“Yes.”
Moriarty was able to say with relief, “He’s gone back to London.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” A thumped fist landed on Moriarty’s desk: the Russians were a different breed from British diplomats. Everything shook a little, and a small glass pig that Moriarty kept on his desk for luck slid to the carpet. He picked it up carefully.
“I say,” he said reprovingly.
There was no apology. Comrade Litovsky said in a cold voice, “This Meldon is not Meldon. His name is Simon Shard. Where is Simon Shard?”
“I really can’t say. I don’t know that I’ve heard of him.”
“Always the British utter falsehoods. Shard was seen to come and go from this Embassy.”
“I see.” Moriarty pursed his lips and shuffled things about on his desk. The Russians were a confounded nuisance. “I’m afraid I know nothing about that.”
“It is your department.”
“You seem to know more about me than I do myself,” Moriarty said with an attempt at jocularity accompanied by a smile. The smile faded when Comrade Litovsky nodded as though to say, yes, indeed we do. Well, you could never fool the Russians at that game: they knew exactly who was who in all the embassies. It just had to be accepted. Moriarty went on, “I’m afraid I really can’t help you. Of course, there is a point I could put: Hughes-Jones is a British subject who has served his sentence in your prisons. Since you’ve released him, I would assume him to be a free agent. His movements are up to him, not us.”
“Then you admit that Hughes-Jones was a spy.”
“No, no,” Moriarty said. “I don’t admit that at all —”
“Then you reject the decisions of our Soviet courts of justice.”
“I didn’t say that either.” Moriarty sweated; a word out of place and a diplomat’s career could stand in shredded ruins. As Comrade Litovsky sat with a sardonic smile affecting the facial blankness, Moriarty tried to redeem everything he had said or might have been suspected of saying. He used a well-tried formula. “We have our way of looking at things, you have yours. We are each entitled to our views …”
“Yes. Where is Hughes-Jones?”
The persistence was almost unbelievable, but after a year or so in Moscow you believed it all right. Moriarty knew he was in for a long grind and would have to be patient; of course it was a help to know also that basically there was nothing Comrade Litovsky could do about it, since the Embassy was holy British ground, but he must never mention that, of course, since not only would Comrade Litovsky report it to his boss but the two sets of bugs would pick it up too. It was always easy to be declared persona non grata by the Kremlin and that didn’t help a diplomat’s career either. The Counsellor certainly wouldn’t back him if such a bald statement smote his listening eardrums. After another ten minutes of persistence-rebuffment a kind of deliverance came, and it came in the shape of Miss Brown of Eastern European and Soviet who had been held back from the Foreign Secretary’s entourage since she had become peripherally involved in the Hughes-Jones escape and might be wanted by the Ambassador.
Miss Brown knocked at Moriarty’s door and was bidden to enter.
“Yes, Miss Brown?”
“A message for you, Mr Moriarty.” She laid a sheet of paper on the desk.
“Excuse me, Comrade Litovsky,” Moriarty said politely. Litovsky scowled. Moriarty read: Shard and Hughes-Jones reported as reached British Embassy in Vienna. Shard ordered to Malta direct. Other information to hand indicates Russian party will be airborne with Kolotechin two hours from now. Carry on stalling Litovsky.
Moriarty looked up: he was much, much happier. Two hours was the devil of a long time to stall, but everything was moving in the right direction now and he couldn’t balls it up if he tried. He said, “Thank you, Miss Brown. Wilco.” As Miss Brown left the room he turned politely to the Russian, apologised for the interruption, and asked, “You were saying, Comrade Litovsky?”
“Where is Hughes-Jones?”
“Ah, yes. I’ve really no idea …”
11
The edict despatching Shard to Malta had come from the Head of Security, who had for some while past been under no illusions about two things: one, that Kolotechin really was coming in and that the information had not been at all phoney; and two, that since this was the case, Hedge couldn’t possibly be left to handle the reception himself. Expecting word of Shard’s passage out of Russia hourly, he had hung on, since Kolotechin’s flight had been delayed anyway, until he could use what he regarded as his best field man to stiffen Hedge. The moment the Embassy in Vienna reported Shard and Hughes-Jones as having arrived, the orders had been sent back. And there had been a further instruction added: neither Hedge nor the Malta High Commission were to be informed in the meantime. This was not spite; Kolotechin was a VIP and there must be no slips due to inessential information being bandied about the radio frequencies, cipher or no cipher. Codes were always liable to be broken without warning, and aircraft could be ordered back to Moscow at any moment prior to touchdown. At this moment of history, the frequencies into Malta just might be a shade sensitive.
