Following the girl’s instructions, he filled in the declaration forms and handed them over to the Customs officer. The man stamped them without reading them and waved him through. He didn’t bother to open the case which Dingle offered for inspection.
The immigration official was equally casual. He glanced briefly at the passport, stamped it and handed it back.
‘I hope you have a pleasant stay in the Soviet Union, Mr Hardbottom.’
Dingle smiled.
‘Thank you. I’m sure I shall.’
It had been easy. Too easy. He had the impression that he had been expected; that the path had been smoothed for him. And the hairs at the back of his neck were prickling. He was still being watched.
The girl led him out of the building and waved a hand to summon a car.
‘I say! We can share a car, can’t we?’
Dingle’s heart sank. Willey, accompanied by his own Intourist girl, was standing behind him.
The two girls looked doubtfully at each other, and then the one with Dingle said:
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were together.’
‘We’re not,’ said Dingle.
‘But we can share a car, surely,’ said Willey. ‘Dash it, we’re going to the same hotel.’
The girls still looked doubtful.
‘A separate car has been ordered for Mr Willey.’
‘Then cancel it,’ said Willey. ‘We’ll ride together. Eh, Hardbottom?’
Dingle shrugged, and climbed into the car. The little man followed quickly.
‘The National,’ he told the driver.
‘You mustn’t allow these people to dictate to you; got to stick up for your rights, you know,’ said Willey as the car started forward.
‘Anyway, it’s much nicer to have company isn’t it? It’s quite a long run, you know. Sheremetevo airport’s about nineteen miles from Moscow. It gets a bit boring with nobody to talk to.’
‘There’s always the driver,’ said Dingle.
‘Eh?’ Willey looked blank. ‘Oh, of course, you speak Russian don’t you.’
He looked through the side window.
‘Pity it’s dark. It’s quite a pleasant ride, you know, through woods nearly all the way …’
Dingle, haunched up in his corner, tried to shut his ears to the other’s incessant prattle. He was grateful that Willey didn’t seem to require any answers as he talked on and on, airing his knowledge of Moscow.
From time to time, Dingle glanced back through the rear window. There were no following headlights. The fact did not reassure him.
It was nearly midnight when they reached the hotel. Dingle was too worried to feel angry or frustrated at the long delay in the service bureau operated by Intourist.
He sat in front of a desk manned by a girl who kept picking up the telephone and asking solemnly for someone called ‘Administration.’ Half an hour later she was able to tell the Englishman the number of his room.
The room, she told him, was on the fourth floor, and he could collect the key from the woman he would find on duty at the top of the stairs.
Dingle cursed silently. He had forgotten that it was almost impossible to enter or leave any Russian hotel room unnoticed. Each floor had a woman in charge of it, day and night.
The ‘captain’ of the fourth floor was not at her desk. Dingle thought at first that she had deserted her post, until he saw her stretched out on a couch against the wall. She was not asleep.
‘May I have the key to room sixty-six please?’
The woman showed no annoyance at being disturbed. Slowly, she swung her heavy legs to the floor and heaved herself up. Dingle had never seen such a huge woman before; in a ‘guess the fat lady’s weight’ competition, the lowest estimate would have been twenty stones. Aged about sixty, grey-haired and with a more-than-ample bosom which matched her behind, she was dressed in a tight-fitting black dress that could only have been made to measure.
‘Your name?’
‘Hardbottom.’
She checked the list, nodded and handed him the key.
‘You will find the room on the right, half way down the corridor. If there is anything you need, please let me know.’
Dingle thanked her, took the key and walked away. As he let himself into his room, he glanced back down the corridor. The fat lady was staring after him.
The room was large and furnished in red plush Victorian style; the curtains hung on wooden rings from a thick round wooden rail. Oil paintings of old Moscow in heavy gilt frames adorned the walls. Dingle was reminded of the front parlour of his late grandmother’s farmhouse on the North Wales coast. It even smelt the same.
Shrugging off a twinge of nostalgia for the happy holidays he had spent at that house in his youth, he put his case on the floor and moved rapidly across to the window.
He found he was looking out on to the main street, so there was no hope of leaving the hotel undetected if the need arose. There was no fire escape. The only route out was past Big Bessie, the floor captain.
Dingle unpacked his case and then undressed quickly before inspecting the adjoining bathroom. He tested the plumbing, which he found was creaky but adequate, returned to the main room, and climbed wearily into the bed.
He sat, with a pillow propped behind him, smoking a cigarette and thinking hard.
He was convinced that something had gone wrong. He had been watched — and yet he had not been arrested. Why? Were the KGB hoping he would lead them to something? Was his travelling companion, Willey, mixed up with Russian Intelligence? And how had the KGB known about his trip and penetrated his disguise in the first place? Had Jones been caught? If so, would he have talked? Dingle pushed the thought away from him; but not before he remembered the Director’s doubts about Jones — and his final instructions:
‘If anything goes wrong, go to this address and ask for Sergov,’ the Director had said. ‘He’s a reliable agent and is not connected with the network Jones is working with.’
