“I doubt that,” Moriarty said. “All the world’s aware of the iron and velvet, it doesn’t need underlining. As a matter of fact, I’ve a theory of my own. Want to hear it?”
Shard nodded.
“You’re the man earmarked as Hughes-Jones’s killer. It’s all going to be off-loaded onto you. The scapegoat … a little plot, if you ask me, that someone in authority dreamed up when he heard you’d been arrested. Let you go, kill Hughes-Jones, then bring you in again and flaunt you to the world as his dirty FO killer. How’s that?”
“Neat,” Shard answered savagely. “Too neat. Haven’t you anything better?”
“Not right now,” Moriarty said, grinning like a fat cat, “but I do have some news for you.”
“Well?”
“A cipher from your boss —”
“Head of Security?”
“No. Hedge, in Malta. Via the High Commission. He says somebody’s out to get him and he’s not the only person in the West who was given information about Kolotechin. He wants to know if you have any relevant facts.”
6
Hedge was, in fact, suffering badly; Malta was still hot, still smelly, and the bells rang in his head even when they were silent upon the places of worship. It was like tinnitus: it just had to be put up with, but Hedge didn’t like putting up with things. It was not in his nature; he tended instead to hit out at the nearest person, and here in Malta he wasn’t having much joy in that direction either. The High Commissioner, who had been dragged from his bed, into which he had only just got, after Hedge’s nocturnal adventures the night before, was still in a fractious mood when Hedge turned up again at a more normal hour in the morning.
“It’s no use panicking,” he said wearily.
“I’m not panicking. I think it’s rude of you to suggest that. And I don’t consider your attitude at all helpful, I might add.”
“I’m sorry.” The High Commissioner sat back in his chair and gazed for a moment at the ornate decoration of the ceiling high above, as though any prospect was more welcome than the wretched fellow from the Foreign Office. “Let us recap, shall we? You are approached by an American agent whom you now think might be a Russian one —”
“I didn’t —”
“Please, my dear chap.” Sir Humphrey held up a hand, authoritatively. “This Russo-American then appears to follow you, and manifests himself, or rather is spotted by you, after you emerge from a bar in Strada Stretta, a place which it was inadvisable for anyone of your position and age to enter in the first place —”
“That’s my business. I was tired and thirsty.”
“No doubt. It was still unwise. Now: I’ve outlined all that happened. It’s not really very much, is it?”
“You omitted to recap that the man carried a gun.”
Sir Humphrey inclined his head. “Yes. It’s not important. American agents tend to be armed in my experience. So do Russian ones,” he added unkindly.
“Then if he is a Russian, surely you can act, can’t you?”
“It would be immensely difficult. This is Malta, you know! Sovereign, independent territory. The Russians are as welcome as we are. More so, possibly.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” Out came the handkerchief and Hedge mopped and swatted, cursing the flies and the heat that now seemed to invade even the High Commission building. A stench like a sewage farm came in through the open windows as a herd of goats passed by.
“In any case,” Sir Humphrey said irritably, “you’ve absolutely nothing to go on. I’m certain the man’s accredited, genuinely, to the New York Times, and —”
“Pure cover!” Hedge snapped. “It really doesn’t mean a thing and is certainly not proof he isn’t a Soviet agent. These people are not fools, Sir Humphrey, far from it.”
“I agree, as to that. But there’s something that hasn’t emerged yet, isn’t there?” The High Commissioner came upright in his chair and then leaned across his desk towards Hedge. “You’ve omitted to tell me something, I fancy. Am I not right?”
Hedge flushed and shifted his bottom about. “Well —”
“Why do you think an agent, be he American or be he Russian, should be so interested in you?”
“Why, the Foreign Office, of course! Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t think it is, no. I think you’d better come clean with me, then possibly I can help.” Sir Humphrey paused. “Look, for heaven’s sake, I’m Her Majesty’s High Commissioner. If you can’t trust me, who the devil can you trust? You’ll have to tell me the facts.”
“I’m not in a position to. I’m sorry.” Hedge looked huffy.
