The Budapest Betrayal

By Miles Ratcliffe

The Budapest Betrayal introduces a remarkable new police detective, whose dedication and investigative skill in a fast-moving story of police-work, espionage and terrorism will keep the reader enthralled right up to the unexpected denouement.

When DC Kathryn Hammond of the Derbyshire Police is sent to interview an elderly Hungarian who has been attacked on a train, she could never have imagined that her subsequent investigations would take her to London, Edinburgh and Budapest in an attempt to solve a fifty year old mystery.

As Kathryn begins to unravel a complex web of espionage involving the intelligence services of three former Communist countries, she also becomes embroiled in the activities of the British Security Service and the Metropolitan Police Counter-Terrorism Command as they try to recover from a previously undetected Soviet master-stroke.

Meanwhile, in Bradford there have been signs of impending trouble as three young men are killed when their car explodes, and further violence takes place in the heart of the city’s University. But it is only when Kathryn’s investigations uncover a long-standing arrangement for the funding of subversive organisations that realisation dawns that they are in a race against time to unveil the mysterious Commander who appears to be preparing a massive terrorist attack against Britain . . . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miles Ratcliffe
• Release date: Dec 4, 2010
• ISBN: 9780954686130

Miles Ratcliffe

Miles Ratcliffe was born in Lancashire, but has spent most of his adult life living in various other parts of England. He now lives with his wife Katy on the edge of the Derbyshire Peak District. Although a graduate of Cambridge University, Miles spent many years working at Oxford University, where he was responsible at different times for the university’s Computing Teaching Centre and its audiovisual and television services. That has never stopped him supporting Cambridge in the Boat Race, and all other Oxbridge competitive events, however! Miles has written a number of successful text-books on computer programming as well as writing, presenting and directing television programmes on topics ranging from computers to 16th century warships. He was also privileged to spend a year in Budapest towards the end of the ‘socialist era’ which led to an ongoing love for both that beautiful city and the country of which it is the capital. That love is reflected in the title of his first novel, ‘The Budapest Betrayal’, which, although mainly set in England, has several key scenes set in that beautiful city.The Budapest Betrayal, which introduces Detective Sergeant Kathryn Hammond, is now available from Smashwords and other ebook stores. More information about Miles can be found in his blog at http://milesinthepeak.blogspot.com/

Book preview

The Budapest Betrayal

Miles Ratcliffe

Copyright © 2010, Miles Ratcliffe

Miles Ratcliffe has asserted his right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is a work of fiction and all characters, events and locations, other than those clearly in the public domain, are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locations is purely coincidental.

This eBook is copyright material and is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It must not be re-sold or given away to other people without the permission in writing of the publisher. If you wish to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to the appropriate online bookstore and purchase your own copy.

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

Tanat Press

7 Highfield Drive, Matlock

Derbyshire DE4 3FZ

www.tanatpress.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-9546861-1-6

Cover photograph by James Clark at www.nomadicnotes.com

This Smashwords edition published January 2011

epub ISBN: 978-0-9546861-3-0

For Katy

My inspiration and my love

Contents

Title Pages

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Epilogue

Afterword

Author’s Note

One

Kathryn had never seen a dead body before. Let alone held one in her arms.

It had all begun, as far as she was concerned, when DI Ian Hudson had called her into his office shortly after she arrived at the nick to start her shift.

‘Am I right in thinking that you’re part Hungarian?’ he asked unexpectedly.

‘In a purely technical sense,’ Kathryn replied. ‘My mother was born in Hungary, but she’s lived in England since she was a few months old. My father’s family come from Lancashire for several generations back. Why?’

‘Do you speak any Hungarian?’ the DI continued, completely ignoring the question.

‘Yes. I don’t speak it as well as my mother, let alone my grandparents. But I can get by. Why?’

‘There’s a man in Calow who appears to be Hungarian. He was found unconscious on a London train yesterday evening, and when they got him to the hospital they discovered that he was suffering from a massive overdose of barbiturates. Later on, though, one of the nurses discovered signs of a recent injection in his thigh and they now believe that someone tried to kill him. He is still very weak, but he is able to talk a little. But he doesn’t seem to know any English. DS Wright is there at the moment, but he can’t communicate with him at all – and then I thought of you. So can you get round there and see what you can find out?’

