Red Corona Read online

  London was her first international posting, and she’d gone looking for Pankhurst’s grave as soon as she’d arrived in the city. She visited it whenever she felt her own resolve wavering, whenever she felt beaten down by the constant struggle to be taken seriously by her colleagues or, like now, when she just needed to think about her next move.

  Bennett’s superiors were paying close attention to the fallout from Holland’s mysterious coma and Manning’s ascension to the top of MI5 days before the OECD conference. But they didn’t think either of these strange events had anything to do with the lingering rumours about Russian infiltration. Bennett did.

  Her suspicions had led her to Dr Kaspar, and she’d been extremely careful timing her visit to Cambridge so she’d be able to take a look at his office undisturbed. She hadn’t expected to be interrupted halfway through her search of the old man’s den by one of MI5’s most senior officers, and she wanted to know why he’d been there. The obvious answer was that he was a mole hastily shutting down his network. Obvious and stupid. If Knox was a Soviet agent he’d have disappeared out of the country as soon as people had begun to ask questions about what had happened to Holland. The fact that he hadn’t, Bennett thought, meant something else was going on. She wondered if Knox was still hunting the mole himself. And if he was, then she might be able to use him.

  After a few more minutes standing quietly in front of Pankhurst’s grave, staring at the details of the headstone that stood almost a full foot taller than her and that she knew so well, she left the cemetery.

  CHAPTER 14

  Valera stood on a low rise looking out over the tundra. By her reckoning she was about thirty kilometres from the Finnish border.

  She had dug Ledjo’s body out of the rubble and sat cradling it for over an hour in the ruins of Povenets B. Long enough for all the dust, soot, and whatever else the explosion had thrown up into the air to start falling back down to earth, blanketing the naukograd in a black, acrid snow.

  Valera had cleared as much of it off Ledjo as she could. With his raindrop eyes closed, he’d looked almost peaceful, an angel somehow trapped in hell. With her body covered in ash and her hands cut and filthy from digging, Valera had looked like some kind of beast from the abyss. She wanted to bathe Ledjo in her tears, but they wouldn’t come.

  Povenets B had taken Valera’s freedom, and now it had taken her child. She’d almost given in, lain down next to Ledjo and let the rubble consume her as well, but something deep in her mind had compelled her not to. It forced her up and onto her feet. She couldn’t stop herself. She left her son in his horrible, open grave, and she walked home.

  The further she got from the plant, the quieter the streets were. She passed building after building with cracked or smashed windows, and the odd person still running towards or away from the centre of the naukograd. By the time she reached her house she was completely alone. But even if Zukolev’s entire battalion of guards had been standing at her door, she wouldn’t have seen them in her shock-fuelled trance.

  She stepped into the silent house and saw that the destruction had even reached inside here. Shards of glass from the windows that faced towards the power plant covered the floor, and a thick crack ran up the wall that she and Ledjo used to paint their fantastical worlds and stories on. She briefly looked at her faint half-reflection in one of the larger slices of glass. It was bad luck to look in a broken mirror – if she could have constructed the thought she would have asked the universe what more bad luck she could possibly endure.

  She moved into the kitchen, and opened a cupboard next to the sink. She removed the thin wood panel she’d installed in it a year ago to create a fake back wall, and pulled two backpacks out of the hidden recess. She strapped the large one across her shoulders, and cradled the smaller one in her arms. Then, not rushing or racing, or looking at all like she was conscious of what she was doing, she walked away from her home and out through the unguarded entrance to Povenets B.

  In her haze of trauma, she’d hiked west through the forest that surrounded the secret city until she hit a road. She’d continued on, one pack across her shoulders and the other in her arms, until the driver of a small truck picked her up just outside a village called Pindushi at the top of Lake Onega.

