OK, Zack. You were the right man for the job.’
Simakov opened one of the cupboards in the kitchen. He was looking for something.
‘I need some oil, clean this thing,’ he said, indicating the gun.
‘I could go out and get you some,’ Curtis suggested.
‘Don’t you worry about it.’ He slapped him on the back, tugging him forwards, like a bear hug from a big brother. ‘Anyway, haven’t you forgotten? You don’t speak Russian.’
The bomb detonated six minutes later, at twenty-three minutes past four in the afternoon. The explosion, which also took the life of a young mother and her baby daughter in a corner apartment on the fourth floor of the building, was initially believed to have been caused by a faulty gas cylinder. When it was discovered that Zack Curtis and Ivan Simakov had been killed in the incident, a division of Alpha Group, Russia’s counter-terrorism task force, was dispatched to the scene. Russian television reported that Simakov had been killed by an improvised explosive device which detonated accidentally only hours before a planned Resurrection strike against the American ambassador to the Russian Federation, Walter P. Jeffers, former chairman of the Jeffers Company and a prominent donor to the Republican party.
News of Simakov’s death spread quickly. Some believed that the founder of Resurrection had died while in the process of building a home-made bomb; others were convinced that Russian intelligence had been watching Simakov and that he had been assassinated on the orders of the Kremlin. To deter Resurrection opponents and sympathisers alike, Simakov’s remains were interred in an unmarked grave in Kuntsevo Cemetery on the outskirts of Moscow. Curtis was buried two weeks later in San Diego. More than three thousand Resurrection supporters lined the route taken by the funeral cortège.
Like a lot of things that later become very complicated, the situation began very simply.
A few days short of his thirty-sixth birthday, Christopher ‘Kit’ Carradine – known professionally as C.K. Carradine – was walking along Bayswater Road en route to a cinema in Notting Hill, smoking a cigarette and thinking about nothing much in particular, when he was stopped by a tall, bearded man wearing a dark blue suit and carrying a worn leather briefcase.
‘Excuse me?’ he said. ‘Are you C.K. Carradine?’
Carradine had been writing thrillers professionally for almost five years. In that time he had published three novels and been recognised by members of the public precisely twice: the first time while buying a pot of Marmite in a branch of Tesco Metro in Marylebone; the second while queuing for a drink after a gig at the Brixton Academy.
‘I am,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry to stop you,’ said the man. He was at least fifteen years older than Carradine with thinning hair and slightly beady eyes which had the effect of making him seem strung out and flustered. ‘I’m a huge fan. I absolutely love your books.’
‘That’s really great to hear.’ Carradine had become a writer almost by accident. Being recognised on the street was surely one of the perks of the job, but he was so surprised by the compliment that he couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Your research, your characters, your descriptions. All first class.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The tradecraft. The technology. Rings absolutely true.’
‘I really appreciate you saying that.’
‘I should know. I work in that world.’ Carradine was suddenly in a different conversation altogether. His father had worked for British Intelligence in the 1960s. Though he had told Carradine very little about his life as a spy, his career had fired his son’s interest in the secret world. ‘You must have too, judging by your inside knowledge. You seem to understand espionage extraordinarily well.’
The opportunist in Carradine, the writer hungry for contacts and inspiration, took a half-step forward.
‘No. I roamed around in my twenties. Met a few spies along the way, but never got the tap on the shoulder.’
The bearded man stared with his beady eyes. ‘I see. Well, that surprises me.’ He had a polished English accent, un-ashamedly upper-class. ‘So you haven’t always been a writer?’
‘No.’
Given that he was such a fan, Carradine was intrigued that the man hadn’t known this. His biography was all over the books: Born in Bristol, C.K. Carradine was educated at the University of Manchester. After working as a teacher in Istanbul, he joined the BBC as a graduate trainee. His first novel, Equal and Opposite, became an international bestseller. C.K. Carradine lives in London. Perhaps people didn’t bother reading the jacket blurbs.
‘And do you live around here?’
‘I do.’ Four years earlier, he had sold the film rights to his first novel to a Hollywood studio. The film had been made, the film had bombed, but the money he had earned had allowed him to get a mortgage on a small flat in Lancaster Gate. Carradine didn’t anticipate being able to pay off the mortgage until sometime around his eighty-fifth birthday, but at least it was home. ‘And you?’ he said. ‘Are you private sector? HMG?’
The bearded man stepped to one side as a pedestrian walked past. A brief moment of eye contact suggested that he was not in a position to answer Carradine’s question with any degree of candour. Instead he said: ‘I’m working in London at present’ and allowed the noise from a passing bus to take the enquiry away down the street.
‘Robert,’ he said, raising his voice slightly as a second bus applied air brakes on the opposite side of the road. ‘You go by “Kit” in the real world, is that correct?’
‘That’s right,’ Carradine replied, shaking his hand.
‘Tell you what. Take my card.’
Somewhat unexpectedly, the man lifted up his briefcase, balanced it precariously on a raised knee, rolled his thumb over the three-digit combination locks and opened it. As he reached inside, lowering his head and searching for a card, Carradine caught sight of a pair of swimming goggles. By force of habit he took notes with his eyes: flecks of grey hair in the beard; bitten fingernails; the suit jacket slightly frayed at the neck. It was hard to get a sense of Robert’s personality; he was like a foreigner’s idea of an eccentric Englishman.
‘Here you are,’ he said, withdrawing his hand with the flourish of an amateur magician. The card, like the man, was slightly creased and worn, but the authenticity of the die-stamped government logo unmistakable:
FOREIGN AND COMMONWEALTH OFFICE
ROBERT MANTIS
OPERATIONAL CONTROL CENTRE SPECIALIST
A mobile phone number and email address were printed in the bottom left-hand corner. Carradine knew better than to ask how an ‘Operational Control Centre Specialist’ passed his time; it was obviously a cover job. As, surely, was the surname: ‘Mantis’ sounded like a pseudonym.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d offer you one of my own but I’m afraid writers don’t carry business cards.’
‘They should,’ said Mantis quickly, slamming the briefcase shut. Carradine caught a sudden glimpse of impatience in his character.
‘You’re right,’ he said. He made a private vow to go to Ryman’s and have five hundred cards printed up. ‘So how did you come across my books?’
The question appeared to catch Mantis off guard.
‘Oh, those.’ He set the briefcase down on the pavement. ‘I can’t remember.