It is less than two miles from the police station to the suburb of Calow where the Chesterfield Royal Hospital is situated, and as she drove the short distance under the bypass and up the hill towards the open countryside Kathryn Hammond wondered what had brought an elderly Hungarian to this part of England. Since Hungary and several other former communist countries had joined the European Union in 2004 there had been an influx of young men and women looking for work in the more prosperous countries of western Europe, especially Britain – not least because most of the young people concerned already spoke some English. But the man she was going to see was apparently in his late sixties. He was obviously not here looking for work. And he did not appear to speak any English. So why had he come to England? And why had someone apparently tried to kill him?

Detective Sergeant Tommy Wright was waiting for her in the main reception area, and he quickly showed the young Detective Constable the few papers that had been found on the elderly Hungarian. The only items of any significance were his passport and Hungarian identity card, from which it was clear that his name was Antál Király, that he lived in Budapest, and that he was aged 67. But that was all. There was nothing that gave any indication as to why he was on a train travelling from Sheffield to London. The date on the return half of his ticket did, however, imply that he had travelled up from London earlier on the same day.

‘He was actually injected in the arse,’ Tommy told her, ‘right through his trousers and pants. The doc says that he must have been given a pretty large dose of a very powerful barbiturate – certainly not an over-the-counter or recreational form – and that he was very lucky to survive. Another quarter of an hour and it would have been touch and go. Half an hour and it would have been curtains. If he’d stayed on the train past Chesterfield it would almost certainly have been the end of him. So anything you can find out that will enable us to get some clue as to why he was attacked .....’

When Kathryn entered the side ward she could see that Mr Király was propped up by several pillows, and still looked very weak. Since he had already had several people talking to him exclusively in English without any meaningful response she had already decided to speak to him only in Hungarian unless he decided to speak English or some other language.

‘Jó napot kívánok, Király úr! Hammond Kathryn vagyok,’ she said as she approached the bed, holding out her police identity card to him. ‘Angol rendőr vagyok, de beszélek egy kicsit magyarul. Szeretnék feltenni neked néhány kérdést.’ [Good morning Mr Király. My name is Kathryn Hammond. I am an English police officer, but I speak a little Hungarian. I would like to ask you some questions.]

As soon as he heard his native language his face lit up, and he replied with a torrent of Hungarian which Kathryn had some difficulty in fully understanding.

‘Mondja lassaban, kérem!’ she said, as soon as he paused for breath. ‘Hogy megértsem. A teljes neved Király Antál?’ [Please speak more slowly. Then I can understand you. Your full name is Antál Király?]

The direct question seemed to calm the man down slightly and he simply answered without any further elaboration.

‘Igen. Király Antál vagyok.’ [Yes. My name is Antál Király.]

‘Thank you,’ she continued in Hungarian. ‘Now then, is there anyone here in England that we should contact?’

‘No. I am here alone.’

‘What about in Hungary? Is there anyone we should contact there?’

‘No. There is nobody left now apart from my brother. But there is no need to contact him.’

Kathryn remembered seeing the name of someone called Király on the page in his passport which gave the name of an emergency contact, so she assumed that this must be his brother. The full details could be checked later. What was important now was to gather any information that might help find out why he had been attacked.

However before she could say anything else he suddenly shook as though an electric shock had run through his body, and struggled to breathe – apparently unable to extract any oxygen from the air he was desperately trying to inhale through a rasping in his throat. And then, as she was frantically pressing the emergency button while simultaneously calling for help, the dying man reached out and pulled her down towards him.

‘Elmondja a testvéremnek,’ he gasped weakly, ‘Géza. Miskolcban. Ő fere .... ’ [Tell my brother. Géza. In Miskolc. He ....’]

And then he died. In Kathryn’s arms. Just as the nurse came hurrying in.

As her train sped across the flatlands of Northern Hungary Kathryn wondered what sort of a man Géza Király would be, and whether he would be able to tell her anything that might help solve the mystery of why his brother had been murdered. And, even more important, by whom.

She also wondered what Miskolc would be like. Although she had visited Hungary many times with her parents, they had usually spent their time in Budapest or at Lake Balaton. As a result she had never visited Miskolc, or indeed any of the towns in the north-east of the country.

