In the Company of Spies

by Stephen Barlay

  He found only four pound notes and some loose change in McGregor’s pocket. He ought to have borrowed the Scotsman’s traveler’s checks, too. He called Charles at his home. He was lucky. “Rust here. You must come and get me out of here right away. I’m … well, just come.”

  “Do I need warm clothes and magazines for the journey?”

  “What?”

  “I mean where are you? Odessa?”

  “Transit lounge. Heathrow. Bring a bottle of Glenfiddich and we’ll celebrate with triples.”

  By the time Charles arrived, Rust had taken the beard off and washed his face. “Are you just visiting, or have you lost your passport, dear boy?”

  “Both.” He noticed that Charles kept scanning the crowd around them. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Yes. Your father.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “There’s no time to tell you now. I’m carrying a message, and I must get it to Washington no matter what.”

  “That important?”

  “Not really. Only a matter of war and peace.”

  “And what’s keeping you?”

  Rust pulled out McGregor’s passport. “That’s what. It’s, er, borrowed, and I have a feeling that they’re waiting for me. We haven’t parted on friendly terms. I mean, the KGB and I. So how do we get out of here?”

  Charles hesitated.

  “I mean, I assume you want to help.”

  “Yes, you may assume that. Which doesn’t mean that I can help. Wait here.” He gave Rust his leather-covered hip flask. “Busy yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  Charles was away for fifteen minutes. “Spot of trouble, dear boy. I can help only if I level with the police.”

  “They want you badly.”

  “What for?”

  “Murder. Two murders, to be precise. And a large sum of cash.”

  “Okay. One murder. No cash.”

  “McGregor? Why?”

  “No, he’s only drugged. Twenty-four hours and he’ll be good as new. I’ve made sure of that. Can’t say the same about Captain Barch, unfortunately. But I can explain.”

  “I’m sure you can. But it must have been a rather odd chemical if it allowed a drugged Scotsman to beat himself up, inflict some terrible wounds on himself, fall into a canal and drown.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Maybe. But you’re wearing his clothes, and that’s what the Russkis say.”

  “You can’t believe that.”

  “I’m willing to listen. But I can’t get you out of here without police cooperation. Besides, you may be safer in their custody. I mean … ”

  “I know what you mean. How long will it take to clear me?”

  “Depends, doesn’t it?”

  “There’s no time.”

  “You want a lawyer?”

  “Do I need one?”

  “I don’t know. Depends what you tell me in the morning.”

  “Make it dawn.”

  They walked down the corridor. Rust stumbled and dropped McGregor’s beard and passport in a trash can. He was sure nobody had noticed it. They reached the hall with passport control at the far end. “Go ahead,” said Charles. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Rust stopped in front of the immigration officer. “Good evening. My name is Rust. Helm Rust. American. It seems I’ve lost my passport.”

  The two plainclothesmen closed in. “Excuse me, sir, did you say the name was Rust?”

  “Yes.”

  “Also known as Mr. McGregor?”

  “No.”

  “Which flight were you on?”

  “Moscow, Helsinki.”

  “Under your own name? I mean, Mr. Rust?”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Charles joined the group and turned to Rust: “I think you’ve lost something on the way.” He handed him the passport and the beard. Rust was suddenly forced to sense that this was not the time to celebrate his escape with triples because his ordeal might have just begun. From now on, if he failed with his mission and war broke out, he would have only himself to blame for mistakes — such as contacting Charles instead of buying his own whiskey.

  Wednesday, September 26

  Aviation Week and Space Technology magazine reports: Some “Pentagon strategists consider the present arms buildup in Cuba the first step toward eventual construction of intermediate-range ballistic missile emplacements. They point out that the defensive nature of armaments arriving from Soviet Russia is aimed at preventing aerial photographic reconnaissance, not at preparations to fend off invasion.” Pentagon refutes validity of such speculations.

  *

  “YOU FUCKING CREEP.”

  “No need to become agitated, dear boy.” Charles searched for a dustfree spot for his gray Homburg. “Had to deal with some urgent mail first and didn’t realize it was already half past ten. Sorry.”

  “And why did you need to find and hand over the beard and the passport to immigration?”

