Shcherbatov stood close enough so that the fire could warm his legs. Milton watched him hawkishly.

“This official — I see you realise it is your Control. Nastya make contact with him through intermediary. She say she has transaction to put to Damascus but she is finding difficulty in proving she is”—he searched for the right word—“legitimate. Control say that he can arrange introduction. He vouch for Nastya, in return for percentage of deal, of course.”

Milton kept on staring at him.

“All the time, we are gathering evidence. He is very careful. No phone calls, no emails. But we build case against him. We have photographs of him meeting Nastya. We can demonstrate payment of funds he demands. Eventually we have enough to demonstrate good sense in his working with us. Alternative would not be good for him. There is meeting. He is surprised to learn he has been tricked and it does not go well. There is a second meeting. It goes better. He says he will think about proposal. We make progress, I think, and then he suggest third meeting to discuss matter properly. It is to be on Embankment. Next to river and Houses of Parliament. You know the rest, Captain Milton. My Nastya is killed and I am fortunate to escape.” He smiled as he spoke, the smile of a friendly uncle. It was a practiced expression, the instant smile of a politician or a salesman, a mask hide his true feelings. It was a good mask, honed by experience, but Shcherbatov could not disguise the glitter of hatred in his eyes. “Ever since then,” he continued, “I watch his career. And I wait.”

Milton frowned. “You had the evidence against him. Why not use it?”

“We lost evidence. We have copies of photographs, of course, but they are insufficient on their own. A man and a woman meeting in a park. What is that? We had financial information on portable drives, but they were taken when we were attacked.”

Milton scowled dubiously. “You didn’t back it up?”

“Of course. But Control sent other agents to take backups. Four Russian agents killed, evidence lost. God takes care of man who takes care of himself, Captain, and Control is clever man.” He put his hands together and steepled his fingers. “There is Russian proverb: ‘every seed knows its time.’ I have waited ten years for chance to settle old score. Now I have that chance. Can you see why I wanted to speak to you now? You are perfect. He hates you. You hate him. I hate him. We have something in common.”

“I doubt that.”

“Control is common enemy. We have similar experience. We know he is ruthless. He has taken things that are important to us. My Nastya. Your liberty.”

Shcherbatov was still standing, the flames still warming his legs, and he looked down at Milton, unmoving in the armchair. There was a set of antique Russian dolls on the mantelpiece and the colonel took the smallest and turned it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You haven’t told me what you want me to do,” Milton said.

“We have found someone who has information we lost. You will acquire it. We will put information into public domain and result will be his disgrace. He must be humiliated. And then, when he has been stripped of everything”, he snapped his fingers, “then you know what comes next. We have our own cleaners, as you know.”

“Even if I could get the information, why would I do it?”

“Maybe you talk to Captain Pope. Ask him what he thinks.”

Chapter Nineteen

Shcherbatov led the way into the hallway and then through a narrow archway, down a narrow flight of stone steps. The temperature dropped quickly away from the warmth of the fire. The stairs were dank and the steps were slick with frozen mildew and Milton braced himself with one hand against the icy stone wall. They reached what he guessed was the cellar and Shcherbatov pulled down on a drawstring, lighting the single naked bulb that was suspended overhead. Milton blinked at the light, taking in the medium-sized room. It was constructed in the foundations of the dacha, maybe four metres wide and five metres long, with rough stone walls and a concrete floor. The bulb was the only illumination and it wasn’t strong enough to dispel the shadows around the edges of the room. Metal bars had been fitted halfway into it, flush to the floor and the ceiling and reaching all the way across. The ironwork looked substantial. There was a doorway in the middle of the bars, the door secured with a bolt that was itself fastened by a industrial padlock.

Milton took a step forward.

The cell, for that was what it was, was furnished with a simple cot and a bucket. The cot was covered with a dirty blanket and, beneath that, Milton could make out the shape of a man’s body.

“I leave you to talk, Captain Milton. Come upstairs after.”

Milton turned to him but he was already climbing back to the ground floor.

Milton paused at the edge of the cage and looked at the man inside. He was lying towards him and, even in the dim light, and with the shadowed grid from the bars that fell across his face, Milton recognised Michael Pope.

“Pope,” he said. “Pope, wake up.”

The man stirred on the cot.

“Wake up, Pope.”

His voice was weak and uncertain: “Who is it?”

“It’s John.”

“Who?”

“John Milton.”

“Milton?”

“It’s me, Pope. Come on, wake up.”

“Milton?” Pope repeated, his voice sluggish and slurred, as if his mouth had been stuffed full of cotton wool. “What? What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to get you out.”

Pope didn’t register that. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Not after last time.”

He chuckled: a weak, low sound. “Sorry about that.” He made a whooping, hacking sound that Milton guessed was an attempt at laughter.

The last time. Nearly seven months ago in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, Pope had led the team that had been sent to track him down and bring him back. The orders had been equivocal about how they did that, dead or alive, and Pope had intervened to prevent Callan from making sure his return flight was in a body bag.

Milton stepped right up to the bars and took one in each hand. Pope shuffled around so that he could lower his legs to the floor and he sat up, slowly and unsteadily. The light fell on him more evenly and Milton could see the damage that the Russians had done. He had been badly beaten: his right eye was swollen shut and his left was blackened; there was a purple welt all the way down the side of his face, striated with the pattern that the sole of a boot might make; his chin had been split open and sutured back together again in a quick and ugly fashion.

“How’d I look?” he said.

“Not great,” Milton admitted. “How’d you manage to get in a mess like this?”

“Shouldn’t have happened, should it? Got sloppy.”

Milton yanked at the bars as hard as he could: they were fitted well and there was no give in them at all. “You think?”

Pope held a hand up against the contusions on his face and smiled ruefully through the wince of pain. “He tell you what happened?”

“Just that they arrested you. What were you doing?”

He took in a deep breath, as if steeling himself. His voice, when it came again, was reedy and soft. “Control sent me after him.”

“Shcherbatov?”

Slowly and with evident pain, he stood and walked to the bars. Each step forced an exhalation of pain. “He was in Monaco.”

Milton hushed him and pointed up to the ceiling.

“They’re recording alright,” Pope said. “But no need to worry, I told them everything already.” He laughed again, and then coughed some more. “So I got the file. Don’t know what went wrong. The infiltration … all messed up. They were waiting for me. Took me somewhere, knocked me out. Then I’m in a concrete room in the Lubyanka, strapped to a table with a bag over my head.” He coughed again, hacking hard. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”