Miskolc, she had discovered before leaving home, is an ancient city whose history goes back to long before the arrival of the Magyars in, according to legend, 896. At that time it was only a small village, of course, but some time after the ‘conquest’ it was renamed after the Miskóc tribe. Over the centuries it had developed quite dynamically, not least due to its being at the centre of a major wine-growing area. However, in the mid-16th century the city had been burnt to the ground by the Turks and it was not until the late 17th century that it had recovered something of its former glory. Unfortunately, during the war of independence against the Austrians in the early 18th century, Prince Ferenc Rákócsi set up his headquarters there and towards the end of the war the city was once again burnt to the ground. But, Phoenix-like, the city had again recovered until after the First World War, when the Treaty of Trianon had stripped Hungary of much of its territory, including all of what is now Slovakia, Miskolc had become the only large city remaining in Northern Hungary and expanded rapidly during the inter-war years.

Towards the end of the Second World War the city was badly damaged by American bombing raids before it was occupied by the Red Army in December 1944, bringing the war to an end for the people of Miskolc. The war damage had to be repaired quickly and vast new housing blocks were built alongside huge new factories. Over the next quarter of a century the process had continued as Miskolc became the centre of heavy engineering industry in the country. So it was something of a surprise to Kathryn when she left the train to discover that the station was an attractive building of red and white brick whose main entrance lay between two towers with pointed roofs, for all the world like a small palace rather than a railway station. Géza Király had told her how to get to his apartment from the station, but she did have time to visit the station restaurant and grab a surprisingly good plate of Hortobágyi palacsinta – a pancake stuffed with minced veal, onions and, of course, plenty of paprika – before setting off for his home.

Just outside the station was a small square which was the terminus for the city’s two tram routes, and a fifteen minute tram-ride brought her to an area dominated by the huge iron and steel works which had been the city’s major employer during the decades after the war. It was only a short walk from the Károly utca tram stop to several large, Soviet-style, apartment blocks, sadly in need of decoration, renovation or, perhaps better, complete destruction and replacement with something more pleasant to look at. Fortunately the lift was working properly in the block she was looking for, and before long Kathryn was ringing the bell to the Király apartment on the fourth floor.

‘Jó napot kívánok! Hammond Kathryn vagyok,’ she said as the door opened to reveal an elderly man who bore a remarkable resemblance to the man who had died in her arms in the Chesterfield Royal Hospital. [Good afternoon! My name is Kathryn Hammond.]

‘Jó napot!’ he replied. ‘Király Géza vagyok.’

And then, to Kathryn’s surprise, he switched from Hungarian to a very good English.

‘I am very pleased to see you Miss Hammond. Please come in.’

As the young policewoman followed him into the apartment she was astonished at the difference from what the exterior of the building had led her to expect. For instead of the utilitarian mid-20th century apartment that she had been anticipating she found myself in what could easily have been the hallway of a late 19th century residence in the heart of the most exclusive area of downtown Pest. The walls were decorated with expensive-looking wallpaper on which hung a number of ornately-framed classical paintings, while the floors were carpeted in thick, well-cared for carpets of a quality was rarely to be seen outside of stately homes. Three beautiful antique chairs were positioned around the walls and a highly polished old oak table stood to one side surmounted by a vase containing an elegant display of mixed flowers.

Opening a door to the right, her host led the way into an equally elegant drawing-room with a picture window overlooking the rather mundane square outside.

‘Please, do sit down,’ Géza Király said, indicating a large sofa covered in an expensive-looking fabric. ‘I am afraid that my wife had to go out, but I hope that she will be back before you leave. May I offer you a drink? Coffee? Tea? Or something a little stronger? Perhaps a glass of Kecskeméti barack pálinka?’

Kathryn had tried the famous apricot brandy from Kecskemét on more than one previous occasion and had really enjoyed its fiery flavour and delicious sweet aftertaste, but two o’clock in the afternoon was not the time to partake of such a strong liqueur.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I do very much enjoy a glass of barack – but not, perhaps, at this time of the day. A cup of coffee would be most welcome, though. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Of course not. I will just set it in motion, if you will excuse me.’

A few moments later he was back.

‘Now then. What do you want to talk about? I have to tell you that all I know about my brother’s death is what I have heard from the Hungarian Embassy in London. I was told that he had been attacked and had died in hospital, and that so far the police have not discovered the person who carried out the attack. The Embassy wanted to know if I wished his body to be cremated in Britain or returned to Hungary. I told them that I would like him to be returned to his homeland for a proper burial here. But I have not heard any more about when that will be. It has all been rather distressing, as you can imagine, so I am hoping that you can tell me rather more.’

