“Oh, yes, I am sure. Go and tell that to the marines. It is what they all say, the wicked people.” Hughes-Jones, sitting there beneath the trees, felt a sudden surge and turned towards Megan in more tender fashion. He reached out a hand, beseechingly. “Come now, Megan. For three years I have been shut up in prison. It is more than any man can endure, is that, but I have endured it until now. Let us try to reach understanding, shall we? And you know the best way of doing that, Megan.”
“No.”
“Please, Megan.”
“No!” This time she screamed the word at him, and put up her hands as though to fend off any approach. It was no use; the surge in Hughes-Jones died right away but was replaced by something else, something much worse: a red mist and a terrible sort of ticking in his mind and a feeling that God had deserted him and that he was no longer in control of himself and was going to do something dreadful, willy-nilly. The feeling increased very strongly and Hughes-Jones got to his feet and then bent towards his wife, who screamed again and twisted away when she saw his face and saw in it what looked like murder. In attempting to keep close to her Hughes-Jones struck the small of his back very painfully against a handle-bar of the motorbicycle. The sudden pain seemed to clear his mind and bring God back — up to a point, anyway. When he saw Megan cringe he realised he had his opportunity: she was dead scared.
“Come, now,” he said for the second time. “We are man and wife. Off with your skirt or I shall pull it from your loins.”
13
Hedge sat looking miserable in the sternsheets of a dirty dghaisa being propelled across the Grand Harbour by a Maltese who appeared to be wielding his oars backwards. Ahead loomed the great walls of Fort St Angelo, standing guard over the entrance to the Grand Harbour, as it had stood since the Saracens had built it in 828. Fort St Angelo had seen many things in its long day, many people and events: Count Robert of Normandy had strengthened its defences in 1090, and in 1686 the great order of the Knights of Malta had largely rebuilt it; it had been the centre of the defence against the siege by the Turkish Empire in 1565; in the closing years of the eighteenth century it had seen the great sail of the line go past wearing the flag of Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson as he had swept the Mediterranean to destroy the French fleet in Aboukir Bay. It had withstood the long siege in the 1940s when the German and Italian bombs had dropped like rain on what was to become the George Cross island; much more recently it had witnessed the final departure from Malta of British naval power. And today it seemed set fair to write another page into history, and once again, if fate was kind and kept that American away, the page would be for Britain. Hedge’s miserable looks were due partly to the American and partly to his own attire: this had come from the High Commission’s general effects box, a store of rather nasty garments kept against the possibility, always present, of having to kit out Distressed British Seamen landed from sinking ships. Hedge stank. But the disguise was effective; apart from his flabbiness of face, and hands unstained by work, Hedge looked a fair facsimile of a Maltese labourer, sagging stomach and all. So, with a difference, did Shard, seated just forward of Hedge.
When the slow-moving dghaisa was about half way across the harbour’s deep blue water, a power boat was seen to shoot sharply away from Custom House Steps below the Castile, former signal station of the British Mediterranean Fleet. The launch was packed to capacity: Maltese ministers and officials, plus what seemed to be the whole Russian mission.
Hedge said, “Damn!”
“Now what’s up, Hedge?” Shard looked round.
“I hoped he’d be alone, apart from the Maltese of course.”
“Things are never made easy.”
Hedge sulked, and shortly afterwards rocked and rolled to the wash of the speeding launch. He examined it critically as it swept past; he saw Kolotechin with the British High Commissioner by his side. The two men were talking, smiling and gesticulating. Sir Humphrey was pointing across at the various creeks running off the Grand Harbour on the Fort St Angelo side: Dockyard Creek, French Creek, Calcara Creek, all of them still somehow redolent of Great Britain and her Navy. The steep, stepped streets of Senglea lay in between on the point of land across from the former Royal Naval Victualling Yard: Senglea, according to Sir Humphrey, was much more native Maltese than was Valetta itself and was a veritable warren of streets into which, should the drama unfold this very day, it should be possible to spirit Kolotechin away quite easily. That was not regarded as the difficult part; the difficult part would be the removal of Kolotechin from the island, which was precisely the part in which the High Commission was on no account to be seen to be involved. Sir Humphrey had pointed out the snags and they had appeared overwhelming: it would be impossible to take Kolotechin out by air unless he was packed into a crate where he might well suffocate whilst export licences were being obtained for whatever was said to be contained in the crate. And that crate wouldn’t get its licences without having been examined first. The only safe way out would be by sea, but no boat would ever get past the breakwater without being hailed and intercepted — especially once it was known, as it would be immediately, that Kolotechin had disappeared.
