THE MISFIT UNIT: 26) LONDON

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

For this London visit, Dalkin chooses The Lowndes on Lowndes Street in Belgravia.

He dumps his bags, connects to Richard Thornington on the hotel’s public phone, and strolls to the upmarket food court top floor of Harvey Nichol’s on the top floor of this chi-chi department store.

The Brit arrives soon after, a broad, toothy smile. "You don't waste any time."

Dalkin shrugs, jet lag scrambling body and soul. "What's your reference here?"

"That bastard Serafina."

"Yeah, right. Caught, cuffed and confined. So, tell me what you got?"

"Igor?" Thornington lowers his voice a few decibels. "He has what we asked: A recall of my old files—and your trial run, Diana."

"Have you seen it yet?"

Thornington shakes his head. "He wants his money."

"Of course. How soon can we meet him?"

"Is tonight soon enough?"

"Where?"

Thornington scribbles a name and address. "It's near Buckingham Palace."

Dalkin walks to the Royal Bank of Scotland's Knightsbridge branch and fills his travel bag with wads of crisp fifty pound notes—courtesy of Serafina’s SVR ruse.

*****

The Boysdale Restaurant in Victoria bustles with activity when Jeff Dalkin arrives ten minutes early at 7:20. Dalkin doesn’t see his Brit sitting anywhere. "Do you have a reservation for a Thornington?" he asks.

"Yes, of course," said the Spanish maitre d'. "He waits for you in back."

Dalkin peers through the restaurant. "In back where?"

"Out back door, across courtyard."

Dalkin shrugs and swaggers.

The back door, sure enough, leads to a courtyard, across which is a small pub, whose only access is through the restaurant.

"Kudos to you," Dalkin greets Thornington at the bar while perusing two rows of obscure single malts. "Laphroaig," he instructs the barkeep. "A few drops of water, a couple cubes."

"Part of my training at MI5 was to scout meeting places," Thornington whispers. "This is the actually the first time I've been back since. I never meet Igor in the same place twice."

As Thornington says the Russian's name, Sokolov appears in the doorway, unzipping his anorak, removing a hood that had obscured half his face. "Ah," he says, making his way to the bar.

"Another grand tour of Londongrad?" asks Dalkin. (The Russian oligarch nickname for their favorite a.k.a Moscow on Thames.)

Sokolov nods. "I know London better than taxi driver." He eyes Dalkin's bag.

"Yep." Dalkin looks down at the bag himself. "It's your brazhort—blow me."

"Eh?"

"Your money—blow me."

"Blow you?"

Thornington guffaws. "Hungry?"

Igor shakes his head. "Nyet. I drink dinner." He orders a single-malt, and the three men hunch conspiratorially around a corner bistro table.

Igor reaches into an inside pocket of his anorak and retrieves a manila envelope. "First, old notes." He hands four pages to Thornington. "I remember most things. And I ask helpful person in Moscow to look again and, how you say, refresh my head."

Thornington peruses the typed, single-spaced notes. "Brilliant."

"Next. Princess." Sokolov offers three pages, bound by a paper clip, back and forth to Dalkin and Thornington, as if playing “Eeny meen miny moe.” He stops at the American.

Dalkin accepts the report with his left hand, raises a whisky glass with the other, savors smoke and peat from the Isle of Islay. Then he reads. Halfway down the first page, he looks up at Sokolov, eyebrows raised.

"It's good, no?" Sokolov grins.

Dalkin whistles. By page two, his teeth are gnashing.

Thornington is curious, but maintains cool British detachment and asks no questions.

The Russian checks his cheapo wristwatch. "I leave soon." He eyes Dalkin's bag.

"Yeah, right." Dalkin unzips his bag. "You have something to put it in?"

"I put in my pockets."

Dalkin hands the bag to Sokolov. "Take it."

"Nyet." The Russian peers inside, makes a mental calculation, and grunts. Then he stuffs his pockets. "Is things like this"—he gestures at the bag—“make problem later." He rises to leave.

"Wait a sec," says Dalkin.

Sokolov lowers himself.

"The MI5 mole," says Dalkin. "Remind me how much?"

"One million dollar US." The Russian chuckles. "Easy to remember."

"What's the best price you can do on that?"

Sokolov shrugs in puzzlement. "I tell you. One million dollar US."

"No. Your best price."

"One million dollar US."

"A quarter million," said Dalkin. "Cash—blow me."

"Is always cash. One million US."

"Okay, half-a-million dollars—blow me," says Dalkin.

"Nyet. One million."

Thornington watches in amusement.

"C'mon, Igor," says Dalkin. "Cut me some slack here. I can't get you one million dollars—blow me. Not now, not ever. Never. But I can get you half-a-million—blow me. And it's a one-time offer because I’m running out of time.”

Sokolov considers this. "You make decision now, on spot?"

"Exactly. If you agree, we have a deal, this minute. But if you leave here without a deal, it'll never happen at any price."

The Russian nods, his mind absorbed with arithmetic.

"And I mean the works," Dalkin snaps him back to the moment. "Not just a name. When he was recruited, where he was recruited, the identity of his case officer, how they communicate, and how he gets paid."

Sokolov nods. "I try. No promise. I get all I can."

"How soon?"

"This one difficult. Maybe three weeks."

"No good, Igor," say Dalkin. "I need it faster."

"Then you must pay one million US," he blurts in exasperation.

"No can do. Half-a-million—blow me—with a one-week turnaround."

"I try." Sokolov rises, peeks out a window, bundles himself into his anorak, nods goodbye, and steals out into the damp night.

"I hope you actually have a half-million dollars," says Thornington.

Dalkin winks. "I actually do."