Chapter 8
A few hours earlier, in a hotel suite overlooking the Danube River in Budapest, Hungary.
Leonid Bronsky popped the cork on the bottle of Moet champagne and poured himself a glass.
On the TV, BBC International was continuing its coverage about the car bomb that had killed Dame Felicity Devonshire. The car bombing that he’d ordered.
When footage of the burning wreckage played, he raised his glass and toasted the screen.
Finally, the thorn in his side was dead.
It had been years in the making, starting all the way back when he had been London station chief for the SVR—Russia’s foreign intelligence arm.
At that time, one of his assets—a disillusioned minor British royal by the name of Wilfred Thomas—had turned the former deputy chief of MI6 into an assassin for Russia.
Bronsky had anticipated great things from Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson.
The man had performed well on his first assignment but had failed when it came to eliminating his former boss at MI6.
What followed was a fiasco that saw Fife-Simpson and his wife taking refuge at the Russian embassy and Thomas being captured by British Intelligence.
Soon after, the Fife-Simpsons were part of an asset swap between Russia and the U.K.
, in which three British citizens imprisoned in Russia were sent home, and the Fife-Simpsons were allowed to leave the embassy and travel to Moscow, where they were now living the high life.
Bronsky had no idea what had happened to Thomas, as there had been no further word about his status—not that he cared much.
Because of Thomas’s incompetence, Bronsky’s bright career path had been completely derailed. Within a day, he’d been replaced as London station chief and recalled to Moscow, then shuffled between a series of low-level jobs that he’d come to believe were meant to bore him to death.
He knew the only way he would get back on track would be to prove his worth. And the way to accomplish that seemed obvious—finish the job Thomas and Fife-Simpson had failed to do: eliminate Dame Felicity Devonshire.
In the intervening years, as he toiled away at meaningless positions, he secretly built his own network of assets. A ring of spies within a ring of spies.
Wanting to avoid the mistakes of the past, he had been biding his time as he waited for the perfect opportunity to present itself. But when he found out that Dame Felicity was planning on retiring, he knew it was time to act.
Since then, his people had already made three attempts on her life. All three had had to be aborted though due to faulty intelligence.
The fourth time, however, was the charm, as evidenced by the reports on all the news channels.
He took another drink of his champagne.
The SVR leadership would no longer be able to ignore him and would soon place him in a more suitable position. Perhaps even the crown jewel: Washington, D.C., station chief.
Feeling particularly jubilant, he called Boris Ustinov.
He and Ustinov had started their careers together.
For a while, Bronsky had been on a faster trajectory than that of his friend.
These days, however, Ustinov was only a few steps away from the top in Moscow, while Bronsky toiled away in the metaphorical basement.
“Leonid?” Ustinov answered. “I’m a little busy right now.”
Though it was after midnight in Moscow, Bronsky wasn’t surprised his friend was awake.
“I take it you’ve been watching the news.”
“What news are you talking about?”
“What happened in London tonight, of course.”
There was a pause before Ustinov said, “I have. Why?”
“Do you believe me now?”
“Believe you about what?”
“You know very well what.”
The pause was even longer this time. “Please tell me you didn’t do this.”
“Of course, I did. I told you I would.”
A couple of years ago, Bronsky had informed Ustinov that he had every intention of fulfilling the mission to eliminate the head of MI6, and that he expected to be back in the Russian agency’s good graces once he did. Ustinov humored him by saying he’d talk to him again when it was accomplished.
“Dear God, Leonid! You should have run it by me first.”
“And if I had, you would have told me no.”
“Of course I would have! Do you realize the position you’ve—” Ustinov stopped himself and took a breath. “I’ll need to inform the director.”
“Perfect. Please let him know that I look forward to my promotion.”
“Where are—”
Bronsky hung up before his friend could finish the question. Moscow was always too cautious in his opinion, but he knew once the job was done, they would be pleased.
He turned up the volume on the TV, poured himself another glass of Moet, and raised his glass at the screen.
“To the late Dame Felicity Devonshire.”
He downed the champagne in a single gulp.