Free Moscow Sting by Alex Dryden Page A

significant numbers of his operatives to the beach, to yachts, to bars and restaurants, their mobile phones out of range or quietly switched off to evade his summons.
    And he had given Stavroisky just an hour and a half’s warning to be at the café, against the Russian’s protests that it wasn’t possible to get there in time.
    “I have something with me that will make your masters very happy,” Logan had told him. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Stefan,” he’d said. “Promotion for you, maybe one of your Russian awards, certainly money,” he’d said. “Certainly, lots and lots of money for you.”
    “Tell me on the phone,” Stavroisky had told him. “I’m busy.”
    “It’s a photograph,” Logan had said. “Somebody your side wants very badly. I’ll need payment within twenty-four hours. Be there by four, at the café Slovenskja, or I’ll take it elsewhere.”
    The Russian would know that by “elsewhere” he meant the Americans, or maybe a European intelligence service, and maybe guess that Logan would do that anyway. Speed was essential.
    “I can’t make it in that time,” Stavroisky protested. “I’m over sixty miles away.”
    “You’re the head of the SVR in Montenegro, Stefan,” Logan replied. “If anyone can make it, you can.”
    Logan decided he’d give Stavroisky until four thirty anyway.
    “And make sure you’re alone, Stefan,” he’d added. “I’ll be watching. Any sign of company, you can forget it.”
    Now, Logan looked away from the café and out to sea. Even with depleted Sunday resources, he knew that Stavroisky would not come alone if he could avoid it. He knew, fairly certainly anyway, that the SVR chief’s backup would come from the sea, where it was less easy to detect a presence. There were dozens of small boats coming in and out, to and from the beach. Anyone in them could be at the café in a few minutes, if Stavroisky gave the signal.
    Logan took out the photograph, wrapped up in its waterproof plastic cover, from inside his jacket and rolled it into a tube, tying it finally with a rubber band. Then he found a wastebin, behind a toilet cubicle and out of sight. It was thirty or forty yards from the Slovenskja. He thrust the rolled package deep inside the bin until he felt the bottom underneath the cans and paper cups that were overflowing from its upper edges.
    Satisfied it was safely concealed, he walked up the beach towards the town. Just behind the beach, he turned away from the town and climbed past the medieval houses up towards a cliff, where there was another café, with a telescope for tourists.
    But rather than the ancient monastery on the island in the bay, or simply out over the placid turquoise sea, the telescope also offered him a fine view of the Slovenskja café and the surrounding area. He settled in for the wait.
    At 4:48, he saw Stavroisky approach the café in too much of a hurry for an experienced operative.
    Stefan Stavroisky was a tall, fit man with thick black hair cut short. He had the manicured look and the consciously honed figure of a vain man suddenly aware that his age was beginning to tell. Logan watched him closely. The Russian was wearing a grey suit, the jacket slung over his shoulder, and black leather shoes. He looked incongruous—and very visible—next to the semi-naked bodies on the beach.
    Through the magnification of the telescope, Logan saw that the Russian was in an agitated state. Swivelling the telescope, he studied the bay. There were too many boats to be certain, but he detected three or four that seemed to be approaching in time with Stavroisky. It could be any one of them—or none at all.
    But the SVR chief had at least arrived at the café alone. Logan had watched him from the moment his BMW drew up by the café, and he’d parked in a handicapped space. No other cars seemed to be trailing him. If Stavroisky had only just managed to get here himself, then there was a good chance he would have no