‘You ought to know how the KGB operated in the old days,’ he said, peering into the dark water. ‘They used the secret service organizations of East European countries as their tools. In Bulgaria, the Darzavna Sigurnost specialized in “wet” operations – contract killings. Do you remember the Markov case? It took place some years ago, at the height of the Cold War. Before your time, perhaps.’ ‘Thank you, Georgi. But I’ve heard of the case. A Bulgarian defector, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. And after he defected, he was assassinated. In daylight, in a London street. They say he was injected with the poison ricin from the tip of an umbrella. They also say it was the Bulgarian secret service who carried out the assassination. No one in Bulgaria would contradict that report.’
‘Yes, but even so –’
‘Another dissident was shot in the back with a poisoned bullet near the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Ricin was used in that incident, too.’
‘But –’
Kotsev held up a hand. ‘Wait. There was the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II in 1981. You remember? It was alleged that Darzavna Sigurnost recruited the hit men who carried out the shooting – two Turks. When one of them was captured by the Italians, he made allegations against our secret service. But he retracted them after a spell in the Rebibbia jail in Rome, where he was allegedly threatened by Bulgarian agents. Afterwards, he blamed the plot on the Vatican itself.’
‘Even so, Georgi –’
Kotsev laughed. ‘Yes, you’re right. Even so. Like you, Sergeant, I do not believe our beloved secret service was involved in the killing of Dimitar Iliev.’
‘Who was it, then? Simcho Nikolov?’
‘Well, these killings were probably carried out by a local person, a paid assassin. Someone like Simcho Nikolov, perhaps. But it’s possible they were ordered by a major Bulgarian crime boss, one of the remaining Mafia. A very powerful man, particularly now that some of his leading rivals have been … eliminated. A man with friends in high places.’
Fry fought a brief internal battle between her own ambition and what she knew to be the proper protocol. Finally, she sighed. ‘This is really a matter for Special Branch or MI5 – they’re our lead bodies for organized crime. You’re scheduled to meet with them tomorrow in Chesterfield for a briefing on the Zhivko brothers.’
‘The Zhivkos are not a loss,’ said Kotsev, with a faint air of disappointment.
They had arrived at the point where water poured over a weir and the river formed little wooded islands populated by sleeping birds. Even at this time of the evening there were people by the river, enjoying an oasis of peace under the shadow of St Mark’s Church. Kotsev paused again.
‘We have our tourist attractions in Pleven, also,’ he said, admiring the reflection of the illuminated church spire in the water.
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. If you ever visit our city, you must see our famous Pleven Panorama – the largest structure of its kind in the world. Larger, even, than the Borodino Panorama in Moscow.’
‘Wonderful.’
Fry wasn’t sure she knew what a panorama was. She’d always thought it was one of those views of the countryside from the top of a hill that Ben Cooper loved so much. But that didn’t sound like what Georgi was talking about.
‘The Pleven Panorama tells a great story. The tragic destiny of our people, their dramatic fight, the compassion in the hearts of our Russian brothers. Within the Panorama, the spectator sees a charge of the Turkish cavalry, smoking shells, burning fires in the city, the Russian General Skobelev attacking a Turkish fortification. This attraction causes a great deal of interest in our city.’
‘As you said yourself, we don’t know much about Bulgarian history here.’
‘No, of course.’ Kotsev smiled. ‘But its construction might be of interest to you.’
He looked at her, as if expecting a reaction. But she still didn’t know quite what he was telling her.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Ah, well.’
He began to walk on again, but Fry stopped him.
‘Georgi, who should we be looking for? If the Zhivkos and Simcho Nikolov came, then who else is here?’
‘Here?’ He laughed. ‘Here in the United Kingdom? You could start with seven thousand Bulgarian entrepreneurs. Including, perhaps, a one-legged roofer.’
The breeze was turning cool down by the river. Fry shivered a little, wishing she’d brought something warmer to put on. Apart from when she was at the office, she always seemed to make the wrong decisions about what to wear.
‘You’ve lost me,’ she said. ‘It was all making sense, right up until the bit about the one-legged roofer.’
Kotsev easily kept pace with her as she headed along the river towards the bridge. A few minutes’ brisk walking, and she could be back in her car with the heater turned up.
‘You don’t recall?’ he said. ‘A few years ago, your government introduced a so-called visa fast-track system. The purpose was to encourage entrepreneurs from Eastern Europe to come to the UK and set up business. Sadly, this system went badly wrong. Applications were not checked efficiently – many were not checked at all. Seven thousand unskilled Bulgarians and Romanians were allowed into your country on visas meant for entrepreneurs.’
‘Yes, I remember now. But the one-legged roofer?’
‘Ah, I bent the truth a little. He was actually a Romanian. But, you see, at that time there was an organized fraud in operation. One person submitted seventy identical business plans to support visa applications from Bulgarian individuals. They made a mockery of your entry control procedures, Diane.’
‘So you’re saying that pretty much anybody could have come into this country?’
Kotsev shrugged. ‘If they could afford it. Yes, it was easy to beat British immigration controls. But this was expensive for a Bulgarian worker. Fraudulent papers might cost up to three thousand pounds. It’s funny, you know – that was about the same amount of money that many British people were spending at that time on buying up cheap homes in my country, to spend a summer month by the Black Sea. Would you consider that irony, Diane?’
‘Yes, that’s irony, Georgi.’
Their feet echoed on the bridge. Fry had been thinking that she’d welcome the lights and the sight of people in the street. But instead she felt suddenly reluctant to leave the darkness and the quietness of the river. She stopped halfway across the bridge and leaned on the parapet. Kotsev came to stand next to her, sharing that mysterious attraction to water.
‘You understand, the process for applying for a visa as a self-employed person became a very nice loophole,’ he said. ‘But there always had to be an invitation of some kind. There were plenty of people who wanted to bend the rules, but they needed a partner in Britain. An individual in your country could set up a company, offer a Bulgarian worker a job, and then look the other way when he slipped off – in exchange for cash, of course. You see, the corruption and greed is not all in Bulgaria.’
‘There must have been risks, though.’
‘Any risks were worth taking. You try to get a hundred individuals into the country and succeed only with forty? You’ve still made a hundred thousand pounds. That’s a great many stotinki for a Bulgarian.’
‘This all blew up into a scandal a couple of years ago, didn’t it? I remember the immigration minister having to resign, and visa applications from Bulgaria were suspended. But it was too late by then, I suppose?’
‘Indeed. Too late.’
‘The words “horse”, “stable door” and “bolted” come to mind.’
‘Now you’re making as much sense as my one-legged roofer.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Kotsev smiled at her, his eyes crinkling again. ‘You appreciate, there is a lot of information I do not have myself. But I’m sharing with you what I know – because I think we understand each other.’