Shard was not too pleased; home and Beth beckoned, and he’d wanted to finish the job in regard to Hughes-Jones. Before leaving for Vienna’s airport to pick up a Malta flight in advance of Kolotechin’s known take-off from Moscow, Shard had private words with Moriarty’s Vienna counterpart and gave instructions that Hughes-Jones was to be flown under escort into Gatwick and taken to the Foreign Office where representations were to be made that some excuse was to be found for holding him pending Shard’s return from Malta. Shard was still uncertain about Hughes-Jones and that possible revenge motive that might have extracted him willingly in the end from Russia. If Hughes-Jones was allowed his liberty too soon, Evan Evans could be at risk. Shard had tried to pump the Welshman during the train journey from Graz to Vienna, an uncomfortable journey owing to the pressures and projections of the dismantled Russian automatic rifles until Shard jettisoned them from a lavatory window. The brothers Papp, who had organised Austrian currency to pay the train fares, had not wanted to be landed with incriminating weapons. But Hughes-Jones wasn’t revealing anything and Shard’s suspicions had grown.
*
Hedge was just a little tight. He had overdone the whisky. It was a case of sheer boredom and frustration; and now there wasn’t even Hockaway to sharpen his teeth against. Hedge was delighted the American had gone, of course, but he had enjoyed scoring points off him while he had been there. Americans always needed to be put in their place; they seemed never to know it until they were told. Hedge belched and called for another whisky. His seat upon the bar stool becoming a shade unsteady, he moved across to a chair at a table in the corner: the very one, as it happened, where he had first been approached by Hockaway. How many days ago? Hedge couldn’t remember, but it wasn’t many. In the meantime, he’d achieved quite a lot: he had forced the High Commissioner to give him assistance, and it was indeed very possible that his own words of wisdom to Hockaway had been responsible for the American’s decision to withdraw from the scene. Now the place was all his and he could wait unimpeded for Kolotechin’s arrival: when earlier in the proceedings, after Hockaway’s departure from the hotel, he had eventually contacted the High Commissioner and through him the Foreign Office, he had been instructed to remain in Malta. So far as was known, Kolotechin was still coming through, time and date now unspecified. Well, despite the heat, flies, goats and bells of Malta, that was good. London had beckoned much more strongly than Valetta when he had thought Kolotechin’s defection might have been off, but now the possible accolades were dangling once again before Hedge’s eyes. Success was very sweet. Of course, it was a pity that there had to be secrecy; Hedge would have liked a parade along Whitehall such as in the olden days was accorded victorious generals after their campaigns. People like Roberts and Kitchener. In Hedge’s case the public at large would never know the real reason for his kn
ighthood, should Her Majesty be gracious enough … Hedge drank a little more whisky. He could almost feel the touch of the royal sword, though it was always possible that he would be fobbed off with a CBE or something. A lot depended upon just how the Prime Minister worded the citation — indeed, upon how the Foreign Secretary worded the initial report to the Prime Minister. Hedge, about to call for another whisky, was interrupted by the approach of a hotel servant. He was wanted on the telephone. He rose to his feet and was guided to the booth to which the call had been put through.
“Yes?” he enquired cautiously.
The High Commissioner’s voice answered him. “Luqa. And fast.”
The purport of the brief message was clear; names must not be mentioned but they didn’t need to be. Hedge, now that the moment had arrived, felt a queasiness in his stomach. He asked, “You’ll be there?”
“Certainly not. I’m not to be involved, you know that —”
“But they won’t let me in!”
“I’m afraid that’s your worry.” The High Commissioner rang off and Hedge felt his blood pressure rising fast. Damn the man! His hash would be settled once Hedge got back to Whitehall. Meanwhile, the question of airport entry certainly was his worry; but there might be ways of effecting it. During his sojourn in Malta, Hedge had noted something that could be important: when Kolotechin had been expected last, Hedge had taken a gharry to the airport. But it was only the tourists in the main who used the picturesque horse-drawn vehicles. Important persons used taxis or hire cars. Thus it was possible that last time he had been mistaken for a tourist, an unwelcome thought at the best of times. Now it was going to be different. Hedge took up the phone again, after scanning a sheet of useful telephone numbers behind a sheet of glass above the instrument: he wished a car, at once and with uniformed chauffeur. This arranged for, he had another whisky to settle his nerves. Ten minutes later he was being bowled along the roads for Luqa, sitting in state and style in the back of a Volvo with beautiful white linen washable covers on the seats, behind a grey-liveried and capped Maltese with a large moustache moving rhythmically up and down as the teeth chewed gum. It was a revolting yet fascinating sight and soon the air in the Volvo was strongly scented with peppermint.