  It was an unspoken agreement among the people who travelled Russia’s vast landscape that they would help each other get where they needed to go, and not ask questions along the way. Valera didn’t ask the driver why he was taking the long way to Leningrad, choosing the old country roads that meandered their way across Karelia instead of the modern highway that linked it directly to Petrozavodsk, the regional capital on the western side of Lake Onega. And he didn’t ask why she was filthy, why she never let go of the small backpack she clung to her chest, or why she shrank down in her seat whenever they passed another vehicle.

  They travelled for a few hours in silence on the old road that wound through forests and tundra, skirted small lakes, or crossed them on rickety bridges, and passed through the decayed remains of several abandoned villages.

  Karelia’s history was both long and bloody. Its vast network of interconnected lakes linked the Gulf of Finland and the White Sea, which meant whoever controlled Karelia controlled access to the Baltic and the Arctic. The region straddled the border between Finland and Russia, and twenty years ago, after centuries of tussling, the Soviet Union annexed most of it. The inhabitants of the area who wouldn’t or couldn’t flee west were moved out of their farms and villages, which were left to rot, and into internment camps. Povenets B had originally been one of those camps.

  Valera barely registered the tundra, the lakes, or the empty villages as they drove on. Her mind was still trying to process what had happened. It was only when the sun started to stream through the truck’s windscreen that she realised the road had turned south. She was running on instinct but she knew she couldn’t risk going all the way to Leningrad. As soon as the GRU worked out she wasn’t in Povenets B, they’d go hunting for her, and Leningrad would be the first place they’d look. So with a few quiet words she said goodbye to the truck driver, and continued her journey on foot.

  She hiked through two more villages in quick succession. The first had been remarkably well preserved. Buildings were still standing and small flowers bloomed in overgrown gardens. It was like everyone had just gone on a long summer holiday. The second village she almost missed entirely. It must have been the site of a major battle in one of Karelia’s many conflicts. A few broken walls were all that was left. There were no little flowers or any signs of life at all. And after that, there was just more tundra.

  Another three hours of trudging across scrub and rock had brought her to this bluff, tantalisingly close to the Finnish border. It was late. She had no idea of the exact time, but the aching in her legs and pain in her stomach were finally starting to press against the fog of her shock and tell her she’d gone too long without food or a rest. She had two choices. Find somewhere to bed down, or keep walking.

  This close to midsummer in Karelia the sun would briefly skim the horizon in a few hours’ time, but it wouldn’t get truly dark for another two months. Valera wouldn’t have the protective cover of night if she kept going, but she would be putting more distance between her and anyone who might be following behind her.

  She stepped down from the bluff, checked her bearings against the low sun, and forced her body to keep going.

  CHAPTER 15

  In an office deep in the NASA Langley Research Center in Hampton, Virginia, Patrick Dixon was on the phone.

  ‘Is he happy with the latest set of images?’ he asked, the slightest shadow of his Boston accent softening the middle t of latest.

  ‘When is he ever happy?’ the voice at the other end of the line replied. The voice belonged to Phinneus Murphy, Dixon’s CIA liaison. And the he they were both referring to was the new president, John F. Kennedy.

  Dixon was the chief scientist on the Corona programme, and knew better than anyone how much
pressure the project was under from the White House.

  Corona was the newest frontier in the global espionage war – a joint project between the CIA and NASA to create a network of satellites carrying ultra-high resolution cameras that could be positioned above any location on the planet at a moment’s notice. It was supposed to hand the US an eye on the whole world – and unassailable intelligence supremacy – but it was behind schedule.

  ‘He’s impatient,’ Murphy said. ‘He wants us on the moon already.’

  ‘Who the hell signed off that speech?’ Dixon asked rhetorically as he rubbed his free hand over the top of his stubbled buzz-cut head. ‘I can’t even get a decent radio signal into orbit, let alone two hundred and forty thousand miles into space.’

  ‘It’s three months since Freedom 7 went up. He doesn’t understand why we’re still playing around with parachutes.’

  Dixon sighed. ‘Neither do I,’ he said. He leaned onto his elbow, massaging his temple between his thumb and middle finger.