Dingle had taken the slip of paper, memorised the address — in a new block of flats in Leninsky Avenue — and destroyed it.
Angrily, he stubbed out the cigarette and tried to stop the questions chasing each other through his mind. He would soon know if Jones had been caught; he was due to rendezvous with him in the morning.
Dingle gazed round the room. If the KGB had been expecting him, the place was certain to be bugged. He wondered where the microphone was hidden; but he was too tired to bother to get up and look for it. It could take all night.
He pushed his pillow flat, reached out to switch off the bedside lamp and then stopped, with his arm outstretched.
Someone was knocking on the door.
‘Who the hell …’ Dingle muttered to himself as he climbed out of bed, smoothed back the covers, and padded across to the wardrobe. His .38 was hanging inside in the shoulder holster. He took it out, checked it quickly, released the safety catch and moved across to the bathroom. He flushed the toilet, turned a tap on and off quickly — causing the ancient plumbing to play a clanking tune — and snatched a towel from the rail.
When Dingle opened the door on to the corridor, the towel was draped carelessly over his left hand and forearm. It concealed the .38 perfectly.
Wily Willie was standing there, blinking apologetically through his glasses.
‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you, Mr Hardbottom. You weren’t in bed?’
‘I’m just going.’
‘The woman at the head of the stairs gave me your room number. I’m just across the passage there, so we’re close neighbours. Isn’t that lucky?’
‘Very,’ said Dingle drily.
‘I wondered if you’d like to make arrangements for tomorrow. I could show you around the city.’
‘No, thank you. I’ve already made arrangements.’
‘Oh! Where are you going?’
‘I’ve booked for a tour of the Moscow Underground and for a visit
to the Exhibition of Economic Achievements.’
‘That’s quite an interesting day. Shall I pop down to the service bureau now and book up? I could come with you.’
Dingle sighed. There was nothing else for it; he would just have to be rude.
‘I prefer to be alone.’
Willey looked bewildered, as though he couldn’t understand anyone not wanting his company.
‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘No doubt I’ll be seeing you around.’
‘No doubt.’
Dingle shut the door. He replaced the towel on the rail and then, putting the catch to ‘safe’ placed the .38 under his pillow. Before getting back into bed, he leaned a chair against the door handle so that it would make a noise if anyone tried to come in.
Surely, he thought, the KGB wouldn’t employ anyone as obvious as Willey.
Two minutes later, he was asleep.
Chapter Five
Jones was at the Exhibition of Economic Achievements. Dingle found him in the Cosmos pavilion, gazing moodily at a model of a sputnick.
‘You made it then, boyo,’ said the Welshman. ‘I thought you weren’t coming; I’ve been in here for half an hour now and I was beginning to feel conspicuous.’
‘Not as conspicuous as I feel. The KGB are on to me.’
Jones looked startled.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I had company on the plane; a chap with yellow hair. I haven’t seen him since, though. And there’s another one I’m not sure about; an Englishman who sat next to me on the flight, and just happens to have the room across the corridor from me at the hotel.’
‘That needn’t necessarily mean anything,’ observed Jones. ‘Your flights and hotel reservations were probably made at about the same time. The Russians are pretty methodical about these things. They probably saw two Englishmen were due on flight so-and-so, looked at their hotel list, found two rooms vacant at the National, and booked you both in. After all, he couldn’t have chosen the National any more than you did. Intourist don’t give you a choice; you just have to go where they send you.’
‘I know that. But it would make a difference if he is one of their men. I wish I could get into his room and look through his gear.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘It’s too damned risky. I can’t make a move without the damned key lady at the end of the corridor seeing me.’
Jones grinned. ‘As someone — I forget who — once said, those efficient women are put there to guard your meanderings as well as your morals. They do make things difficult, don’t they?’
He looked serious again: ‘Were you followed here?’
‘No. I have a guide with me, of course. She’s gone off to powder her nose. I told her she’d find me in this pavilion. We’ve been on a tour of the Metro; but I asked her to cut the tour short and bring me straight here. I told her I was getting bored with traipsing round the Novoslobodskayo underground station, which commemorates the creative effort of the Soviet people, and the Byelovusskaya station which portrays the art and culture of White Russia and the Ukraine. Did you know that the Krasnopresnyenskaya underground station is decorated with representations of revolutionary history?’
‘Spare me the details, I’ve done the full tour.’
‘Okay.’ Dingle matched the Welshman’s businesslike tone. ‘How have things gone with you? Any trouble?’
‘No. It’s all gone very well. We’ve found a way in. It’s been easier than I thought. We’ve got a contact inside the laboratory.’
‘We?’
‘The resident agents I’ve been working with. They fixed the contact some months ago, just in case.’
‘Nice work.’
‘You’ll have to meet the rest of the team tonight — and I’ll take you out to the lab to show you the layout.’
‘Good. Where shall I meet you?’
‘Stroll out and watch the changing of the guard at the Kremlin Palace this evening. I’ll see you there.’
‘Right,’ said Dingle. ‘I’ll have to go now. Here comes my guide. Not bad is she; I’ll have to find out if she’s a believer in co-existence.’