Kathryn was already feeling uncomfortable about what she was going to ask this man, and his appeal for knowledge made her feel even worse. She knew that she should not pass on the details of what little the police and the hospital had found out – especially as she was there as a private citizen and not as a police officer – but, at the same time, she felt that she could not leave him in ignorance of what had happened any longer. Especially if she was to have any chance of finding out why his brother had been in England – and especially in Sheffield.

‘Before I say anything,’ she began, ‘I must tell you that although I am a police officer I am not here officially. So I would be most grateful if you did not tell anyone, except your wife of course, what I am about to tell you. I was the last person to speak to your brother before he died and I would very much like to find out why he was murdered. But there is so little known about him, or about what happened, that the police have already decided that there is no point in spending any more time investigating it. But I don’t want to to leave it like that. So I have taken a few days’ leave to come here to see if you can tell me anything that might help us to find his killer. But first, let me tell you exactly what happened.’

As she told him about his brother having been discovered on the train from Sheffield to London and taken to Chesterfield Hospital she could see the puzzlement growing in his eyes. But when she explained how it appeared that someone had injected his brother with barbiturates he suddenly exclaimed ‘KGB! That’s their old style.’

When she had finished her short explanation of what had happened, and how she had come to be involved, he sat silent for a brief moment, before looking straight into her eyes and asking her how she came to speak Hungarian so well.

‘My mother was born in Hungary,’ Kathryn replied. ‘She left in 1956 with my grandparents. They still speak Hungarian at home and my mother is, for all practical purposes, fluent – although possibly in a slightly old-fashioned way. My father is English, but I grew up speaking both Hungarian and English. We still have relatives in Hungary, of course, and we have often stayed with my mother’s cousin in Budapest. In fact I am staying there at the moment.’

‘That would explain it,’ he said. ‘When you telephoned me I thought at first that you were Hungarian – although there was something about your accent that was not quite right. Then, when I met you at my door, I realised that you were definitely not Hungarian – despite your excellent command of our impossible language – and something made me suspect that you were English. Which is why I changed to English. But your family background explains it all. And it makes what I need to tell you rather easier. I assume that you are familiar – at least in outline – with the events of 1956?’

‘Yes. I have heard the story of how my grandparents escaped through the marshes near Sopron many times. They were not directly involved in the fighting, but with a small baby – my mother – they decided that Hungary after the inevitable reprisals would not be a place where they wished to bring up their family. They were lucky. Although many thousands got out, there were many who did not – including some of their friends.’

‘Including Antál and me, also,’ responded Géza Király. ‘But let me start at the beginning. It may take a little time, but it is necessary if you are to understand why Antál went to England. But first I must get the coffee.’

A few moments later he returned with two steaming cups of the strong espresso-like coffee so beloved of Hungarians. After ascertaining that Kathryn did not require any sugar he sat down again, took a sip of his coffee, and leaned forward across the table as though he was afraid that his visitor might suddenly get up and leave him.

‘It all started for us,’ he began, ‘on Tuesday October 23rd.’

Two

Lieutenant-Colonel Andrei Vasilyevic Semenkov checked his watch as he came out of the Embankment underground station and turned right to walk under Hungerford Bridge. He had left the embassy a little over an hour ago and walked to the Bayswater Road entrance to Queensway station. Four stops on the Central Line had taken him to Oxford Circus where he had boarded a Victoria Line train to Green Park, followed by a Piccadilly Line train to Piccadilly Circus, a Bakerloo Line train to Charing Cross and, finally, a Northern Line train to Embankment. He was confident that anyone attempting to follow him through this succession of quick changes would have been spotted by Pavel Koslov.

Although Semenkov’s official position in the Embassy of the Russian Federation was that of Assistant Military Attaché he was in little doubt that the British security organisations were well aware that he was, in fact, the senior member of the GRU in London. Semenkov accepted that his life outside the confines of the embassy would, therefore, always be closely monitored by the security services. Nevertheless, there were occasions when it was necessary for him to meet with one of his local agents in person, and it would obviously risk compromising the agent’s identity if he, or she, were to be seen visiting the embassy. But after almost three years in London Semenkov was familiar enough with the city’s complex transport system to be confident that he could lose anyone attempting to follow him when it was essential for him to do so. Nevertheless, on this occasion he had also arranged for Koslov to follow him through the sequence of rapid changes in order to be doubly sure that he was not under any form of observation when he met the man known as William Stephens.