  “I thought it would be best and safest to have everything under one roof.”

  “And I thought I could trust you.” Rust felt like killing him.

  “You were right. I’m your only hope to get away with, er, let’s say a bit of this and that. For the Russkis are screaming blue murder, which, in fact, may just be the operative word.” Charles knocked on the door and asked the policeman outside the cell to take him and Rust to a detention room that would be more comfortable. “And can we have some coffee, please?” He turned to Rust: “You’ve had some breakfast, I presume.”

  “Your hospitality is touching.”

  The detention room was a small, bare office, with a desk and two chairs. Rust glanced around. The window to the courtyard was barred. There was a perforated brick in the wall. “I don’t want to be overheard.”

  “You won’t be. You must trust me.”

  No doubt, thought Rust, but the question is, to what extent can Charles or anybody else be trusted?

  “Incidentally, you’ve decided against asking for a lawyer at this stage, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How about the embassy?”

  Rust remembered Holly. “Not at the moment.”

  Charles was a good listener. He would not need notes to remember details, and he had the self-control to refrain from asking questions until Rust finished telling him everything — everything except the information he had to convey to Washington.

  “So they tricked you into going to Moscow and risking your life.”

  “Yes and no. They didn’t think that the risk was that great. It was my fault that I approached Holly despite their warnings. Besides, they took an even bigger risk.”

  “Have you had a chance to talk to your father alone?”

  “Yes, briefly.”

  “What was your impression?”

  “He’s a worried, broken man.”

  “Yet brave enough to participate in some resistance operation.”

  Rust slowly raised and dropped his shoulders.

  “Or do you think that he might have been blackmailed into it?”

  “I thought about it.”

  “And?”

  “Discounted it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he was cornered, he could have made some mistake in his original message to me to alert me.”

  “Yes, I think I agree. For even if he hardly knew you, he wouldn’t expose you to a suicide mission in vain — no honest father would, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Which means that he must have cooperated in the scheme willingly. The question is, did he know that his associates were GRU?”

  “Are you sure they were? Why not KGB? Why not cops or disgruntled dental technicians?”

  “Come off it, Helm, you must have guessed it yourself. You mentioned several obvious clues to me. There must have been dozens more. They spoke about America
as the ‘probable enemy.’ The KGB refers to the ‘main enemy.’ They spoke about using a taynik. It’s their word for a mail drop. By the way, did they show you that American passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the name?”

  “Arthur Foster. Why?”

  “I’ll try to check if it’s a stolen one. Have you got it here?”

  “N-no.” Rust hoped that Charles had missed the hesitation in his voice. He cleared his throat to explain his faltering and added: “They’ve promised to get it to me in London. Together with some proof.”

  “Mm. They must have been a pretty high-powered bunch.”

  “Probably.”

  “How else could she … what’s her name?”

  “Yelena.”

  “Her full name.”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “No. Anyway, how would she be able to help that sailor’s defection if she wasn’t GRU or KGB? And how come she knew somebody who might be a CIA agent over there? She said they had tried but failed to get their message to Washington through that channel, didn’t she? Incidentally, you haven’t mentioned what the message was, have you?”

  Rust smiled. “That was beneath you, Charles. You know perfectly well what I have or have not mentioned.”

  “Sorry, dear boy. I must be getting a little feebleminded in my old age.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “That’s kind of you. I appreciate it.”

  Charles was play-acting, and Rust did not like it. A little earlier he had been almost ready to tell him everything.

  A policeman brought them some food. Charles apologized profusely for the quality.

  “It doesn’t matter,” answered Rust, “as long as it’s the only lunch I eat here.”

  Charles began to ask more detailed questions. Rust was more and more disinclined to answer. He first blamed his Russian experiences for that. Their paranoia must be infectious, he thought. Or was it that once the seed of suspicion had been planted it spread like weed? That must be it. For there was no reason. On the other hand, there was Holly’s death. Somebody high up must have betrayed him. On the other hand, Charles was no Holly. On the other hand, Charles himself might be a traitor. On the other hand, that was lunacy. On the other hand, it was now Charles who was preventing him from carrying out his mission. On the other hand, Charles was only doing his job. It was part of that job to suspect Rust. On the other hand, he could still be more helpful if he wanted to. On the other hand — how many hands were there?