“Then for God’s sake what?” Hedge had demanded. “You’ve been very negative so far, Sir Humphrey. Kindly be positive while there’s time.”
“Smuggle him aboard the next British merchant ship to enter,” Sir Humphrey said. “It’ll be difficult but not impossible.”
“And in the meantime?” Shard asked.
“Hide him. Hide him in Senglea. I’ll give you an address. It won’t be comfortable, but it’ll be safe.”
With that they had had to be content. Now the fast launch was alongside the quay and all the important persons were getting out. As the Maltese and Russians, plus Sir Humphrey, climbed a long flight of stone steps leading to the great, dusty parade-ground of Fort St Angelo, Hedge and Shard also approached the quay and clambered ashore. Hedge looked around. “What do we do?” he asked as the dghaisa pulled out to head back across the Grand Harbour. “Follow them, d’you think?”
“No. We wouldn’t get past the sentry. In any case, Kolotechin’s not going to do anything desperate inside Fort St Angelo, is he?”
“I don’t know!” Hedge snapped, pouring sweat. “What do we do, then?”
“Wait around and follow at a distance.”
Hedge stamped a foot. “If we wait around we’ll stand out!”
“No, we won’t.” Shard waved an arm around. “Look.”
Hedge looked; they were not the only persons standing around. Or rather, they were not the only persons doing nothing; most of the others were sitting or lying in shady spots. Waiting around was a national pastime in Malta. The ones who stood out were the ones who moved when it was not absolutely vital. Hedge took the tip with a grunt, and flopped to the ground at the foot of the battlemented walls.
*
Kolotechin spent some minutes standing at the edge of the parade-ground, looking out across the harbour towards Valetta and to his right across the great breakwater that gave access to the Mediterranean. He took a deep breath and said in good English, “Very beautiful.”
The Maltese Prime Minister agreed. “And a very deep water harbour, Your Excellency.”
“Comrade.”
“Ah yes, Comrade. I’m sorry.”
“This you keep forgetting.” Kolotechin sounded ill-tempered. The Prime Minister apologised again, determined to sell his country; viable foreign exchange was badly needed to sustain the economy, shattered to pieces when the British Fleet had sailed away. Even the disgraceful brothel trade had gone a long way towards the budget.
Kolotechin said, “Beauty and deep water, they are not everything, Prime Minister.”
“No, no, but we have —”
“I must see much more. I am responsible for security. The harbour is too open. Where is the British High Commissioner, please?”
“Here, Comrade Kolotechin.” Sir Humphrey stepped forward. “I’m here to show you e
verything you wish to see. With the approval of the Prime Minister,” he added.
“Yes. Good.” Kolotechin was about to say more but just at that precise moment there was an interruption: a man in a white suit had appeared on the parade-ground from what looked like a desperate climb up the rock from ground level, a man strung with cameras, binoculars and cassette recorders: Hockaway. Jumping down from the parapet he called out, “Press.”
Kolotechin and the Prime Minister turned sharply. Smiling, Hockaway advanced, unslinging one of his cameras. Kolotechin, looking angry and disturbed, gestured to his guards, four blankfaced men beneath black trilbies. It was not clear afterwards whether or not Kolotechin’s gesture had been misunderstood, but Hockaway never had a chance, chances being something Russian security was this day not prepared to take. Blank-faced those guards may have been, but they were fast on the draw. For all they knew, the camera concealed a gun. They went into an immediate crouch, each of them with a 9-mm Stechkin APS suddenly in his hand, and opened fire. Gloster B. Hockaway had a moment in which to look utterly astonished and then he spun like a top, his body jerking violently for a few seconds before he fell in a heap on the sandy surface. Blood spread fast. He twitched briefly, tried to lift his head to speak, then went slack with his mouth hanging open.
