“Heretical stuff,” interjected Gabriel.
“No Soviet citizen, not even my father, would have dared to write such a thing.”
“The Englishman was free to say what others could not?”
“Not publicly, but internally he could speak his mind.”
“Why would he write such a document?”
“He was afraid that if communism collapsed, the Soviet Union would no longer serve as a beacon for those in the West who believed capitalism to be unjust.”
“The useful idiots.”
“Admittedly, one of the few times Comrade Lenin should have chosen his words more carefully.”
The Englishman, Sergei Morosov went on, certainly didn’t consider himself to be a useful idiot or even a traitor. He regarded himself first and foremost as an officer of the KGB. And he was afraid that if communism failed in the one country where it was applied, few Westerners from the upper reaches of their societies would imitate his path of secret allegiance to Moscow, leaving the KGB no choice but to rely on paid and coerced assets. But if the KGB wanted a true agent of penetration in the heart of Western intelligence—a mole who burrowed into a position of influence and spied for reasons of conscience rather than money—it would have to create one out of whole cloth.
This, said Sergei Morosov, was the true nature of Sasha’s endeavor—to create the perfect spy, with the help of the greatest traitor of them all. This was why Konstantin Kirov had been given the highest measure of punishment in Vienna. And it was why Alistair Hughes, whose only crime was mental illness, had been murdered in the Bahnhofplatz in Bern.
There was a child...
Yes, thought Gabriel, that would explain everything.
40
Wormwood Cottage, Dartmoor
Wormwood Cottage was set upon a swell in the moorland and fashioned of Devon stone that had darkened with time. Behind it, across a broken courtyard, was a converted barn with offices and living quarters for the staff. When the facility was unoccupied, a single caretaker called Parish kept a lonely watch over it. But when guests were present—in the lexicon of the cottage, they were referred to as “company”—the staff could number as many as ten, including a security detail. Much depended on the nature of the guest and the men from whom he was hiding. A “friendly” might be given the run of the place. But for a man with many enemies, a hunted man, Wormwood Cottage could be turned into the most secure MI6 safe house in all of Britain.
The man who appeared at the cottage early the following afternoon fell into the second category, though Parish received only a few minutes’ warning of his pending arrival. It came not through the usual channels at Vauxhall Cross but from Nigel Whitcombe, the chief’s boyish personal assistant and general factotum. Whitcombe had cut his teeth at Five, a sin for which Parish, who was old service, had granted him no absolution.
“And how long will he be staying with us this time?” Parish asked dryly.
“To be determined,” answered Whitcombe down the encrypted line.
“How many in his party?”
“He’ll be alone.”
“Bodyguards?”
“No.”
“And what do we do if he wants to take one of his forced marches across the moor? He does love to walk, you know. Last time he was here, he trekked halfway to Penzance without telling anyone.”
“Leave a gun with the Wellies. He can look after himself.”
“And will he be having guests?”
“Just one.”
“Name?”
“Third letter of the alphabet.”
“What time should I expect him?”
“Unclear.”