“I see. Then in that case I may be forced to take action. I can’t do much about Americans or Russians, true. But I can still do something about British subjects. A word in the ear of the Maltese government … you’d very quickly be declared persona non grata, I assure you.”
Hedge gaped. “Are you threatening me?”
“Yes. You’re being a confounded nuisance, my dear chap.” A grin lurked around the comers of Sir Humphrey’s mouth. “Something tells me the FO might well back me when you made your complaint. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?”
Hedge made a hissing noise and his face went an angry red; but he was stymied and he knew it. It was unlikely, of course, that the High Commissioner would carry out his stupid threat, but from now on his, Hedge’s, life would become an immensely difficult one if he didn’t get Sir Humphrey on his side; and really it would be nice to have an ally — he must look at it in that light. Malta was an unfriendly place; and agent Hockaway had spent breakfast at a table not far from his, as though he wished to keep tabs on him. Hedge said truculently, “Oh, very well. But it’s my show, you know. That’s to be very clearly understood.”
“I understand very clearly,” Sir Humphrey said, sounding sardonic. “You may have all the credit you wish. Just put me in the picture.”
Hedge did; making only a passing reference to Shard and Hughes-Jones, he released the electric information about Kolotechin. The High Commissioner was immediately interested; and Hedge was given access to the Foreign Office by the scrambler on the telephone link.
*
In Moscow, the rain had started; the result was not far removed from winter. Wet lashed down, driven by a cold wind out of the north-east, bringing a hint of Siberia. Shard huddled into his coat collar as he walked along Ulitsa Gertsena not far from the Kremlin’s walls. Beyond those walls, beneath those war-like towers, the Foreign Secretary was in long conference. So far things had not gone too well, Shard had gathered, but currently he had other matters on his mind: Hedge’s request about Kolotechin, for one, but to hell with it. Shard did not propose to stick his neck out vis-à-vis Kolotechin, not at this stage; which meant he never would, since time was running out rather fast. Hughes-Jones remained his principal preoccupation and he was making no progress whatsoever. The wall between himself and Hughes-Jones was as blank, as high, as strong as that around the Kremlin. And Hughes-Jones didn’t appear to want any help in any case. Shard was currently unable to think constructively, for Miss Brown was at his side and finding plenty to comment on in the Moscow scene. She babbled like a brook and although he found he had no particular need to listen, the constant sound was nevertheless there to irritate and destroy concentration. She seemed to regard him as her property now, for had she not been instrumental in freeing him from the terrible Lubyanka gaol? She had happened to be leaving the Embassy at the same time as he, and had attached herself. She had some shopping to do, she said, presents for the family — parents, brothers, small nephews. She hadn’t allowed him to object, and for his part he had seen some virtue in being accompanied by a woman, whether or not he was supposed to be a misogynist. He just might look a little more ordinary and anonymous — apart from the verbal diarrhoea, that was.
“What do you think they’d like, Richard?”
It had come to Christian names; he was going to find Ernestine difficult. He said, “Depends, doesn’
t it? Who have you in mind?”
“My nephews. Quite little boys. Four and seven.”
“A Russian bear,” he said at random, and she clapped her hands. There could be nothing more appropriate than a Russian teddy! To be precise, two Russian teddies, for Miss Brown was a believer in treating both nephews identically when it came to presents. The bears bought from the Detsky Mir toy emporium, Miss Brown turned her attention to parents and brothers, caterable for in a nearby store. They wandered from display to display, counter to counter, jewellery, clothing, hardware, confectionery. It was in the confectionery that it happened: Miss Brown, screwing up her face, said suddenly, “I recognise that man. I think he’s been following us.”
She had been saying so much that Shard in fact missed this, and she had to repeat it, clutching at his sleeve as she did so to make sure he was listening. She added, “I’ve seen that face in the papers, Richard. Like a horse. It’s the man they arrested, from Wales. Oh, I’m so glad he’s free! I heard he was likely to be released. I wonder why he’s following us?”
“British faces,” Shard said, peering around as discreetly as possible through the mass of shoppers. “He’ll not have seen any for awhile.”