  ‘You shouldn’t be telling me things like that.’

  ‘I know better than to try and keep secrets from the CIA. And I need all the help I can get.’

  Despite years of work, Dixon and his team had failed to find a way to send data-heavy radio signals through the atmospheric barrier. This was why the Corona satellites relied on dropping capsules full of photographic film from the tips of their thick, cigar-shaped bodies, and why Alan Shepard had been blasted into near-orbit aboard Freedom 7 with a communications system that was essentially a jumped-up walkie-talkie.

  ‘We have the nation’s best scientific minds on this, Patrick. There’s not much more help I can get you.’

  ‘The president’s welcome to come down to Langley and lend a hand if he wants.’

  ‘Let’s not go down that road,’ Murphy said.

  Part of Murphy’s job was keeping the president informed about strategic developments from the Corona programme; another part was stopping him from getting too personally involved.

  Dixon looked down at the mess of papers on his desk. Each one was a pipe dream or dead end.

  ‘Why do I feel like I’ve got a sword dangling over my head?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you do,’ Murphy said. ‘But if it’s any consolation it’s over both our heads. A few photos in a metal tube every couple of weeks isn’t enough. He wants his parade down the Mall. And slightly more relevant to us, he wants to know what’s going on in Russia.’

  ‘Can’t he send up the U-2s again?’ Dixon asked.

  ‘Not an option.’

  A year ago, Gary Powers’ U-2 spy plane had been shot down deep inside Russian territory by a rogue S75-Dvina missile. The incident hadn’t just embarrassed America and handed Russia a major political victory. It had also effectively ended the CIA’s aerial reconnaissance operations, and led directly to its interest in Corona.

  The holy American trinity of government, military, and private industry had been experimenting with orbital reconnaissance since 1957. Under the codename Discoverer, Washington paid the RAND Corporation to build satellites, the Itek Corporation to design next-generation triple-lensed panoramic cameras, and Eastman Kodak to develop a new film stock that delivered three times the resolution of the best aerial photography film used in World War Two. The Air Force originally managed the Discoverer programme, but in May 1958 control was moved to the Advanced Research and Projects Agency, then when NASA was founded a few months later it was shifted again.

  Progress was slow. Between January 1959 and May 1960, Discoverer attempted twelve satellite launches, and every single one was a failure. Two rockets never left the launchpad, five exploded before they reached orbit, and the five that did all malfunctioned. But as the shockwaves of the U-2 incident rippled around Washington throughout the summer of 1960, the CIA science and technology division was already taking over leadership of Discoverer and turning it into Corona.

  Corona was named after the outer layer of the sun’s atmosphere that only becomes visible during an eclipse, when everything else is black. Given how handicapped American intelligence gathering had become, it was an apt moniker. The research team, now led by Dixon, was given a new, dedicated lab at NASA’s Langley Research Center in Hampton, Virginia. They were also told that, when it came to getting Corona working, money was no object and failure was not an option.

  ‘Powers was a fluke,’ Murphy continued. ‘But intelligence says Russian missiles are more than capable of hitting the U-2’s cruising altitude now.’

  ‘I thought that was just Khrushchev banging his shoe.’

  ‘For once it seems the old man isn’t lying through his teeth. The Air Force is working on a new plane with a higher ceiling, but it’s taking time.’

  ‘Everything takes time.’

  ‘Not for us. We’re magicians, remember?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  Dixon hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and wondered, for what felt like the thousandth time, why he’d ever left his tenured position at MIT and joined NASA. Of course, he knew the answer. He wanted to help America win the space race. But right now it felt like they were losing, and because of him.

  He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, hoping to find inspiration in its scribbles and half-finished calculations. It didn’t come.

  CHAPTER 16

  There was no Watcher at Knox’s front door when he got back to Kemp House. But someone was waiting for him.