*
“Dead as a doornail,” Sir Humphrey said briefly. He was back in the High Commission with Hedge and Shard. The dockyard tour had been called off. “It was the magic word ‘Press’, I rather think. Hockaway built too much on it, but pressmen don’t normally get shot, even by Russians. It was just bloody bad luck plus over-confidence.”
“I agree about the over-confidence,” Hedge said in an I-told-him-so sort of voice.
Sir Humphrey gave him a sweeping look. He went on, “There was bloody chaos afterwards. The Maltese didn’t like it and never mind that Hockaway was only an American, which is as bad as being British these days. And the Russians wouldn’t apologise. Said it was the fault of the Maltese: bum security!”
“So there’s little friendship left?” Shard asked.
Sir Humphrey grinned. “Precious little! Daggers drawn is the expression, I think. The Maltese were shaken to the core. One of them could have been caught in the fire. I don’t believe they ever thought anything like that could happen in their island. Nor, obviously, did Hockaway, poor chap. The thing is, why did he do it at all?”
Shard said, “Just establishing his face with Kolotechin?”
Sir Humphrey pursed his lips. “Somewhat pointless, unless he had means of following it up.”
“Which he may have done. It’s only what we’ve been trying to do,” Shard pointed out.
The High Commissioner gave a short laugh. “Well — yes! Mind, he’s achieved something … not what he intended, of course, but he’s managed to alter the whole atmosphere, the whole ambience of the Russian visit. It’s made your job rather more complicated, Hedge.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“I was able to have quite a longish conversation in private with Kolotechin. He speaks very good English — had to learn the language so as to supervise Embassy phone-tapping transcripts. He’s defecting, all right. And now — because he believes the mission will be withdrawn as a result of the shooting —”
“Withdrawn, or kicked out?” Shard asked.
“Either! Because of that, Kolotechin’s anxious to get going. That’s not surprising.” Sir Humphrey paused. “What is surprising is that he’s making terms.”
Hedge’s eyebrows went up. “Surely he’s in no position to do that, is he?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Humphrey answered, frowning. “He seemed to think he was, anyway. No doubt you’ll know more about that than I do.”
“Then kindly let me have the facts!”
“All right. Here they are, briefly summarised: Kolotechin will not defect, but will return to Moscow unless we give him a certain guarantee. That guarantee concerns the man Hughes-Jones, whom you told me about if you remember —”
“Yes, yes!” Hedge blinked rapidly. “What about Hughes-Jones, Sir Humphrey?”
“Kolotechin wants our word, the British Government’s word I should say, that Hughes-Jones will be sent back to Russia.” There was a silence of total amazement in the room, a silence broken when the High Commissioner went on, “It seems there are other charges pending against Hughes-Jones —”
“What charges?”
Sir Humphrey shrugged. “Oh, phoney ones, of course. They don’t exist in fact. But that’s to be the official British excuse for agreeing to return him. In a sense, I suppose one could call it extradition.”
Hedge was staring, glassy-eyed. Shard said, “That’s bloody nonsense. Good grief, it was Kolotechin who got him out! So why want him sent back?”
Sir Humphrey said quietly, “Because Kolotechin has a wife and son in Moscow. They’ll be under threat of reprisals and Kolotechin wants them out. Hughes-Jones is the bargaining counter. And that’s why Kolotechin got him out in the first place. For future use, don’t you see?”
*
Shard felt sick at heart: Hughes-Jones was a quiet man, a decent man who’d already taken more than should have been demanded of anyone. If he went back to Russia, he would most probably die. That had been said to be his likely fate before he was hooked out — with the boomerang-effect assistance of Kolotechin! Shard, Hedge and the High Commissioner talked the matter over at length: Hedge asked, wouldn’t Hughes-Jones, if he went back to Russia, spill the beans about Kolotechin’s assistance and thus negate the effect for Kolotechin’s wife and son? Shard didn’t think so for a moment; Kolotechin would have covered his tracks one hundred per cent … except perhaps the ‘safe houses’ whose location Hughes-Jones would presumably give away under pressure. They would have a visit from high up, plus guns — unless Kolotechin had made prior arrangements for some of his mob to deal with them the moment news of his defection went through. In fact one of them, the Rashidovs’ farm in the Carpathian foothills, had been done up already. Was there a connection, Kolotechin making sure well in advance? Maybe, maybe not. In any case, Shard’s view was that it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t even perhaps arise at all: arrangements would be demanded by Kolotechin to ensure that the hand-overs were simultaneous, a straight exchange across a frontier somewhere, the family for Hughes-Jones.
