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Overview
For fans of Homeland and The Night Manager, the latest thriller in Stella Rimington's bestselling espionage series sees Liz Carlyle investigating a sinister Russian plot.
A Russian immigrant lies dying in a hospice in upstate Vermont. When a stranger visits, claiming to be a childhood friend, the FBI is alerted and news quickly travels to MI5 in London.
Liz Carlyle and her colleague Peggy Kinsolving are already knee-deep in conspiracies, and as they unravel the events that landed the man in the hospital, Liz learns of a network of Russians and their plot to undermine the German government. Liz and Peggy set out to locate and stop this insidious network, traveling the world from Montreal to Moscow.
The latest expertly plotted thriller in Stella Rimington's bestselling series, The Moscow Sleepers is a white-knuckle ride through the dark underbelly of international intelligence, simmering political animosities, and global espionage.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781632867995 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Bloomsbury Publishing |
| Publication date: | 11/13/2018 |
| Series: | A Liz Carlyle Thriller , #10 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Sales rank: | 166,520 |
| File size: | 456 KB |
About the Author
Dame Stella Rimington joined the Security Service (MI5) in 1968. During her career she worked in all the main fields of the Service: counter-subversion, counter-espionage, and counter-terrorism. She was appointed director general in 1992, the first woman to hold the post. She has written her autobiography, Open Secret, and ten Liz Carlyle novels, including Breaking Cover and Close Call. She lives in London and Norfolk.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Senior Nurse Sarah Burns was sitting at the nurses' station checking the day's records. She would be going off duty in half an hour, handing over to Emily, who was in charge of the night shift. The patients had all been washed and fed – those who were still capable of eating.
People came here to die. And die is what they all did. Nobody left here cured. Some took longer to die than others but they all died sooner or later. Nurse Sarah didn't mind this. She liked the peace. There were no emergencies, no dramas. True, she had to deal with grieving relatives, but when it came, death was expected so the grief was muted.
Evening visiting didn't start for another half hour and the families and friends who'd come would be Emily's responsibility. Most came regularly, some twice a day. There was only one patient who had no visitors. Sarah Burns had been a nurse in the hospice for almost ten years and thought she'd seen it all, but Lars Petersen was unique in her experience. Each morning when Sarah arrived for the day shift she half expected to find the bed in Room 112 empty, linen stripped. But Petersen clung on stubbornly, though that wasn't what puzzled her: she had seen countless patients die and in every conceivable way. But all of them had had somebody there in their last days – a relative or a friend. Someone.
Not Lars Petersen. No family, no friends, no colleagues from the university where, according to his hospital entry form, he had been an associate professor. This total absence of visitors made it even stranger that Sarah had been asked to keep a special eye on him – to report to the man called Boyd if he said anything about himself or if he had any visitors. But he hadn't. There had been nothing at all to report.
Sarah started thinking about supper. It was going to be a hot evening; she didn't fancy cooking in such sweltering heat, so she thought she'd have her husband prime the grill on the deck instead. She'd put her feet up on a lounger then let him bring her a burger and a large glass of chilled wine.
As she planned her evening meal she heard the swing doors of the ward bang open. Surprised, she looked up at the monitor on the wall; her view of the doors from the nurses' station was obscured by a bend in the corridor. She saw the image of a man with dark hair striding towards her, heard his heels clicking sharply on the tiled floor. As she stared at the screen, he rounded the corner and came up to the desk. He was tall, slightly balding, dressed rather formally in a grey tweed jacket that looked far too warm for the weather, with a button-down shirt and a striped tie.
'Can I help you?' Sarah asked, about to explain that he'd have half an hour to wait before visiting hours began. But there was something in the man's eyes that made her pause.
'I am hoping to see a patient here.' The voice was slightly accented – it seemed Scandinavian, which was confirmed when he said, 'Lars Petersen.'
She could barely contain her surprise. 'Can I ask who you are?'
'My name is Ohlson. I hope I am not too late. I have driven straight down from Montreal.'
'No, you're not too late. Visiting hours don't start till six.' She felt a little churlish; the man had travelled a couple of hours to get here. She asked more gently, 'Are you family?'
He smiled. 'As close to family as he has. His parents died long ago, back in Sweden. He was their only child. If there are cousins, he never spoke of them.'
'So you're a friend?'
The man nodded. 'His oldest. We went to nursery school together in Sweden.'
'Then you know that Mr Petersen is very ill?'
'Yes. I didn't know how ill, until I tried to contact him and couldn't. I spoke to his department head at the university and he told me he was here. That's why I came down.'
'All right. Would you please put your details in the book, then come with me?' Emerging from behind the desk, Sally led the visitor along the corridor to the end of the hall. Tapping lightly on the door of Room 112, she went in.
It was a corner room, with a view of the birch and maple trees that bordered the hospital grounds. Petersen was lying motionless in bed but he stirred as Sally came in and his eyes opened slightly. When he saw Ohlson they opened wider; Sally couldn't tell if he recognised him or if he was just surprised to see a visitor.
'Someone here to see you,' she announced cheerfully.
