‘Are we not all simply soldiers in the same great fight?’ Rykov countered. ‘None of our lives are worth more than any others.’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘But you must share your plans with Directorate S so we can work together and all triumph.’

Rykov was being facetious, but Yegerova was not. He’d heard her spout similar rhetoric before, and it always seemed to him that she truly believed what she was saying, and that she spoke like she was being recorded—as if she was constantly preparing her defence for when whatever she said might be used against her. It was probably very prudent, but it was also the kind of thing that put a low ceiling on a career in the KGB. Propaganda was for the people, not spies.

‘No,’ he said, finally adding a little edge to his voice. ‘I must not. But you are free, as ever, to take your concerns about this directorate and its methods to as many of our fellow comrades as you may wish. Perhaps the general secretary would be interested in them.’

This was Rykov’s usual response to complaints like Yegerova’s, and his ultimate defence: Brezhnev—the higher power he could invoke and no one could question.

‘Perhaps he would,’ Yegerova replied, hollowly, knowing that he wouldn’t.

As she stalked back through the maze of corridors to her waiting Volga, Rykov returned to his window and thought about what he’d learned in the last five minutes.

Her visit had been as much a warning as a fishing trip. Rykov was used to attracting the attention of other forces within the KGB who were desperate to take his place in Brezhnev’s good books or just wanted to see the shine of his rising star dulled a little. And now it was clear that Yegerova was watching him very closely—but also that she had no idea of what he and Line Z were up to.

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Knox found Simon Laing in the School Hall on the third floor of Leconfield House. With its evenly spaced rows of identical laminate desks, it was easy to see how the wide open-plan space had earned its nickname. The School Hall was where MI5’s newest recruits proved themselves.

It was the middle of the afternoon but the third floor was deserted and dim. Its overhead lamps had been turned off by some budget-conscious custodian, and only a few of the desks had their anglepoises switched on.

Knox recognised Laing from afar, hunched over a stack of papers in one of the small pools of light. Laing was short and wiry. He looked like he’d never eaten a square meal in his life. The impression was compounded by his slim-cut grey suit, and his helmet of black hair, slicked to his scalp with Brylcreem. He reminded Knox of a broken pencil.