Jones glanced at the slim, attractive girl wearing a fur coat and red headsquare. The coat was open, revealing a trim figure. Her flat, sensible shoes did not disguise the fact that she had nice legs.
He grinned as he moved away from Dingle.
‘You’ll have a job to smuggle her past your key lady.’
*
Dingle stood among a largish group of people who were waiting outside the Great Kremlin Palace. There was no sign of Jones, and the Englishman began to feel slightly annoyed. Once the guard-changing ceremony was over, the crowd would begin to drift away and he would be conspicuous if he stayed there.
The waiting sightseers tensed expectantly, and the buzz of conversation was suddenly stilled. Despite his preoccupation, Dingle watched with interest. He was mildly surprised to see that the soldiers marched in a curious, slow goose step. Then Jones was standing beside him, speaking quietly.
‘Were you followed here, Jim?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Okay. When the crowd start to move, just follow me.’
‘Right.’
The two men stood silently after that, until the guard had been changed. Then, as the watchers began to disperse, Jones strode off. Dingle lingered for a few seconds, and then followed about twenty yards behind.
The Welshman left the Kremlin by the Borovitsky Gate and turned left towards the Kamenny Bridge. Then he turned left again, on to the Kremlevskaya Embankment. There were few people about here and, when he was certain that he was still not being followed, Dingle increased his pace and caught up with Jones.
‘Okay, Glyn,’ he said. ‘It’s about time we stopped all this cloak and dagger stuff. You’d better give me your report.’
‘I gave you the basic facts this morning, boyo. We’ve found a way into the laboratory; and now I’m going to take you to meet Alex.’
‘Is he your agent?’
‘Yes. Alex Stakan. He’s been working for us for a couple of years. I recruited him the last time I was in Moscow. Of course, others had been sounding him out a long time before that.’
‘I hope he’s reliable.’
Jones flared resentfully. ‘Of course he’s reliable. Alex has put a lot of work into this operation; and he’s worked out a plan which I think even you will approve.’
‘All right, keep your shirt on. Who else is there?’
‘Another man, Yuri Minin, and a girl …’
‘A girl?’
‘Yes. Nadia Rublyov. You’ll like her, she’s …’
‘Has she worked for us before?’
‘Indirectly, I suppose. Alex recruited her. Alex says we need a woman on this job, and …’
‘Alex says? Is this Alex person supposed to be running this show?’
‘No, of course not.’ Jones stopped and glared at the Englishman. ‘You know bloody well that you’re in charge now that you’ve arrived. But Alex, in my opinion, has made this operation possible. The least you can do is to reserve judgment until you’ve met him.’
Dingle stared back, his angry expression matching the Welshman’s. He relaxed slightly and looked across the Moskva River to the Sofiyskaya Embankment. Behind it he could see the British Embassy building, but the sight brought him no comfort. There would be no help from that quarter if thing went wrong.
‘I’m sorry, Glyn,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re quite right. I’ve been pre-judging the man.’
He glanced curiously at Jones as they resumed walking, and then laughed suddenly.
‘What’s so bloody funny?’
‘I was just thinking how the tables seem to have turned. Usually you’re as nervous as a kitten at the start of a job, but this time I’m the one that’s edgy. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling this tim
e that …’ he hesitated … ‘I can’t explain it. But I’m damned sure I was watched from the moment I left London until I cleared Customs and immigration at Sheremetevo. I had a strange notion that the KGB were escorting me into the country. But since I arrived, I’ve been left alone; I wasn’t followed once today.’
‘They’d hardly leave you alone if they were on to you.’
‘No … Unless there has been a leak and they know where I’m going.’
Jones looked alarmed. ‘A leak?’
‘Yes. You’ve had no trouble?’
‘No. I told you this morning. Anyway, how could there have been a leak?’
‘Well, this Alex …’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ snapped Jones.
‘All right, I’ll shut up. I’ll wait until I’ve seen him and the others. I think I’m nervous because there are so many people involved; I find it hard to trust my safety to strangers. But you’re quite confident about this job, aren’t you? More so than usual?’
‘I wasn’t when we were in London. I thought it was a suicide mission then; but now I’ve studied the plan Alex has come up with, I think it’s going to be easier than the other jobs we’ve done. A damned sight less risky than the Wild Rose affair, anyway. But let’s get a move on; the others will be waiting.’
The two agents quickened their pace and turned right, on to the busy Moskvoretsky Bridge. The bridge led them to Baltshug Street, on the island bounded by the Moskva and the Feeder Canal. From Baltshug Street they turned left, past a group of factories, into Sadovicheskaya Street, the island’s main highway, which curved in a south-easterly direction, parallel to the river.
It was beginning to get dark now, but Dingle had an impression that the street housed a curious mixture of factories, fine old baroque-style churches and new buildings. It was at one of the new blocks, just past a textile works, that Jones stopped.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Yuri Minin is the caretaker here. He’s got quite a nice flat. Alex and the girl will be there now.’
Chapter Six
Traitor's Gait Page 3