Petersen watched as Ohlson pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. 'Hello, Lars,' he said and laid a hand on the bed. After a moment, Petersen's right hand moved down the bed and touched Ohlson's.
Sarah hovered for a moment, until Ohlson looked up at her. She could tell he wanted her to leave, and there really wasn't any reason for her to stay. 'I'll leave you in peace,' she said. 'I'll be at the desk. Don't be too long, please,' she added, then looked down at Petersen. 'Ring the bell if you need me.'
She left the room and closed the door behind her. But she stayed just outside, making a show of consulting the small notebook she carried with her, while straining to hear the conversation going on inside the room. Through the door she could hear Ohlson's voice, speaking in a low murmur. She couldn't make out anything of what he was saying or even what language he was speaking – she guessed it would be Swedish. The pattern of his voice suggested he was asking questions – lots of questions. From the pauses, she thought Petersen was replying but his voice was barely audible. After a minute she went back to the nurses' station.
Emily was there, scanning the patients' chart book. She looked up as Sarah approached. 'Lucky you. It's meant to stay like this all evening.' She nodded through the windows at the bright afternoon.
'You'll never believe it,' said Sarah. 'One-one-two's got a visitor. He's with him now.'
Emily, who had also been briefed on the special interest in Petersen, said, 'You'd better let them know.'
'Just going to,' replied Sarah, and she went into the little office behind the desk and closed the door. She looked at her notebook again, this time for real, and dialled a local number.
When someone answered, she said, 'Special Agent Boyd, please.' She waited until she was put through, then said, 'It's Sarah Burns from the Kovacs Hospice. You asked me to phone you if our patient had any visitors. Well, he's got one now. Sitting next to his bed and asking lots of questions.'
CHAPTER 2As he sat in his car in the visitors' car park, appearing to read the Burlington Free Press, Special Agent Boyd was watching the cars arriving. Visiting time was about to begin, and groups of people with carrier bags and bunches of flowers were gathering at the door of the hospital, making it difficult for him to see if anyone came out. The nurse had given him a good description of the man, and Boyd was fairly sure he knew which one was his car. The car park had been almost empty when he'd arrived and it had been easy to find the only vehicle with Canadian number plates – the visitor had told the nurse he'd driven down from Montreal so it must be his. Boyd had parked in a spot where he could see both the door of the hospital and the car. Now that the car park was beginning to fill up he felt less conspicuous.
Boyd was used to surveillance work but his usual targets were drug-runners and other crooks. He had no counterintelligence experience, but he'd been told that the man in the hospital might be a spy. That would mean that the man who had come to visit him – this Ohlson character – might be a spy too, and that would mean he'd be a lot more professional than the average criminal. Boyd was just a bit nervous; he didn't want to screw this one up.
What looked like a family group – three people with a couple of children – was just going into the hospital when a man emerged. It must be Ohlson; he fitted the nurse's description. The man paused just outside the doorway, lighting a cigarette. Boyd recognised the move; he was looking for surveillance, although he seemed more interested in people on foot than the parked cars. Boyd slid down in his seat; he had a couple of discreet mirrors inside the car for just this sort of situation.
Having apparently decided the coast was clear, Ohlson walked directly towards the blue Volkswagen Passat with the Canadian number plates. Boyd photographed him as he did so. The car started up and drove straight towards the nearest exit, turning on to the highway. He was sorely tempted to follow but restrained himself. Single car surveillance was almost impossible without either losing the target or being spotted, and this guy was a pro. Boyd knew he'd be out on his ear if he let himself be spotted by Ohlson, which would be a lousy end to his career after seventeen years with the Bureau, half of them in his native Vermont.
He was the senior resident agent in Burlington, Vermont, which was not a Field Office since Burlington was deemed too small to support one. So Boyd had to report to the SAC, Special Agent in Charge, in Albany, New York, across the waters of Lake Champlain. This rankled with him, as it would with most Vermonters, who resented the dominance of their bigger and more populous neighbour.
But it was not through the Albany Office that the Petersen job had come in. It was a SAC in FBI Headquarters in Washington DC who had contacted him a month or so ago. He had been frustratingly vague about just what Petersen, the Swedish lecturer at the University of Vermont, was suspected of. But it was Top Secret so Boyd guessed it was espionage. All Boyd was to do was to look out for any visitors he had and get their details, but he was not to do anything to alert them to his presence. Then he was to contact Washington immediately. Not Albany, but FBI Headquarters in Washington. That was all he had to do. No more than that.
As the Passat disappeared into the distance, he shrugged, accepting he would probably never find out what was going on, and drove back to his office to pass his observations, photographs and the address that Ohlson had written in the visitors' book on to Washington.
CHAPTER 3In London the rain was steady and unceasing, as it had been for much of the preceding week, and it remained unseasonably cold. Peggy Kinsolving picked up her telescopic umbrella as it came through the outside scanner and opened it carefully so as not to shower herself and the security guard with raindrops. Then, head down, she ran up the steps of the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square.
