’s called Sir Anthony Hartley-Brown.

      Doesn’t ring a bell. Still, a ‘sir’, eh? How long till the next election?

      Nine weeks max.

      Impressed. You’re son of the future king, then.

      My mother asked me to invite you to dinner, by the way.

      Bronstein smiled. So you told her about me, huh? He ran his finger across the desk to check for dust.

      Not in any detail. I simply told her you were coming from America. She thought a traditional family meal might make you feel more welcome.

      That sure is good of her. I’m touched. I mean it.

      Is a week next Monday all right?

      He laughed. Jonathan certainly didn’t believe in beating about the bush. Apart from the little matter of the investigation, I’m free for the foreseeable. But what does one wear for a sir?

      My parents are a little old fashioned. Maybe an evening suit?

      Bronstein raised his eyebrows. A tux? I haven’t brought one.

      I could lend you my spare.

      How tall are you?

      Six foot two.

      Shame. I’m five-eleven.

      Actually, that’s ... good. That’s just fine. Stay here.

      Hartley-Brown walked to the other end of the floor, weaving between yucca plants and desks with miniature teddy bears on, and disappeared behind a panel. He returned with a black-haired man of about his own age, in a brown suit. This is the fellow you’re replacing, he announced. Nicholas Fleming of CID. Nicholas, this is David Bronstein from the NYPD. David, Nicholas has been looking forward to meeting you for obvious reasons.

      Fleming looked considerably more rugged than Jonathan. He took Bronstein’s hand in what felt like the first move of an arm-wrestle and shook it hard. It’s you I’ve to thank for my secondment to New York, then? I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve always been a bit of an Americanophile so I’m really looking forward to it.

      Glad to be of service, Bronstein said. You’d better not be much of a cop, mind, because I’d like them to miss me.

      Fleming grinned. I’m honoured they even consider it a fair swap. My best friend tells me you’re in need of an evening suit, by the way, and we look about the same size. I’ll drop mine off at his place before I go to the airport. Least I can do.

      Thanks.

      The chef’s excellent, incidentally, and Jonathan’s parents are charming. Watch his sister doesn’t sweep you off your feet, though.

      Bit of a knockout, huh?

      He glanced at his watch. You’ll have to excuse me now, I’m afraid. I’ve a fair amount of work to catch up on before I leave. Good meeting you.

      Nicholas and I did two years on the beat together, Hartley-Brown said when Fleming had gone. He was in the Coldstream Guards for three years before that. You mustn’t mind what he says about Marcie. He was in love with her at one point.

      What happened? If that’s not too personal a question?

      I don’t think he was her type. She calls him ‘Mr Brown’ because he’s always wearing brown suits. He sighed. I know. It’s not much of a joke.

      Sorry to change the subject, Bronstein said, but aren’t we supposed to be a three-man unit? I was told to expect a Russian.

      They may be sending one. Nothing’s been finalised. It’s why the dinner invite’s a week next Monday, sorry to harp on about that. Just in case we need to set another place at the table.

      Who’s in charge? You, me or him?

      It could be a ‘her’, for all we know. I don’t think any of us is strictly ‘in charge’. I’m supposed to coordinate the investigation.

      So if we both want to, say, take a certain detail, you get to decide who goes, yeah?

      I suppose so.

      Bronstein frowned. That’s all I need to know.

      I’d probably send you. It makes things easier to coordinate if you don’t rub people up the wrong way.

      He smiled. He’d forgotten, this was a nice guy. From what I read on the plane over, the Met’s identified a number of paparazzi who were at the scene of each crime. I’ve a list of twenty-three. You know about that, right?

      It sounds as if we’ve both been given the same prep.

      Prep?

      Homework. Background reading.

      Anyway, the cops will already have spoken to a lot of them, but it looks as good a place to start as any.

      We’ll split the names tonight, if you like, then we can get straight onto it tomorrow morning.

      And meet back at the office seventeen hundred hours tomorrow, yeah? Swap tales?

      Done. Shall I show you your flat now?

      Orlov left the prison two hours before schedule by a side entrance, bypassing the usual homily from the governor and the paperwork at reception. He went straight to an unmarked Mercedes. The driver took him across the river Kama and transferred him to a ZiL at Teterina. His new driver gave him a trench coat to change into and sped him to Efremy, where he changed cars and drivers again. Half an hour later, his car pulled to a stop on a straight road edged with pines and piles of chopped timber.

      The driver opened and closed his door for him and walked in front. They passed through six or seven rows of trees and emerged onto a makeshift airstrip, surrounded on all sides by forest. A Technoavia crouched at the far end with its propeller roaring.

      Khrantsov stood to one side with a group of soldiers who smoked and blew on their hands. From the look of the clouds above, a heavy snowfall was in the offing.

      Best of luck, Khrantsov said. "We’ve supplied you with a gun and several rounds of ammunition in case you meet with ... obstacles en route. If you give them to the pilot when you land we’ll see you’re reunited with them in England."

      Orlov looked to the sky. There were two other

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