The insider, p.1
The Insider, page 1
Matthew Richardson
* * *
THE INSIDER
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART TWO Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
PART THREE Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
PART FOUR Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
About the Author
Matthew Richardson is a novelist and screenwriter. He studied English at Durham University and Merton College, Oxford. After a brief spell as a freelance journalist, he began working as a researcher and speechwriter in Westminster. He has also written speeches for senior figures in the private sector. The Insider is his second novel.
For my sister Sarah
Praise for Matthew Richardson
‘A bang-up-to-date thriller told with old-school panache. A great read’
Mick Herron
‘A splendid tale of espionage … exciting spy literature’
The Times
‘Supremely confident … outstanding’
Daily Mail
‘Truly authentic and frighteningly so … a remarkable thriller’
Shots Magazine
‘This is one of the best thrillers I’ve read this year’
Tim Shipman, bestselling author of All Out War
‘Proof that the spy genre is flourishing in the twenty-first century’
Guardian
‘Combines immaculate Cold War tradecraft with modern tech savvy’
Sunday Times Crime Club
‘Self-assured, impeccably researched and beautifully rendered … Richardson paints a portrait of espionage that calls to mind early le Carré’
Gregg Hurwitz, No. 1 bestselling author of Orphan X
‘Compelling, intense and sharply authentic’
James Swallow, No. 1 bestselling author of Nomad
‘An evocative descent into the Wilderness of Mirrors’
Jason Matthews, bestselling author of Red Sparrow
‘All spy novelists are dubbed the new John le Carré, but Richardson has made a good fist of living up to the accolade’
SPORT Magazine
‘Such a smart, pacey, twisty thriller. Tremendous!’
C. J. Tudor, bestselling author of The Chalk Man
‘So brilliant and tense and compelling I thought I wouldn’t sleep when I finished’
Claire Kendal, Sunday Times bestselling author
‘Compelling spy fiction’
Michael Ridpath, bestselling author of Amnesia
‘A well-plotted and multi-layered spy thriller … recommended’
Raven Crime Reads
‘Excellent twisty spy thriller, highly addictive’
Liz Loves Books Blog
‘A wonderful example of the spy novel … shows what a complicated and terrifying world we live in’
CrimeSquad
I’ve scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze,
Resolved to fathom these your secret ways:
But, sift them as I will,
Your ways are secret still.
Christina Rossetti
Prologue
Dresden, East Germany. December 1989
The noise of the crowds was already deafening. The building seemed to shake as he hurried through the halls. Most of the staff had fled already, leaving a procession of empty desks and debris. Typewriters in the middle of being used. Rubbish bins overflowing. The faint stench of tobacco still in the air and on the walls. A half-empty bottle of vodka perched on one of the desks, its top unscrewed.
The man reached his office and locked the door behind him, the solemn words ringing in his ears again. A phone call directly from the twentieth floor of Yasenevo. The Woods, Moscow Centre itself. The instructions were clipped and urgent but recited at a whisper, intoned by the deputy head of the First Chief Directorate himself, no less.
You have one job. Find the File and destroy it. Do not – repeat, do not – let it fall into anyone else’s hands.
By which he meant the crowds outside. The voices filling the air and rattling the building. The revolt which the First Chief Directorate itself had failed to spot or neutralize. It was impossible to think that this could be the end, yet what other conclusion could be reached? Moscow refusing to step in, anarchy now filling the void.
The man took care opening the safe and then reached inside. From the beginning, it was always simply the File. It never needed any other name. The information so sensitive they refused to even keep a record at Yasenevo, terrified that someone within the Centre might leak it for political or financial gain. Anarchy consuming them all.
It was, in fact, the reason he had been sent here, condemned to this curious type of exile. A trainee at the Red Banner academy, School 101. The high-flyer in the First Chief Directorate and future head of the Centre suddenly sent to Dresden, condemned to life among the second rank of KGB officers, not even fit for East Berlin itself.
All because of the File. The man opened it now and looked down at the pages again, taking care to memorize everything he could. There were no markings or official imprimatur, so far above the usual levels of bureaucratic secrecy. There was a photo and then personal details. There was a record of the initial pitch and recruitment process, followed by a comprehensive list of all contact since. Further on, there was a review of product already supplied by the asset and a note from Moscow outlining future prospects.