As she sat in the lobby waiting to be collected, she wondered whether visiting the Embassy would be less or more hassle when it moved to its new premises in Wandsworth on the south bank of the Thames. More, she thought gloomily. She'd seen computerised images of what it would look like – a huge rectangular glass box on a circular island. She imagined the discomfort of getting there on a day like this and shuddered. It would be OK for MI6, she mused; they were practically next door.
In her present job in MI5's counter-espionage branch, Peggy was the main liaison on espionage with the CIA Station in the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. At least once a month she met the Station Head, Miles Brookhaven, to exchange information on current trends and cases. Peggy looked forward to these meetings, not least because she got on well with Miles. He'd been Head of Station for just about six months and was unusually young for the post. He was regarded by Peggy and her colleagues as a breath of fresh air after his predecessor Andy Bokus.
Bokus had always made it very clear that he disliked London and the Brits. In particular, he disliked his opposite number in MI6, Geoffrey Fane. The feeling was mutual and each man had set about further annoying the other by becoming almost a caricature of himself. Bokus had adopted an exaggeratedly boorish manner, playing up his humble immigrant background, while Geoffrey Fane, appearing as an archetypal English gentleman in his old school tie, three-piece suits and polished brogues, had patronised the American. It was a game observers suspected they both enjoyed, but it had made collaboration difficult, and Peggy and her boss Liz Carlyle were relieved when Bokus left and was replaced by Miles.
In contrast to Bokus, Miles was an Anglophile, having spent a year as a boy at Westminster School. He had been posted to London several years previously as a junior officer at the CIA Station. He was rumoured to have done stellar work in the Middle East, in the course of which he had been badly injured; it was assumed that the plum London posting was something of a reward.
Up in his office on the third floor, Miles was gazing out of the window as Peggy and the secretary who had gone down to collect her arrived in the CIA suite of offices.
'Come in, Peggy. Call this a summer?'
'Well, you look pretty summery,' Peggy replied. Miles was casually dressed in a khaki cotton suit, striped Brooks Brothers tie and cherry-coloured penny loafers. His hair had been cut, making him look even more boyish than usual.
'I've been spending a few days with my mother. She goes to Chautauqua every year. It's an old cultural centre up near Buffalo. The weather up there can get pretty warm in summer. I just got back this morning.'
'You should have postponed this meeting,' said Peggy. 'You must be tired and I haven't got anything urgent to report.'
'But I have something for you,' he replied. 'It seems to be connected to that case we shared earlier in the year. Those two Russian Illegals; it was a pity you sent them quietly back to Russia. I would have liked to see them prosecuted, though I'm sure it's not diplomatic to say so.'
'I agree,' said Peggy. 'Though I probably shouldn't say so either. But the FCO didn't want to worsen relations with the Russians. I don't suppose we would have learned much more than we know already, even if we had put them on trial.'
Miles said, 'I'd like to ask Al Costino to join us. You know him, don't you?'
'Of course,' Peggy replied. Costino was the Senior FBI Agent at the Embassy and a regular contact of MI5 on counter-intelligence and terrorism matters.
'He can tell you what his head office has just learned.' Miles reached for the phone on the table and punched in an extension number. 'Hi, Al,' he said. 'We're ready for you.'
Unlike Miles, Al Costino was dressed conservatively in a dark flannel suit, white shirt and the blandest brown tie. He had short dark hair and a broad pair of shoulders that testified to a lot of hours spent in a gym. From his features – he had a square slab of a face with a dimpled chin and, even this early in the day, a five o'clock shadow – you would have placed him on the other side of the law, a 'heavy' from central casting. But his face changed as he grinned at Peggy, holding out an enormous paw of a hand.
'Good to see you, Peggy.'
Sitting down heavily on a two-seater sofa, Costino looked towards Peggy. 'I bring news from Bureau HQ and it's hot off the press. So hot in fact,' he said to Miles, 'that Langley hasn't even been told yet. It's about this man we've been watching in Vermont.'
Miles turned to Peggy. 'Do you remember that when our Russian source Mischa told us about the two Illegals who had been sent here to UK, he also said that there was another one in the States? But that this other one wasn't in play because he was seriously ill and about to be admitted to a hospice?'
Peggy nodded.
'That's right,' said Costino. 'Our guys in Foreign Counter-Intelligence eventually identified him – to their satisfaction anyway.' He paused.
'And?' said Peggy.
'And, he died two days ago.'
Peggy groaned. So this was the news, but it wasn't very helpful. The hospitalised man in America had been the one remaining lead to the network of Russian Illegals they'd been told about. They'd also been told of another Illegal operating in France, but the French intelligence agencies had so far not made any headway identifying that one.
Al was still talking. 'We kept a quiet eye on the dying man. His name was Petersen, documented as a Swede, lecturer at the University of Vermont. The hospice made it clear he wouldn't be coming out, and we didn't think he'd tell us anything if we made contact with him. So we just watched, waiting to see if anyone showed an interest or turned up to visit him. Nobody did, which was odd in itself. Until two days ago. Then, out of the blue a Swede named Ohlson turned up, just before Petersen died, claiming to be a childhood friend.'
He paused. Peggy held her breath, waiting.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Moscow Sleepers"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Stella Rimington.
Excerpted by permission of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.
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