“Daniel, are you still there?” Taylor said.

“I’m here,” Kudus said.

“What do we know about Thomas Lindgren’s childhood?” she asked.

“We’re not going to able to get confirmation of much before his time in the States,” Kudus said. “Thomas Lindgren attended a school called Turku Upper Secondary. I’ve had a look and there was a fire there in 1990 and they lost all their predigital records.”

Taylor exchanged glances with Fischer. She felt suspicion becoming certainty now. This was classic tradecraft.

“They’ve cut my internet connection,” Kudus said, then the line went altogether.

“Check this man’s passport photo against the Soviet archive,” Fischer said to his male colleague. Taylor knew that the Germans had the world’s most extensive archive of Soviet-era personnel: two million comrades dating from 1916 to 1991, leaked, hacked, purchased under the counter. They called them Das Geister: the ghosts. In the last couple of years, they’d hooked that resource up to some pretty sharp facial recognition software. It took less than five seconds to get a match.

Fischer angled the screen toward her.

“What do you reckon?” he said.

Nikolai Pravik. Directorate S, Foreign Intelligence Service, 1979.

The young Soviet intelligence officer stared out defiantly. According to their directory, Pravik had joined the air service in 1985, attended Chel­yabinsk Higher Military Aviation School. Recruited out for special training in sabotage and stay-behind networks, then moved to the SVR, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, specifically Directorate S, which trained intelligence officers to work under deep cover. Then, as you’d expect, he disappeared.

Some years in Finland spent crafting Thomas Lindgren would have been standard practice, as was claiming an education at schools with no trace potential. Of the five to ten years you needed to establish adequate cover to be a sleeper agent, it was common to spend time in third countries building up your identity; muddying your background, blurring the tracks behind you. Remaking yourself before circling in.

“And he’s married to General Anne Lindgren? Jesus Christ.”

They studied the images side by side.

“The ship’s coming for him,” Taylor said. “They want to get their man back home.”

“A lot of people think it’s part of an attack.”

“I have to go in and explain, before this escalates further.”

“Where?”

“Where they are. Whitehall. Give me a car.”

“You won’t get out again.”

“I’ll help you expose this, Markus, I promise. I’ll blow every whistle there is. But I’m going to have to do this first. Give me some transport. Let me go in.”

31

Kane gripped the dashboard as they sped away from the base. Thomas drove with a focused ferocity, gun against the wheel. His eyes flicked to the mirror every few seconds, checking the road, checking his daughter. They veered around potholes, jolting over the rough surface, airfield to the right, the expanse of cawing birds to the left.