Koslov was one of a team of London-based Russians who Semenkov used for surveillance and other low-key operations as and when required. This morning he had been waiting on the platform at Queensway as ordered, and had followed Semenkov through the rapid sequence of trains and stations which nobody would ever choose unless they were either trying to shake off a potential tail or were attempting to be that tail. It would be quite impossible for anyone else to take that sequence of trains without being observed by Koslov.

Crossing over the road Semenkov strolled along the riverside towards Westminster Bridge. As he reached the Battle of Britain memorial opposite the London Eye he paused to examine the impressive sculpture that commemorated the victory of the RAF over the Luftwaffe in 1940. Why, he wondered, had it taken 65 years to create this memorial? The Soviet Union had erected magnificent memorials across Europe in memory of the sacrifices made by its armed forces in the battle against the Nazis. And yet arguably the most important battle of the entire war had not been similarly honoured until almost all of those who had fought in it had passed away. And yet it was impressive, he thought, with its list of all the three thousand pilots and ground crew from Britain and around the world who had fought so desperately to save their country – and possibly his own as well – from the previously invincible Nazi war-machine.

As he waited he could see Koslov approaching from the same direction that he himself had taken. He did not, of course, even glance at Semenkov as he passed and only the keenest observer would have noticed the miniscule nod of his head when he was still some ten metres away. But it was enough. Semenkov continued to look at the monument for another couple of minutes until Koslov was well clear of him and then continued his stroll along the Embankment towards Westminster Bridge. A few minutes later he was entering the impressive Westminster underground station for the short trip under the Thames to Southwark, from where a short walk quickly brought him to the converted power station that hosted the Tate Gallery’s collection of modern art.

Semenkov was not a fan of most of the so-called art that appeared to hold so many otherwise intelligent adults in its thrall, but he did like the calm abstract patterns produced by the American artist Mark Rothko. Perhaps, he thought, it was because Rothko had been born in Russia.

He had timed his arrival carefully, and barely three minutes after he entered the small room where the only one of Rothko’s works held by the gallery was currently on display the man who he had arranged to meet there walked in to join him.

‘Good morning, my friend,’ he said, as he saw that there was nobody else in the room. ‘What is so important that we must go through all this cat-and-mouse behaviour to meet here?’

Suppressing his annoyance at the familiarity expressed by his senior British agent, Semenkov shook the proffered hand and suggested that they should go upstairs to the Espresso Bar where they could talk more freely. Once they were settled at a table on the balcony overlooking the Millennium Bridge, with St Paul’s Cathedral rising majestically behind it, Semenkov opened the conversation.

‘First of all I would like a complete description of exactly what happened in Sheffield. The written report that I received is somewhat unclear in several areas.’

‘I am sorry if my report was lacking in certain details,’ began the older man, ‘but .....’

‘I don’t want excuses,’ the GRU officer interrupted. ‘I just want a complete and accurate report.’

‘Yes. Of course. Well, the first that I knew about any problem was when I received a message from our emergency telephone operator. There had been a call to the high priority emergency number which simply said that the red butterfly required immediate assistance. In accordance with regular procedure, the operator contacted me immediately. As soon as I realised who the call was from I phoned him back myself. He told me that someone who claimed to have known him in Hungary in 1956 had called at his old department at the university. The department had, of course, refused to pass on any contact details to a complete stranger. As soon as he had left, the departmental secretary telephoned her former boss to ask if the man was genuine and, if so, whether they should pass on any contact details if he returned. He told her that he had never heard of the man. But in fact he recognised the name immediately and that was why he sent the emergency call. After all these years the last thing he wanted was for someone who knew him before he came to England to turn up.’

Semenkov nodded, but did not interrupt the slightly nervous flow of words from his companion.

‘But it seemed to me that if this man had come all the way from Hungary solely to speak to a man that he had known over fifty years ago he was unlikely to just accept the rebuff and return home. After all, as I was easily able to confirm, all that was necessary was to look in the Sheffield telephone directory. I do not know anything about the red butterfly’s life in Hungary before he came to England, but it was very clear that he was extremely worried about being exposed. That was the exact word he used. So I decided to take extreme action to protect him.’

