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  Valera remembered this day well. It was the day the German army had finally surrounded the city and the siege of Leningrad began.

  She heard a droning noise in the distance, getting louder and closer. It wasn’t a barge – there hadn’t been any traffic on the river for days. It was the first wave of Luftwaffe arriving to bomb the city. Valera started running towards the Saviour on the Spilled Blood, hoping the band of trees between the church and the park would offer her some protection from the assault that was about to be unleashed.

  But when she reached the trees she was suddenly no longer in Leningrad. She was in Povenets B, running towards the power plant and watching it explode in front of her. She saw the blast rip through the side of the plant and the school. She felt the first shockwave ripple past her, smashing windows and showering her with glass. Then a second, more powerful one smacked her in the chest like a hammer, throwing her backwards off her feet.

  But instead of hitting the ground and feeling rubble stab her in the back, she found herself in a dark room, tied to a chair and gasping for breath. Her wrists were sore from the rope holding her in place, her head felt heavy, and her whole body was cramped, as if she’d been in the same position for hours. She didn’t know what was real, what was memory, and what was neither. And she had no idea how many times she’d gone through this horrific cycle of torture.

  Sometimes her mother was with her in Leningrad, sometimes it was the depths of winter and she was foraging Mikhailovsky Garden for food. Sometimes she could see Ledjo through his classroom window as she ran towards him, sometimes his lifeless body lay in the middle of the destroyed school, bruised, bloodied, and covered in dust. Sometimes she was alone in the dark room. Sometimes the figures in masks shouted at her in Russian and English. And sometimes they stayed in the shadows, throwing their words and ice-cold buckets of water at her.

  The details changed, but the order was always the same: Leningrad, Povenets B, the dark room. And so were the words the masked figures repeated over and over: ‘Tell us what you know.’

  Even if Valera had wanted to tell them, she couldn’t. She was completely lost in what was happening in her head. When the figures shouted at her, she shouted back, her voice cracking. And when they wrapped her in blankets and gently whispered their constant demand in soft voices, all she could do was mumble ‘Mama’ or ‘Ledjo’ before breaking down in desperate tears and falling back into the endless rhythm of memory and fantasy.

  She didn’t know when, but at some point the voices in the room changed. They stopped speaking as one and began fighting over each other to be heard. They came at her from every angle, getting louder and louder until the cacophony became too much and her mind took her back to Mikhailovsky Garden.

  This time the trees were bare, the domes of the Saviour on the Spilled Blood were dull and cracked, and Valera was very heavily pregnant. She stood in the middle of the park, cradling her swollen belly. It didn’t occur to her that this was wrong, that she didn’t become pregnant with Ledjo until long after the siege. Her only thought was to protect her unborn child. She started walking east towards Saint Michael’s Castle, and almost made it to the trees before the bombs started to fall.

  Then she was in Povenets B again. The explosion at the power plant, the shattering glass, the feeling of hot dust on her skin. But instead of just being confronted with rubble or Ledjo’s broken body, she saw a man standing in the ruins of the school, untouched by the destruction around him and reaching out to her. She’d never seen the man before, but she also had, in other, more peaceful fantasies. It was Ledjo, all grown up. She tried to run to him, pushing her legs harder and harder as she screamed his name. But no matter how fast she ran, she could never reach him.

  And then, the dark room once more. She wanted to go back to Povenets B, back to Ledjo. She kept screaming. Her screams became a whimper, then a whisper, then silence. The masked figures were still there, surrounding her. But as she let her head fall and her body go limp against her restraints, the voices didn’t start shouting at her. They shouted at each other. Voices fought for dominance, shifting from Russian to English and back again, until only two remained, battling it out.

  Then a piercing crack ricocheted around the room and there was just one voice left, telling Valera everything was going to be okay. Now she fought with what little energy she had left to stay in the room and not fall back into more twisted memories. She felt the restraints on her wrists loosen, her body being lifted out of the chair, and a prick in her arm. She started to slip away again, not into a dream but into oblivion.