“Are we that obviously British?” she asked.
“In Moscow, yes. We look rich, even if we aren’t.” He pulled her to a halt by a vast mountain of chocolate and began examining the offerings while Hughes-Jones caught up. The Welshman stopped beside him and reached out towards some nut milk bars, as if wondering what to buy. The Ups hardly moved and the voice was a whisper that only just cut through the crowd sounds.
“I’ll come out with you after all.” The long, certainly horselike but at the same time sensitive face was as pale as death, but the eyes were gUttering as though with some inner fire.
It was a pretty sudden if welcome change of heart. Shard whispered back, “Is this because of your wife?”
“Yes. Because of Megan. I thought she would be joining me here, you see.” Their eyes met: Hughes-Jones looked away. Shard fiddled about with bars of toffee wrapped in dark chocolate, just another customer. A girl assistant approached, sharp-eyed. She was a kind of shopwalker, Shard fancied, out to stop thieving; he grinned back at her and shifted along the aisle, making towards toiletries. Behind, after an interval came Hughes-Jones, the odd light still in his eyes. He could have been speaking the truth when he’d said he was getting out because of his wife, no doubt in the hope of repairing the breach or because he didn’t want to stay in Russia without her, but there was also the possibility of a revenge motive having arisen once Hughes-Jones had had time to ponder his wife’s seduction. Hughes-Jones, close alongside him now, said that arrangements had been made, which rocked Shard somewhat. Hughes-Jones said, “1800 hours, where the Krasnaya Presnya crosses Ulitsa Chaikovskovo. A black car — a Lada.”
“What about a tail?”
“No, no tails at all. I have a friend: Kolotechin.”
That was all: Hughes-Jones moved away, not too fast, but decisively. To follow, to demand more detail, would attract attention. So far, they’d been lucky — or the apparently unlikely and totally unexpected intervention of Kolotechin was already keeping surveillance away. Certainly Comrade Kolotechin, not yet suspect, would command more than enough authority to do exactly as he wished. Shard tried to puzzle his way through a morass: what the devil was going on now?
Miss Brown, who’d kept remarkably silent, now gave tongue. “What was all that? It was the Welshman, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” he said, propelling her firmly out of the store. “But not a word, mind. Don’t ever mention his name again in Moscow, all right?”
“Well, all right,” she said, sounding hurt at his tone. Then, frowning, she seemed to put two and two together. “The Lubyanka … you’re not really Protocol and Conference at all, are you?”
“Oh, yes, I am,” Shard said firmly. “And don’t you forget it, Ernestine!” He glanced down at her as they walked back to the Embassy. She was looking awed and immensely thrilled. She knew quite well he was lying, had quite enough intelligence to guess the rest, and was basking in the blinding light of a side of the Foreign Office she had never, to her knowledge, encountered in Eastern European and Soviet, which was supremely above-board in all its dealings.
*
“What’s your view?” Mortimer Moriarty asked.
Shard answered, “This is Kolotechin preparing his ground in advance. If he’s instrumental in helping Hughes-Jones out, Britain will welcome him with open arms.”
“We would’ve anyway.”
“True. But more so now. First-class credentials — he’ll have proved where his loyalties lie.”
“Loyalties?” Moriarty asked disparagingly. No one loved a traitor, after all. “However, I see what you mean, of course. Well, you may be right. Thing is, are you prepared to take this on trust?”
“Yes, largely because I see it as the only way.”
“Quite, yes. I follow that.” Moriarty paused. “Remember, the Embassy’s not to become involved.”
“That’s always been understood,” Shard said with a touch of irritation. “I didn’t come down with the last shower.”
“Of course.” Moriarty put his finger-tips together in a gesture annoyingly reminiscent of Hedge at his worst. “That aside, we’ll help in unobtrusive ways.”
“Such as?”
“We won’t reveal the fact you’ve gone missing. We won’t report it.”
“Thanks. And afterwards? How do you keep your hands shining white in regard to an unmade report, Moriarty?”