  He found Peterson sitting at his dining table, leafing through the three bundles of papers from Bianchi and Moretti’s flat that Knox hadn’t taken with him to Cambridge and Holloway.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Knox demanded. He didn’t appreciate the invasion of his private space. He was also still irritated about his trip to Cambridge – guilty that he’d dragged up an old man’s demons, and embarrassed that the whole thing had been a waste of time – and frustrated that Sandra Horne hadn’t given him anything useful.

  ‘Manning wants a progress report,’ Peterson replied, eyes still skimming through the papers in front of him.

  ‘He can wait.’

  Knox could tell Peterson wanted to say something more, but he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of asking what. So they just stared at each other across the table while Knox took off his jacket.

  Peterson blinked first. ‘Find anything interesting in Cambridge?’

  ‘You had me followed?’ Knox said, slamming his jacket down on the table for dramatic effect.

  ‘Of course I had you followed,’ Peterson said. ‘In four days London will become the biggest intelligence target since the Paris Peace Conference. The last thing I need is a rogue element running around the place.’ He picked up the address book and flicked through it.

  ‘I’m not a rogue element,’ Knox replied.

  ‘You ignore orders. You’re unreliable. And now you’re my problem.’

  ‘I’m doing what I have to to get answers.’ He gestured at the papers, making it clear that they didn’t hold any.

  ‘From your perspective, perhaps. But let me give you another one. The director general is in a coma, two men have been found dead, and the man who connects them all ran off at the first opportunity.’

  ‘You and Manning put me in the middle of this.’

  ‘Where we could keep tabs on you.’

  Knox’s jaw hardened. He wondered exactly what ‘keeping tabs’ meant. Did Peterson’s interest stretch to scrutinising his service record?

  ‘I don’t like what you’re implying,’ he said.

  ‘Implying suggests I’m saying something open to interpretation. You’re still as much a suspect as anyone else. More as far as I’m concerned. And fleeing the scene hardly does you any favours.’

  ‘I was doing my job.’

  ‘Your job is to find out who killed Bianchi and Moretti. Not to go showing classified evidence to old Nazis.’

  The image of Kaspar, defeated, hobbling across Sheep’s Green, rushed back into Knox’s mi
nd.

  ‘He’s not a Nazi,’ he said.

  ‘It’s amazing how many of them weren’t after they lost the war.’

  ‘He told me he wasn’t,’ Knox countered. ‘And I haven’t seen anything that proves he was.’

  ‘Did he, really? Did he also tell you he’d never been turned by the Russians? Or the Americans? Or both?’ Sarcasm dripped off Peterson’s questions. ‘Don’t be so naive, Richard. But maybe that’s why you went straight to him. Maybe he’s your KGB handler. The poor old genius everyone’s forgotten about. It’s a smart play. Hell, maybe you’re the mysterious phantom of Cecil Court too. That’s the only reason I can think of for you visiting Sandra Horne. Check in with Moscow, then make sure your operative hasn’t sold you out yet.’

  ‘I’m not a traitor,’ Knox replied, spitting the words through clenched teeth.

  In response, Peterson’s face broke into a bright smile.

  ‘Oh, probably not,’ he said. His tone was suddenly light, almost conversational. ‘All just idle speculation. Not very pleasant though, is it? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but remember, so is truth.’

  ‘If you don’t like my methods, take me off the case.’

  ‘I don’t like that you’re acting as if you’re still working for the director general who’s been lying unresponsive in a hospital bed for four days instead of the one who’s very much with us and gave you a very simple order. Your duty is to the Service, not Holland.’

  ‘And yours?’ Knox spat back.

  ‘I do what I’m told.’

  Knox was suddenly very tired of arguing with Peterson. ‘If you want me to find out who killed Bianchi and Moretti I have to start with why,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Peterson replied. ‘Why two Italians died in the arse end of Deptford. Not how you can make this part of a grand conspiracy. Just because you want there to be a connection between them and Manning doesn’t mean there is one.’ He stood up and smoothed his suit jacket. ‘You might not believe me, Richard, but I am trying to help you.’