The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [87]
‘Yeah, I remember reading about that.’
‘Well, he was another favourite of Thatcher’s.’
‘I see.’
But then silence. Ben had been expecting McCreery to elaborate further, to steer his little history lesson towards Mischa, but the monologue appeared to have ended. Perhaps the guarded spook who had spoken with so little candour at his father’s funeral was simply pre-programmed never to divulge useful information.
‘Is that it?’
‘Is what it?’
‘Well, what about Mischa? Did my father recruit him or not?’
McCreery actually laughed at this to the point where Ben might have lost his temper.
‘What’s funny, Jock?’ he said. The use of his first name felt oddly impertinent, regardless of the fact that they had spent most of the afternoon together.
‘Well, I’m simply not in a position to talk about that in much detail. It’s very much still under wraps. You can understand -‘
‘No, I don’t really understand. Forgive me for saying so, but this is exactly what happened at the crematorium. A few carrots dangled in front of the congregation, and then you withdraw. MI6 have access to a well of memories that for some reason must remain secret, because that is what the State has decreed. Now I respect that, Jock, I really do, but I need to know about Kostov. I need to know whether Bone is telling the truth. So far all you’ve given me is a potted history of Mrs Thatcher’s affection for a couple of guys whose names I can’t pronounce.’
McCreery gave an affectionate shrug that appeared to suggest compliance.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely right. Old habits die hard. And if I appeared evasive at the funeral service, it was only because I was in the presence of one or two people who would not have taken kindly to Spycatcher from the pulpit.’ McCreery laughed at his own joke. ‘If you want to know about Mischa and Dimitri Kostov, I can tell you, but only with the cast-iron guarantee that any information divulged will go no further than this table.’
‘Of course, Jock…’
‘That means even Mark.’ McCreery looked very insistent about this. ‘And Alice, of course. Particularly Alice, as a matter of fact, in view of her chosen profession.’
‘I can guarantee that.’
McCreery looked around, as if to be sure that any further conversation would be muffled by the swirl of noise in the pub.
‘Are we OK to talk about this here?’ Ben asked.
‘I think so.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mischa Kostov was a source for the Americans. An agent of the CIA.’ McCreery’s voice was a ham actor’s whisper. ‘The story Robert Bone relates is accurate in as much as it refers to an actual relationship between a Western intelligence service and a member of the Soviet armed forces. But I would recommend that for every mention of your father’s name you substitute that of a Cousin whose identity I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge. Suffice to say that he was a close friend of Mr Bone. His mentor, in a manner of speaking.’
McCreery shuffled forward and frowned. He seemed troubled by his leg.
‘Mischa’s father, Dimitri, was indeed a KGB agent whose aliases included Vladimir Kalugin and - I think I’m right about this - Leonid Sudoplatov. He was not, however, a member of Department V, and certainly never carried out Kremlin-sponsored executive actions. That’s absolute nonsense. The other rather important thing to bear in mind about Dimitri Kostov is that he died in 1997.’
Ben was halfway through what must have been his fifteenth cigarette of the afternoon when the lower part of his mouth just seemed to fall away, issuing a broad cloud of uninhaled smoke out in front of his face.
‘Kostov is dead?’
‘Yes. As is Mischa, though in rather more violent circumstances. Exactly as Bone attests, he was shot in Samark and by order of court martial sometime in the late 1980s.’
‘So my father never had anything to do with him?’
‘Nothing at all. The Yanks lost him. He was their joe.’ McCreery picked the letter up from the table. ‘Which makes Bone’s suggestion that Mischa was like a son to Christopher particularly unpleasant in the circumstances.’
‘Yeah,