  CHAPTER 44

  Dixon didn’t enjoy feeling like he was being put on show. But it was part of the deal between NASA and the CIA that he would be on call for both whenever they needed him. This could mean going to seminars or meetings outside his field or, like this evening, finding himself padding out a room at a party.

  He’d been summoned to Washington at short notice for what had been billed as a reception for all the great minds working to win the space race. The timing felt off to Dixon. Gus Grissom was scheduled to make the next Mercury launch in two days’ time. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to wait and celebrate after his mission was successful than to tempt fate before it? He’d asked Murphy that exact question when he’d called him that morning and told him to get up to DC. Murphy’s response was that the event was the president’s idea, and that attendance wasn’t optional.

  Dixon had spent yet another night banging his head against theoretical and real brick walls and was more than happy to take a break from the lab. But he resented that it involved a four-and-a-half-hour drive in bad traffic from Langley to Washington and, so far, an hour of awkward conversation with people he didn’t know. Scientists, as a tribe, weren’t good at small talk, and Dixon was no exception.

  The reception was being held at the Phillips Collection on 21st Street, just north of Dupont Circle. Dixon had wondered briefly why if it had been the president’s idea it wasn’t taking place in the White House. Then he’d remembered that winning over the hearts of the nation had been a much easier job for Kennedy than ingratiating himself with Washington society, and he needed to make nice with the city’s well-to-do.

  The Phillips family were philanthropists and art lovers, and over the years had converted their sprawling 21st Street mansion into the city’s finest private collection of modern art. The large rooms that Dixon moved through were hung with works by Renoir, Manet, and Pissarro. Taste and money seeped from the walls. The Phillips were exactly the kind of people Kennedy wanted to impress. Yet, so far there had been no sign of the man himself.

  Ripples of excitement spread through the attendees whenever the mansion’s front door opened, only to dissipate when yet another bemused scientist or society scion made their entrance.

  Allen Dulles, the director of Central Intelligence, also appeared to be skipping the event. It was an open secret that Dulles and Kennedy didn’t get on. In the eight years he’d been in charge of the CIA Dulles had overseen the American-backed coups in Guatemala and Iran, both of which had caused long-term damage to the country’s reputation, as well as the U-2 programme and the Bay of Pigs invasion. Kennedy was looking for a reason to get rid of Dulles, and Dulles was keeping his head down. Dixon guessed that if Grissom’s Mercury mission didn’t go well, Dulles wouldn’t want his name anywhere near it.

  Finally, he saw someone he knew. Across the crowd, he spotted Murphy talking to an elderly dowager, festooned with mink and diamonds despite the heat and humidity. In summer Washington liked to remind people that it had been a real swamp long before it became a political one. With a brief nod, Murphy told Dixon that he’d seen him too and that he should stay put while he excused himself.

  A moment later he was next to Dixon with two glasses of champagne in his hands.

  ‘Quite the collection,’ Murphy said, handing Dixon one of the glasses. Dixon was fairly sure he wasn’t referring to the art. ‘Did you know that lady’s great-grandfather bought Loui
siana?’

  Dixon wasn’t interested in making any more small talk, particularly with his boss.

  ‘What’s going on, Phinn?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re drinking someone else’s champagne, and giving ourselves pats on the back we don’t deserve.’

  Dixon realised that Murphy wasn’t smoking. He watched as his free hand kept reaching in and out of his trouser pocket, a force of habit and muscle memory.

  ‘Is the president coming?’

  ‘No. But you didn’t hear that from me. Some senator started kicking up a stink about overdue federal funds a couple of hours ago and he’s been sucked into it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be leaving then.’ Dixon handed his still-full champagne glass to a passing waiter. ‘It’s a long drive back to Langley.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Murphy replied, picking Dixon’s glass back up off the waiter’s silver platter. ‘You’re not going back to the lab just yet.’