The man reached the end of the pages and then looked at the photo at the start again. The only photo they had. Taken on a summer’s day during one of the asset’s trips abroad, a break from their studying, a rare chance for handler–asset meets and debriefings. Moscow had started the asset slowly. Lecturers of interest, professors with high-level government connections, visiting speakers whom the asset could get close to, ingratiating themselves with the upper echelons of the political and diplomatic system. The next stage was already clear. Entry into public service, years spent dutifully biding their time, and then climbing up to the very pinnacle of the London establishment. The note from Moscow had already identified several key roles the asset could, one day, occupy: a senior role within the Ministry of Defence or Foreign Office, say, Cabinet Secretary in Downing Street or, even better, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.
All that, however, depended on surviving that long. It was said at Yasenevo that a good asset only reached full maturity and potential at the twenty-year mark. Thirty years was better; beyond that it became priceless. Most, of course, were discarded long before that moment came. This time, though, would be different.
There was another ground-shaking roar from the crowd outside. The man quickly closed the File and took out his lighter. There was a bin nearby which he picked up and emptied. He placed the bin on the desk and then, with more than a tinge of regret, lit the bottom of the File and watched as the paper was consumed. When the flames spread further, he dropped the File into the bin and carefully observed the final destruction.
The last bit to go was the photo of the asset, smiling broadly for the camera. And the name written in capitals on the top of the File. The codename chanted by the elect few within the walls of Moscow Centre and, further afield, by the highest elements of the Kremlin too.
Their greatest hope in the ongoing battle against the West. Their mole set to penetrate the very heart of the system. Their last weapon in the fight, set to rise from the ashes and fly anew. One asset, one codename.
The title the mole would be known as now and for evermore.
PHOENIX.
PART ONE
1
Chelsea, London. December 2019
The call blasted through the quiet. Shrill, noisy.
Solomon Vine pretended to sleep for one last second and then pitched to his right. Scrabbling for the mobile plugged into the socket by the bedside table. He glanced at the number, saw that it was withheld, and could already feel the rumble of dre
‘Yes?’
The voice was quiet, almost a whisper. ‘Solomon, she wants to see you.’ It was always how it began. No names on their side, even on a secure line. ‘Something’s come up. Be here in half an hour?’
Vine knew he had no choice. Not that it stopped him imagining the alternatives, the many ways he could tell them that it was just after two o’clock in the morning and he should be allowed to sleep. But, for a professional liar, he was always curiously inept at white lies, the small ones. Anyway, the psych evaluation proved it: everyone knew he never slept. That’s why they rang.
The syllables seemed to stick in Vine’s throat, heavy and solid. ‘Mind telling me what this is about?’
‘Tricky one. Best let us walk you through it here. Not suitable for a line.’
‘I thought the line was secure?’
‘Not secure enough for this.’
And then, as always, the call ended. The enigma, heavy like a scent, left in the room. A faceless herald that vanished into the night as suddenly as it arrived. Vine put his mobile down and sat in the hazy darkness for another moment. Outside he could hear the soft chug of the delivery lorries passing along the King’s Road. The faint murmur of early-morning workers bustling through Wellington Square. It was three years now since he had been condemned to the wilderness, earning his keep as an occasional consultant for the National Security Council. This was the tenth call of its kind. Bang in the middle of the night. No warning.
Vine got out of bed. He had become so used to staring at the ceiling of this room as he tried to lull himself to sleep that he didn’t need to put the light on now. He could see in the dark. He found the bathroom, showered and then pulled out some fresh clothes from the wardrobe. The Cabinet Office was usually suits and ties, but he always tried to buck convention. Nothing too out there. Open-neck, chinos. The sort of shoes fit for an embassy. He’d never been a suit. Even in his forties, he was hardly going to start now. But he had to make some concessions.
When he finished, he headed down to the ground floor. Half hating this house. All the memories it still held. It had never felt empty when he first bought it, fresh from a spectacular bit of private enterprise betting on the markets, but now it echoed and clanged. He longed to hear the sound of other voices, and yet he didn’t know whose voices. They were never distinct. An itch that wasn’t loud enough to scratch. They would exist like that forever, he was starting to realize. Formless and indistinct.
He was about to try and call a cab or an Uber, when he saw the yellow glow of headlights outside. So they hadn’t been joking. Whatever this was really couldn’t wait. The Cabinet Office didn’t like unnecessary expense. Unless it was an emergency, all precautions taken. Something must have really got them rattled.
Vine grabbed a coat, found his keys and then felt that old rush down the very back of his spine. And he knew, standing there, that he hated this life and yet loved it too. This odd, peculiar kind of torture. He took one final moment to listen to the stillness and the echo of it.
Then, when he couldn’t put it off any longer, he headed out into the cold.