Hedge’s comments were all one-track: Kolotechin’s demands had to be met. Hedge was insistent, and his insistence made him damp with sweat: his blood pressure was rising fast. Kolotechin was vital, while Hughes-Jones — sorry as one of course felt for the man — was of no importance. None at all. Even his nuclear know-how was well out of date now; he was a back number. Three years was a long time in a fast-developing world, a world of silicon-chips with everything. Those chips could presumably alter even nuclear programmes. Hughes-Jones must be despatched back for the Kremlin’s pleasure or revenge and Hedge would thus inform the Foreign Office.
He was adamant, and he was the boss. Shard registered the strongest possible objections but was over-ruled firmly: when Hedge saw his own interests threatened, he was as obstinate as a shark. The accolade was not to escape him. According to Sir Humphrey, Kolotechin wanted his assurance promptly. He would find a way of contacting the High Commission that evening, time as yet unknown, for the answer. If the answer was good, he would present himself thereafter. There would be no trouble. He was prepared to go into hiding for as long as was necessary.
And all this would be done, said Hedge, sweating still.
A cipher went urgently to Whitehall; as urgently the reply came back, bearing all the between-the-lines evidence that it came from a very high source: Kolotechin was to be given his assurance. The High Commissioner was to keep his low profile and not to become overtly involved. Shard was to return immediately to the United Kingdom to make, personally, the vital re-arrest of Hughes-Jones. Now that the arrangements had been so satisfactorily made, Hedge could cope on his own. Still feeling sick at the duplicity that could play withou
t apparent concern with men’s lives, Shard waited in the High Commission. It was a long wait. At a little after 2200 hours the call came from Kolotechin. Hedge took it, and said the two words: “Full agreement.” The call was cut immediately and half an hour later a gharry drove up and decanted Kolotechin wearing dark glasses and a white straw hat pulled low over his face. That, and a bathing costume containing a bulge like a gun. Nothing else. It transpired that Kolotechin had gone for a lonely moonlight swim at St Paul’s Bay; not too lonely to be accompanied by two security guards as per routine, but he had evaded them. With luck, he might be believed drowned. Then he had gharried across the island to Valetta, stopping to make his telephone call. He believed he had remained incognito, he said.
Hedge gave a small, oily bow. “You are an experienced man, Comrade Kolotechin. I am sure you did a splendid job.”
Shard felt more sick than ever. He checked out in the early hours from the High Commission for the dawn flight into London, loathing Hedge and Kolotechin equally. Bastard had the same meaning in any language. At Luqa he found the airport virtually under police siege.
*
Honours and acclaim did not come easily: Hedge had his nightmare to go through yet. The hiding place already mentioned by the High Commissioner as being in Senglea was no doubt a very smelly and sordid place and to reach it Hedge had once again to resort to his Maltese labourer’s accoutrements: rope-soled sandals, faded filthy jeans, a straw hat like Kolotechin’s, and a nasty sort of jacket with a zip, the sort of garment he detested even on other people. Kolotechin was similarly dressed. Thus clad, and thanking God for the fact that the Maltese habit of walking about barefoot had died out except for a few of the ancients, the two men moved into temporary exile before midnight, leaving Shard to await his flight. The journey was fairly direct, but was made clandestinely. The waters of the harbour were avoided; there were too many boat-borne police about, searching for the missing Russian; Hedge and Kolotechin were taken in Sir Humphrey’s car to the fringe of Senglea and given explicit directions as to how to find their accommodation. The car then left them to it, driving away fast. Grumbling, and fearing a police or Russian pounce at any moment, Hedge led the way. He had no weapon; the High Commission didn’t go in for things like that and he had brought none from London. Just as well, really; if he shot a Russian or a Maltese the skies would fall upon him. Remembering the odd bulge in the bathing costume, he believed Kolotechin would be armed; Russians always were. He hoped the man would be circumspect.
Shard Calls the Tune Page 14