‘Without any authority?’

‘There was no time. By the time that I had received the message and returned the call this Hungarian had probably already discovered the address he wanted. The only one way in which we could identify him was to wait for him there – if he did, indeed, go there. As it was my operative only arrived at the house just after the Hungarian.’

‘And what exactly happened then?’

‘I had instructed the red butterfly not to open the door to anyone himself, but to let his wife do so. That would protect him if this man intended to do him any physical harm and would also allow him to confirm whether he knew the man without actually being seen by him. So when the man rang the bell it was his wife who answered the door. I later discovered that he explained that he had known her husband in Hungary many years ago and was hoping to see him to discuss old times while he was in Sheffield. Apparently he sounded very plausible but, as she had been instructed, she left him outside while she went to inform her husband. He, of course, told her that he did not recognise the name at all and wanted nothing to do with this man. While she was getting rid of him – with some difficulty I might add – he called the direct line I had given him and confirmed that the man outside his door was a serious threat to him and, by implication, our organisation.’

‘How long elapsed between your first conversation and this confirmation?’

‘No more than half an hour at the most. Perhaps slightly less.’

‘So you had plenty of time to obtain authorisation for what you planned to do.’

‘But I did not know whether it would be necessary until then.’

‘Nonsense. Continue with your report. I shall consider what action to take when I have all the facts.’

‘I think that you will agree that I could not have dealt with the situation in any other way if I was to protect our agent’s identity. And that, it seemed to me, was paramount.’

‘We shall see. Continue.’

‘There is not much more to tell. I instructed my operative to follow the Hungarian when he left the house and to keep me informed about his actions. I had already arranged for the appropriate person to be made available from our main subcontractor in that area and I was able to confirm that she had arrived in Sheffield. She was equipped with a standard instrument pre-loaded with a lethal barbiturate cocktail which would give the appearance of a heart attack or, at worst, some form of drug overdose. She made contact with the operative who was following the Hungarian and was able to brush against him as he was getting onto the train to London.’

‘And ....’

‘Unfortunately he was discovered by a ticket inspector shortly before the train arrived in Chesterfield. The fast-acting drugs had already made him unconscious but the more lethal ones had not had time to complete the process. The operative had remained on the train to observe and was able to witness him being taken off in an ambulance when the train arrived at the station. She left the train in the confusion and was able to ascertain that he was being taken to the Chesterfield Royal Hospital. I subsequently learned that he died the following morning.’

‘Did he say anything to anyone?’

‘Apparently not. He only spoke Hungarian to the medical staff and the police and, although a policewoman who spoke that language did come to speak to him, he died only seconds after she arrived. I have ascertained that although the post-mortem revealed that he had been injected with a lethal cocktail of drugs the police have closed the case on the grounds that they have no idea why he was in Sheffield and who he may have spoken to. And thus have no possible clues as to why he was killed. The Hungarian Embassy have been informed that one of their nationals has been murdered by a person or persons unknown but that it is impossible to obtain any evidence that might make a search for his murderer possible. The embassy have, apparently, accepted this decision.’

‘Well,’ Semenkov said after a long pause, ‘it does appear that the end result was reasonably satisfactory. But I am not happy about the manner in which it was achieved. If you had simply arranged for the man to be followed and then, once he was on the train, contacted me, his unfortunate demise could have been better handled without any risk of his death being recognised as being anything other than natural causes. The method used by your ‘subcontractors’, on the other hand, did alert the police that the man’s death was neither due to natural causes or an accident. I do not like such important tasks being delegated to parties who are unknown to me and over whom we have no proper control. Who is the woman who carried out the execution and what is this organisation that she works for? I assume that the operative who followed the Hungarian initially is one of ours?’

‘No. There were none of our people close enough to Sheffield. He also works for the same organisation.’

‘So this organisation knows who the Hungarian was visiting and also that you required him to be executed. That is not good, my friend. We shall have to do something about that. Now,’ he continued, removing a small pad and a pen from his pocket, ‘please write down the full details of this organisation, including names, contact details etc. You must have no further contact with them until after I have established exactly how best to deal with them in the future.’

As Stephens started to write down various details, referring from time to time to an iPod on which, clearly, he kept all his important information, the GRU officer sat back in his chair and watched the ebb and flow of other visitors using the Espresso Bar’s facilities while he finished his own cup of coffee.