  ‘I thought I had a deadline.’

  ‘Yeah, well, something’s come up.’

  ‘Again, Phinn, what’s going on?’

  Murphy took a long swig of his champagne. ‘We’re taking a trip.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Some guy called Devereux in London wants to sell us something, and I need you to check he’s not talking horseshit.’

  ‘I didn’t pack my passport.’ Dixon meant it as a joke – even the CIA’s beck and call had to have limits.

  ‘Don’t worry, we picked it up for you.’

  Dixon finally took a sip of his champagne, accepting that he wouldn’t be getting behind the wheel of his car any time soon. ‘Did you at least put food out for the cat?’

  ‘Of course we did. We’re not savages.’

  ‘How long until we go?’

  Murphy finished his champagne and snatched two more glasses from a passing waiter. ‘Tomorrow night. In the meantime, there’s another reception in the morning it’d be good for you to show your face at, and a couple of senators it’d be worth meeting.’

  That definitely sounded like a waste of Dixon’s time. If they weren’t flying until the next night he could still get a few more hours of work done and meet Murphy at the airport.

  ‘Has the president suddenly stopped caring about what the Russians are up to?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you made any progress at all in the last week?’ Murphy countered.

  ‘No,’ Dixon conceded.

  ‘Then calm down,’ Murphy said, taking another swig of champagne. ‘What difference is a couple of days going to make?’

  CHAPTER 45

  The final stretch up Parliament Hill was White’s least favourite part of his Sunday-morning stroll with Stella. Even the Irish setter had started to tire of it in her advancing years. But it was the quickest way back to Hampstead and home after their walk around the heath.

  White had hoped to avoid this Sunday’s walk. With the OECD conference starting the next morning and almost every delegate already in the city, all hands were needed on deck at Leconfield House over the weekend. Except, apparently, White and his staff.

  On Friday afternoon, word came down from the fifth floor that with Pipistrelle bugs now in place across the city, monitored by GCHQ and maintained by a rotating team of Watchers, there was no reason for the research and development department to lose out on their weekend along with the rest of MI5.

  It had been Manning’s first decree once he returned to Leconfield House after being made permanent director general, and White didn’t like the message it sent. When Peterson came down to the basement to pass on the news he exploded at him, arguing that what Manning was suggesting was tantamount to dereliction of duty. This was not the time for anyone to be taking it easy.

  ‘This is exactly when we need Atlas running Pipistrelle,’ White said. ‘We can’t sit around waiting for GCHQ to tell us what they think we should know.’

  Peterson didn’t disagree with him, but he made it clear that while it might be unwise to be absent from Leconfield House at such a crucial time, it would be even less wise to turn down Manning’s gift. ‘And,’ he’d said, ‘if something comes up, we know where to find you.’

  White had spent the whole of Friday evening and Saturday quietly seething while entertaining his wife’s relatives, who were up from the country for the weekend – another task he’d hoped to avoid.

  The early morning on the heath had cleared his head, but the hike up Parliament Hill was starting to inspire a fresh sense of irritation. It was solidified when he reached the top of the hill and found Knox sitting on the bench he always rested on to catch his breath.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ White asked.

  To add insult to injury, Stella happily wandered over to Knox and curled up at his feet.

  ‘You’re a creature of habit, Malcolm,’ Knox replied. ‘Same as the rest of us.’

  ‘It’s too early for amateur psychology,’ White said, giving in to his legs’ need for a break and sitting down next to Knox. ‘What do you want?’

  Knox looked out over the city. He could see east past St Paul’s and west towards Battersea Power Station. All the way between, new buildings were changing the city’s skyline, and cranes glinted as they turned in the sun. And in the middle of it all was Kemp House. Knox was sure he could see the top of the tower, smudged black, even from several miles away.

  ‘How are things in Leconfield House?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ White replied, making no effort to hide the resentment in his voice.

