“I’ll look forward to it.”

Her face softened with the beginnings of a careful smile. “My room is next door. If you need anything, you only need knock.” She said it as she stared into his face; it was meant to be meaningful, and Milton did not mistake the message.

He was tempted, but he did not take the bait. “Thank you,” he said. “In the morning, then.”

If she was offended, she didn’t show it. “Sleep well, Mr. Milton,” she said, closing the door. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

* * *

Milton was awoken by the sound of an engine. He reached out for his watch: the luminous dial showed a little after three. He slipped out of bed and, crossing the room quietly, reached the window and parted the thick blackout curtains. Snow was falling heavily outside, fat flakes that had already piled two inches deep against the sill and limited the view to a handful of metres. Milton saw headlights approaching from the road, an amber glow that moved slowly through the blizzard. A large, humvee style vehicle painted in military camouflage drew into the parking space and reversed to a halt so that its rear doors faced the dacha. Milton recognised the vehicle as a GAZ 2975 Tiger: large, heavily-treaded tyres, an armoured cabin and narrow windows at the front, rear and along each flank. Troop transport, for the most part, and rugged enough to make short work of this weather. The engine cut out and the driver and passenger-side doors opened. Two soldiers disembarked, crunched across the compacted snow to the rear and opened the doors. The driver hauled himself up into the back and emerged with a third man. He looked half-unconscious, falling to one knee as his feet hit the ground. The two men put his arms across their shoulders and dragged him into the dacha. Milton’s view was from above and obscured by the wide flanks of the Tiger and the falling snow, but he saw enough of the man’s face to recognise Captain Michael Pope.

Chapter Eighteen

Mamotchka knew plenty about colonel Pavel Valerievich Shcherbatov. He had first been called Pasha when he was a little boy; it was the diminutive of his forename and it had stuck with him ever since. For a man in his position of authority it might have been assumed by his juniors that the formal approach would be appropriate but Shcherbatov’s reputation went before him and he had found that he could afford give the impression of avuncularity; no-one who knew anything about him could have been confused about the consequences of taking advantage of his good nature. He was an amiable man, prone to laughter, and his easy smile had carved deep lines from the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. But he was a cunning man, an operator of the highest order, and those eyes shone with a wary intelligence that was impossible to miss. He was also ruthless and without scruple. It was difficult to advance in the Russian intelligence service without those qualities.

Shcherbatov was sixty-two and in excellent shape. He ran five miles around the SVR’s indoor track in Yasenevo every morning and made it his habit to complete at least one marathon a year; he could still cover the Moscow course in under four hours. His exertions had kept him trim and supple. One of his few weaknesses was vanity, and that he could still turn the heads of the women under his command was important to him. He was not wearing his uniform when he came into the room where Milton and Anna were waiting for him. He was wearing a black sweater and jeans.

“Captain Milton,” he said. “I am Pavel Valerievich Shcherbatov. It is good to meet you.”

He extended his hand and, after a short pause, Milton took it. His shake was firm and Milton could feel how powerful his grip could be; it was a strangler’s grip.

“I admit I know much about you, Captain. You can be sure I will not underestimate you.”

Milton held onto his hand for a moment longer than was necessary and then let go.

Shcherbatov smiled at that, unfazed. “We have Department of Analysis and Information in Moscow. They have attributed many kills to you. I have worked with the most dangerous assassins in Russian Federation and, before that, Soviet Union. You are as dangerous as any of them.”

Milton shrugged off the praise. “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about you, colonel.”

“Call me Pasha,” he said. “Please. No need for formality.”

“That’s alright. I’d prefer colonel, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well, Captain Milton. But I must ask: are you sure you do not know me?”

Milton looked at him again. “No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Your memory is poor, Captain Milton. You do not remember our previous meeting? Surely ten years is not so long that you would forget?”

Now he did pause and Shcherbatov noticed his renewed interest. “Why don’t you help me out?” he suggested.

“In career, how many targets escaped you?”

“Not many,” he said, although he had made the connection now. “There was one, right at the start.”

“I believe I am fortunate enough to say I am only man you were sent to kill who got away.” He smiled benignly at him. “We were going to see your Control. You and another agent attacked car. I escaped. You did not shoot me. Do you remember now?”

“I never knew your name,” he said.

“I am sure you did not. I believe I was SNOW. My companion, Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko, was DOLLAR. She was not as fortunate.”

Milton flexed, sensing the unsaid threat in Shcherbatov’s words.

“Do not concern yourself, Captain. I do not seek revenge — at least not from you. You were following orders. You are soldier. I understand how that works.”

He didn’t relax. “So why am I here?”

“Because I have something for you to do.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, colonel. I’m out of the game. I’m not interested.”

“Then I must ask you — why did you come?”

“I didn’t have a choice.” He turned to the girl. “Your comrade dragged me here. She says you have a friend of mine.”

“Indeed we do. Captain Pope.”

“That’s right. I came to persuade you to release him.”

“Perhaps. But we need you to do something for us first.”

“I don’t—”

He raised his hands to interrupt him. “You have retired. We know this. But it is not a violent thing. We want you to find something for us. Information. You can get it.”

“What information?”

“In good time, Captain Milton.” He turned to the girl. “Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko — you leave us now, please.”

“Yes, colonel,” she said, dipping her head and then exiting the room, closing the door behind her.

“I hope she treated you with respect, Captain Milton. We do respect you. Your work is well known to us.” Shcherbatov got up, took another log from the store and dropped it onto the fire. “Your friend, Control, has he ever mentioned me?”

Milton shrugged. “Why would he?”

“Because he and I know each other very well.”

He shook his head. “If he has, I don’t recall it.”

“Let me tell you story, Captain Milton. Many years ago, I travel to London for interesting assignment. I am sent with female agent, Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko. It is proposed that we pose as couple. She is to work as independent contractor in arms industry, I am lawyer. I land in London, find flat, establish necessary contacts. Nastya joins me and we grow close. What was supposed to be fiction became truth. It is inevitable, yes, you must have experienced this?” Milton eyed him, steely, said nothing. “The interesting assignment: Russian intelligence has suggested that there is senior English spy who is vulnerable to blackmail. We hear from colleagues in Tehran and Baghdad that he has sold information to both regimes. He sells information to Israel, too. The man is venal, so they tell us. So we think perhaps we can trap this man, use him for our purposes?”