2
Whitehall seemed so dead at this hour. Odd, really. If any place should be alive, surely this one should. Feverish early-dawn meetings. Sleep-smudged faces scurrying through corridors with handfuls of important papers. But there was just silence. The sky was still inky, the only light the odd fuzz of colour from some of the windows lining the long procession from Downing Street all the way down towards the Strand.
The car journey had been silent. One of the buzzcut specialist protection officers who usually spent their time guarding ministers or royalty. Just a stern, humourless quiet before Vine was dropped off at the private entrance for the Cabinet Office.
Rish was waiting for him, as usual. One of the fast-trackers, he always presumed, still young enough that sleep was an optional extra. She always seemed to wear the same jacket-and-skirt combination, until Vine wondered if she had rows of them lined up in a closet somewhere. Sometimes he wondered if she ever went home at all. It was her mystery voice on the phone, somehow tinnier and less convincing in real life.
‘Sorry to call,’ she said. ‘We thought it was going to be a quiet one.’
Vine could feel that old curiosity curl around him again. They were making him wait, teasing him with it. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ll let the Lord and Master explain. But it’s bad.’
They were along the main corridor now. It seemed to become more secret as they went. Less glassy and accessible. All dull browns and padded walls and decor so bad it had to be official.
They reached the office door at the end. Vine always saw the gold plaque on the outside – ‘Emma Lockwood, National Security Adviser’ – and wondered whether it was just ego or forgetfulness, perhaps a mix of both. Spies didn’t usually like their titles being paraded for the world. Rish knocked lightly once and opened it at the sound of a loud, throaty ‘Enter’.
‘Good luck,’ she said.
Vine nodded, their little routine. ‘Thanks.’
He walked in to find Emma Lockwood sitting behind her enormous oak desk. Papers always seemed to grow out of the most unlikely places and Vine swore he could see some spattered on parts of the wall, others growing mouldy in cracks in the floor. Ever since the revelations about election hacking in America, Whitehall had gone back to a paper-only policy. Anything secret didn’t go anywhere near a computer.
‘Ah, Solomon. Please, take a load off.’
Lockwood had ten years on him, but it seemed more. She had that ease in high office that suggested she came with the furniture. Her CV was deliberately vague – high-flying international relations post-grad at Harvard, something at the Home Office, a hush-hush appointment at GCHQ – which meant her failures never caught up with her. Somehow, Vine doubted they ever would.
‘Urgent phone call, driver at the door, even Rish sworn to silence,’ Vine said, smiling politely as he sat down. ‘I guess a Cabinet Minister didn’t leave his homework on a train.’
Lockwood yawned messily. ‘No. Well, not recently anyway.’
Vine knew she wanted him to reach for it. A silent display of power. ‘What is it?’
Lockwood still demurred, fussing with some unnecessary paperwork, the sly brush of her left hand against her ear. Those small idiosyncrasies that high office allows. Then, eventually, she said: ‘How much does the name Alexander Ivanov mean to you?’
Vine felt a small uptick of surprise. ‘Media tycoon. Prince of Londongrad. Russian CEO of the Jupiter Group. Owns the Herald and half of Knightsbridge, if I remember. Latest estimate, he had a net worth north of ten billion. Never gone public, though, so it could be much higher. Or lower.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘Indeed. Close to the Kremlin, one of the pillars of Moscow high society.’
‘You woke me up at this time in the morning to talk about Alexander Ivanov?’
‘You don’t sleep. We woke you from nothing.’
‘What’s Ivanov done now?’ said Vine.
Lockwood sighed and yawned again. Vine wondered how long she’d been here, casting around for signs of a sleeping bag or a thermos of coffee. Though, this high up, they usually decanted straight to the Corinthia or the Royal Horseguards, tucking away the expense claim in some undiscovered part of the black budget. Lockwood reached down to her desk and picked up a manila folder, removing a single photo. She held it almost tenderly, glancing at it before reluctantly sliding it across to Vine. There was just the faintest residue from her palm still visible on the surface.
‘It’s not what he’s done, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘It’s the other way round. Brace yourself.’
3
Vine stared at the photo for another moment. It showed a body lying in the middle of a room. Pricey clothes splashing against a fleecy carpet. The head was haloed in blood. The wound at the temple was visible on the right, the Glock 17 clasped clumsily in his right hand. It looked like some kind of installation piece. The vivid redness provocative against the studied blandness of the rest of the room. There was no peacefulness in death, either. Alexander Ivanov’s face looked crinkled, startled even.