  ‘Well, let me tell you what’s been going on in the outside world,’ Knox said.

  Knox had decided in Schiphol that Peterson had been right about one thing at least. He should have gone to White days ago. He was the only person Knox could talk to without risking exposing Pipistrelle’s secrets because he already knew them all. There was always the chance that it was actually White who was behind everything, working with the Russians and using Manning, Peterson, and the two dead Italians as cover, but it was an extremely slim one. Knox was sure White believed in the Service, and he hoped that belief would outweigh whatever he might currently think of Knox and his own loyalty.

  He relayed the events of the last seventy-two hours, starting with his visit to Dr Kaspar, then his discovery of Bianchi and Moretti’s hidden research, and ending with the kidnapping of Valera in Stockholm, apparently by British forces.

  When Knox had finished, he waited for White’s response. And after a moment, White gave it.

  ‘Nonsense,’ White said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Knox asked.

  ‘Total poppycock.’

  ‘It happened,’ Knox assured him. ‘I’ve got the bruises.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you have,’ White said, tempting Stella over to his side of the bench with a treat. ‘But I’m also sure it’s entirely within your capabilities to make all these things happen to you without it being part of some grand conspiracy. Where’s the proof?’

  Knox reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the bundle of papers.

  ‘I don’t know if they found a way to reverse-engineer Pipistrelle, or just managed to replicate your genius by sheer chance,’ he said. ‘But these calculations aren’t nonsense.’

  White flicked through the papers. His face fell as he scanned the calculations.

  ‘And these,’ Knox continued, handing over the passports, ‘are professional jobs. Only a few outfits that can create such convincing fakes. And we’re one of them.’

  White tested the passports, running his fingers along the covers and pages, checking the subtle security features most people had no idea were there. He had to admit Knox was right – they were near-perfect forgeries.

  ‘I know you don’t want to think about it,’ Knox said. ‘But what if this means Pipistrelle’s already been blown?’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ White replied. It was a knee-jerk, protective reaction.

  ‘But what if it has? What if the Russians already have their own bugs in every embassy and
hotel in the city? If they’re as good as Pipistrelle we’d never find them.’

  White hated scaremongering, and he had no interest in getting caught up in Knox’s endless conspiracies about traitors and moles. But he couldn’t ignore the passports he was still holding, or the Italians’ equations that looked disturbingly close to his own.

  ‘If they’re really that good,’ White admitted, ‘we wouldn’t even know they were there.’

  ‘Until operations are compromised or assets are blown, and MI5 is landed with the blame.’ Knox hoped playing on White’s pride in the Service was the last push he needed.

  ‘So,’ White said, finally, ‘what do we do?’

  ‘Whatever we can,’ Knox replied.

  CHAPTER 46

  The CIA archives under the US embassy were as quiet as ever, just a few other clerks on the weekend shift struggling with the amount of filing the run-up to the OECD conference had generated. None of them were surprised to see another of their ranks walking around the record stacks, and none of them paid Bennett enough attention to realise she wasn’t there to file papers away but to hunt for them.

  She began, as she always did, with Bianchi and Moretti’s records. But when she spun the large wheel that opened the archive stacks and pulled them out of their hanging drawers the folders were empty. The last time she’d looked at them, barely forty-eight hours ago, they’d contained several months’ worth of tracking reports and field observations. She checked the log sheet stapled to the front of the first folder. They hadn’t already been moved to deep storage. They’d been checked out at midnight on Friday. Three letters were written next to the timestamp – COS. They stood for Chief of Station.

  Bennett went to Irina Valera’s folder next. It had been filed in the stacks on Friday afternoon, then checked out, again in the dead of night, on behalf of the chief of station.

  Michael Finney, London station chief for ten years, was one of the most senior figures in the entire CIA. He spent his time briefing senior members of the state department and the top level of government. So why was he suddenly interested in the Italians and Valera?