How remarkably stupid, even doltish, the Maltese were. Or perhaps it was simply his air of authority as he sat on that opulent seat wrinkling his nose against the gum: whatever it was, the Volvo was waved right through into the airport and Hedge rolled towards the buildings and the arrival lounge. Outside on the tarmac the welcoming committee of important Maltese waited as before, waited for the Russian mission and Kolotechin. Hedge, uncertain of quite what he should do, had decided to play it by ear. It would be largely up to Kolotechin himself, of course. There was just a possibility that Kolotechin might recognise Hedge as an Englishman, or anyway Hedge trusted he couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a Maltese, and if that recognition dawned then Kolotechin might defect there and then. But this was not really likely, of course. A more discreet way would be preferred by Kolotechin. Hedge gave a sudden loud belch and walked out to mingle with the VIPs. He felt a little unsteady now: it would be the excitement. And he was struck by a worrying thought: if Kolotechin wanted to defect less spectacularly than at the airport, why had Sir Humphrey been so anxious that he, Hedge, should be at the airport at all? Damn! He should have been given a fuller briefing. Perhaps Sir Humphrey had received information that Kolotechin did indeed wish to throw himself upon British mercy at the earliest possible moment. Hedge began to sweat; he hadn’t even got a toy pistol with him! If the worst came to the worst both Kolotechin and himself would be arrested and conveyed back to Moscow.
Hedge’s step faltered a little, and as it did so he became aware of the approaching roar and scream of jets and he looked up and saw, distantly and starting to circle for touchdown, an enormous aircraft resplendent with its Russian identification. Hedge, already a prey to his nerves, jumped like a hare when a hand came down upon his shoulder. It felt like arrest already, and Hedge closed his eyes. He swayed a little; when he opened his eyes again the hand’s owner, letting go of his shoulder, had come round to his front. There stood Shard; it was like a nightmare! Shard couldn’t possibly be in Malta. But he was.
Hedge stared.
“You don’t look too good,” Shard said, then caught the whisky smell. “You could hardly have chosen a worse time to get tight,” he said coldly.
“I’m not tight. What are you doing here, Shard?”
“Orders.” Shard nodded upwards. “You know who’s in that aircraft?” he asked.
“Yes, of course, that’s why I’m here. When did you get in?” Shard said, “We were brought in just before the Russian was signalled. Out of interest, I decided to wait around.” He paused. “May I ask your intentions, Hedge?”
“To … to receive our friend.”
“You’re going to make yourself known?”
“Probably. Perhaps by a simple gesture.”
“Then I suggest you re-think it.”
“Why should I?” Hedge demanded rebelliously.
“Because bulls at gates don’t help. Leave it up to Kolotechin. And leave it to me. All right?”
There was a snap in the wretched Shard’s voice, the snap of authority. That was cheek; but all at once Hedge felt quite glad to be relieved of the necessity for decision. He swayed again and grabbed at Shard for support. He said, “I don’t feel very well, I’m afraid. It’s my stomach … Maltese food, you know, so greasy.”
“Let’s go and sit this one out,” Shard said, and supported Hedge back inside. Hedge slumped on to a settee and breathed out whisky. A few minutes later the Russian jetliner had touched down and was taxi-ing for the disembarkation bay. When the whine of its engines died, other sounds came, a Maltese police band: ‘Soyuz nerushimy respublik svobodnykh’, words by S. Mikhalkov. The Russian national anthem, followed by the Maltese. After this there was a pause, quite a long one while the speeches were made and translated, then the massive Russian party with its smiling Maltese hosts all trooped through the lounge past Hedge and Shard. The Russians were a tight-faced lot; all wore black suits and hats and shuffled in a solid phalanx hemmed in by their gun-toting security guards whose eyes darted this way and that like so many serpents with ready fangs. Kolotechin was recognisable at the rear of the squad. He was a tall, heavy man with piercing eyes and a military set to his shoulders; in those eyes, which happened at one moment to meet his own, Shard read none of the kindliness attributed to him by the brothers Papp and others in Hungary. But maybe the KGB look had had to over-ride the kindly heart beneath. Whatever did lie beneath, Kolotechin looked a bastard on the surface, Shard thought. Yet he had eased his and Hughes-Jones’s passage out of Russia and that, of course, spoke for itself. Looks were never to be relied upon. All the party tramped through towards a fleet of cars, fawned upon by the Maltese. The fawning didn’t seem to melt the ice; indeed, the Russians looked, if anything, contemptuous. None spoke a word; the speeches made, said their faces, the Maltese could put a sock in it until the formal talks began. As the party cleared the lounge, a figure was seen briefly on the far side before it vanished through a door into the toilets. In the mouth had been stuck a cigar. The figure had been instantly recognisable and the effect on Hedge was bad. His eyes bulged.
“Oh, damn the man!” he said venomously. “Really, it’s too bad!”
“What and who?” Shard asked, baffled.
Hedge snapped, “He calls himself Gloster B. Hockaway. He’s an American and a confounded nuisance and I was convinced he’d left the island. I think he must have deceived me quite intentionally … you simply can’t trust Americans, Shard.” Hedge dabbled at his streaming face. He seethed, muttering to himself, and then, sounding pathetic because he seemed to be back to square one, he asked, “Well, now what do we do?”
Shard grinned. “Wait and see which way the cookie crumbles,” he said.
“Oh, don’t talk American!”
*
Shard Calls the Tune Page 12