‘I think that is everything,’ Stephens said at last, passing the pad across the table to Semenkov. ‘But I can assure you that they are a very reliable organisation. I have used them for various more straightforward purposes in the past without any problems.’

‘Yes. I am sure that they are reliable,‘ Semenkov replied with a look of anger on his face. ‘I even recognise one of the names you have written down here. You fool. Did you not recognise the method used by this woman? You have been using an organisation originally established by the KGB and now operated by the SVR. For GRU business. You fucking idiot. I am very glad that I shall not have to work with you in the future.’

Stephens’ face paled.

‘What do you mean?’ he stammered. ‘I am in charge of your British network. And anyway, both the SVR and the GRU are branches of the Russian intelligence service, are they not?’

‘Oh dear. I really was mistaken about you,’ Semenkov sighed. ‘The GRU is the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation. We are the main source of foreign intelligence for our country and trace our unbroken lineage back to October 1918. The SVR was created in 1991 from the ashes of the former KGB following the failed coup against Mikhail Gorbachev in that year; a coup which was instigated by the then Chairman of the KGB, Vladimir Kryuchkov. The SVR took over the KGB’s foreign intelligence activities while the FSB took over its domestic role. The KGB was itself only created in 1954, following the execution of Lavrentiy Beria, who had been the chairman of its predecessor, known as the NKVD, itself the key component of the Main Directorate for State Security, OGPU. And OGPU had itself started out life as the Cheka – the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage – which had been established by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin himself in 1917. Ever since the Cheka infiltrated the GRU in 1919, in direct contradiction of Lenin’s orders, there has been a bitter rivalry between the GRU and the Cheka’s various successors. You should have known all this. And yet you have used SVR resources for GRU work. And now you have used them for a very delicate, highly confidential and extremely high priority GRU operation. Which means that the SVR will know exactly what has happened. It is going to make my life very difficult. But before I say any more may I please see your iPod? I can hardly believe that you are carrying around confidential information in such an open form.’

‘It is encrypted,’ Stephens said as he reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Look. I am not that stupid, despite what you may think.’

‘I am glad to hear it. But I am sure that I shall be able to extract everything on this little machine without too much difficulty. And you will not be needing it any more, after all.’

‘What do you mean? What are you going to do?’

‘I have already done it my friend. Or rather you have. I told you that if you had left things to me the Hungarian would have been dealt with in a much more unobtrusive way than was achieved by your SVR friends. Each time you pressed down with that pen I gave you it emitted a very small puff of a rather special gas. It is a very recent development from our laboratories and is absorbed into the body through the skin. Once it reaches the bloodstream it spreads rapidly through the body, having a particular effect on the muscle tissues. It is quite undetectable. I noticed just now that you seemed to have a little difficulty removing the iPod from your pocket. My guess is that you have about thirty more seconds before the rest of your muscles are affected. And then about two minutes before you die. It will, I am assured, be quite painless. Unless you struggle too much, of course. Goodbye William. I shall leave you now.’

It was almost half an hour before anyone realised that the middle-aged man who appeared to be dozing was in more than a deep sleep. When it proved impossible to rouse him a doctor was called but long before he arrived it was obvious to all those present that he was dead. The doctor’s preliminary assessment was that he had suffered a heart attack. And the subsequent post-mortem confirmed this finding, adding that there was no sign of any drugs or other external agents in his body.

Nobody recollected seeing anyone with him at his table, although one visitor to the gallery did subsequently mention to his family that he thought that he had seen the man looking at one of Mark Rothko’s paintings. He had been talking to another man who was also admiring the same work, he had added.

Three

As Kathryn travelled back across north-eastern Hungary towards Budapest her mind was filled with what she had learned from Géza Király during the few hours she had spent with him. The multiple tragedies that he, his family and his friends had suffered had both moved and horrified her, and she felt more determined than ever to get to the bottom of why Géza’s brother had been murdered so far from his home.

She had been upset when it had been decided to close the case of Antál Király’s murder so quickly, even though she could understand the logic behind the decision.

The post-mortem examination had discovered that there were two types of barbiturates in his system. One was the rapid acting one that had knocked him out on the train. It had been quite easily identified when he had been admitted to the hospital and the usual antidotes had been used to counteract its effects. But it was the other one that had killed him. It was slow acting and difficult to eradicate from the system, once it was established,