Moriarty answered a little stiffly, “We’ll admit to a cock-up in our checking in and out procedures. There’s nothing they can do about that.”
“Fine.”
“There’s one rather large point,” the diplomat said. “How do you and Hughes-Jones get out of Russia? In the Lada?”
“I’ve no idea. I assume so. I’m taking that on trust as well — no option, anyway at this stage. I’m making the assumption Kolotechin’s fixed that too. Naturally, I’ll be playing it my way when necessary.”
“You seem to be placing a lot of reliance on Kolotechin.”
Shard shrugged. “Needs must. I’ll be ready for any trouble.”
“Oh, quite.” Moriarty paused. “You’ll have to bear one thing in mind, won’t you?”
“What?”
“We don’t know when Kolotechin’s meaning to defect — when the Malta flight is. Nothing’s been said, nothing’s been — well — overheard either. So we’re in the dark. So are you. One thing stands out a mile: you and Hughes-Jones must be away over the frontier before Kolotechin reaches Malta or you’re both sunk. Right?”
“Yes,” Shard said. “Very right indeed.”
*
Last night in the Lubyanka cell had meant little or no sleep, so Shard used the rest of the afternoon to catch up. He slept soundly and was called by an Embassy servant at 1700 hours. He had a cup of tea and a biscuit and then went along to take his leave of Moriarty, who was simmering with the excitement of news unshed. Shard had been on the point of being sent for.
“What d’you think?” Moriarty asked momentously.
“Hedge has fallen down a catacomb.”
“It’s not a joking matter, it’s very serious and highly relevant. We’ve just picked up word of the flight to Malta.”
“You have?” Shard was intent now.
“Yes. A delegation’s going, headed by the Minister for Foreign Affairs himself, who’s being withdrawn from the present conference.” Moriarty paused. “You know what that means?”
Shard felt the prick of danger. “Sure. The flight leaves soon. When?”
“Tomorrow at 0900 hours. They’ll be in Malta soon after eleven. It doesn’t give you anything like enough time, does it? Will you still risk it?”
Shard said, “Yes. Is Kolotechin confirmed as being on the flight?”
“He is. The object’s to discuss an agreement for the exclusive use o
f Malta by the Russian Navy. There’s going to be a big sort of entente cordiale with the Maltese. Kolotechin’s going along, at his own request by the way — relevant, isn’t it? — to organise security.” Moriarty sat back. “You’ll have to get your skates on, won’t you, and stand by for that trouble you spoke of.”
“Yes,” Shard said. “How right you are! But first I’ll take what precautions I can. I want you to get a message through to Hedge, via the High Commission in Malta. I take it you can do that?”
“Yes —”
“Right. He’s not, repeat not, to release any information whatever about Kolotechin until he gets the clear from me, which he will as soon as I’m in a physical position to give it. I’m prepared to admit he’ll be faced with a problem —”
“You can say that again!” Moriarty laughed humourlessly. “Once Kolotechin hops the twig in Malta, who’s going to be able to hold the news back from Moscow — which is the point, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Hedge’ll have to fix the details himself. You can suggest he gets Kolotechin to defer any action till the clear comes through. Anything he can dream up when he sees what the local situation is —”
“Play it by ear?”
“Right. But bloody carefully! Impress on him, it’s vital and a top priority if he wants Hughes-Jones to get out.”
“And you?” Moriarty grinned.
“If I know Hedge,” Shard said, “he won’t be having me all that much in mind. But talking of Kolotechin … I’m surprised he’s doing his bunk at this stage — that is, if I’m right that he’s fixing a passage out for Hughes-Jones —”
“Probably had no option. Probably didn’t expect the Malta business to come up quite so soon.”
“There’d have been another opportunity for him to defect.”
“Not necessarily,” Moriarty said. “He’s skating on thin ice. It could give way beneath him, if anyone’s begun to have doubts. Once you make up your mind to defect from Russia, it’s a case of taking the first bus — just in case. Thoughts, however inner, do tend to show in a man’s reactions, you know.”
Shard Calls the Tune Page 7