  “You seem a little absentminded.”

  “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “I’ll have to go soon. At least it’ll give you a chance to sleep a little.”

  “I thought the police might also want to question me.”

  “I … I’ve asked them for some cooperation. To leave you in peace for the time being.” Charles said it lightly, but for the first time, there was some menace in his voice.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to be seen by some judge to make my detention official?”

  “A magistrate, you mean.”

  “Whatever you call him.”

  “Yes, you’d come up for a minute or two in court if your detention was made official. But then my chances to help you unofficially would be more limited.”

  Charles asked several questions about Yelena. What was she like? Were there any clues to her position? Rust’s answers were vague. She was a Dynamo supporter. She knew what she was talking about. She was very feminine.

  “How did she behave toward your father? Was there any sign of tension between them?”

  “No. He seemed to respect her, that’s all.”

  “Incidentally, have you had a chance to ask him about the camps?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. What did he say?”

  “It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “I thought you could guess.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I have his answers.” Rust stared out of the window.

  “I see.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re trying to sell them to me.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Look, dear boy, it’s no secret that I want them badly. We’re trying to spring one or two people from those camps. But if the price is unconditional help, I’m not in a buying mood.”

  “Now you’re talking. So tell me what you mean by ‘unconditional.’ Or rather what your conditions are.”

  “It’s simple. I want to know what your game is. What your role is. What’s so important that made you kill at least one man? Who am I helping if I help you? Are you being used? For what? By whom? Have they duped you? Have they sold you a pup? Are you trying to sell me one? Have you sold out? Please don’t protest, it wouldn’t be enough to convince me. Do you see my problem?”

  “I do. And I’ll be frank with you. I can’t help you. Not unconditionally. For I can’t be sure what your game is. What your role is. What is so important that made you kill at least one friendship at the airport? No, please don’t protest, it wouldn’t be enough to convince me. But I appreciate that you’ve made at least a limited attempt to be honest with me. And no, I’m not trying to haggle with you over the fate of some wretched people in those camps. So here’s what my father told me. And it’s free of charge.”

  Rust told him that in camp BV 523, the guards in the tower could, not see what was going on in the foundry, that the nearest tower was about a hundred yards away, and what the depth of the mined outer perimeter was in VS 389/2-5.

  “Thanks. That’s most helpful.”

  “I hope you won’t misuse it.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes. For one thing, you could arrange the return of my belt, shoelaces and handluggage. I promise I won’t hang myself or cut my wrists with my own toothbrush. And if they return my duty-free shopping with the briefcase, I could smoke my Cuban cigars and give you some pepper vodka which I brought for you. You’re of course welcome to check it all first.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Send a warning to Jus’-juice Sheridan. He’s staying at the Upstairs, and I don’t want to expose him to some surprise visit.”

  “What visit?”

  “Ah! I caught you at last. You’ve missed a detail.”

  “What?”

  “Holly knew that some evidence might be delivered to me at the Upstairs. If they want to check out the place, Hal might be in trouble. I want him to stay away from there.”

  “Okay. I’ll see to it.”

  Rust waited. But Charles was already preparing to leave. Why didn’t he suggest trapping those visitors? Was he afraid to mention the idea? Or was he just protecting those bastards?

  As they left the office, Charles turned right and Rust was led to his cell on the left. He looked back. Through the gap in the slow self-closing door he could see the reception room and the courtyard. Charles’s specially adapted cab was parked right at the door, facing a narrow passage to the street.

  Keep warm, Rust was about to say, but the door closed. The camps, the shiverish old man, Moscow, Geneva, the dreams of sparkling water shooting up, up, 130 meters, the camps, the old man — Rust’s associations ran in circles. Something he could not define bugged him. If there was any reason to mistrust him and the purpose of his Moscow trip, an old hand like Charles would not risk revealing to him that something dramatic was about to happen at certain Siberian camps. And if he was suspect, the same would apply to any information he had brought out. So Charles must be up to something. Could he be working for Them? If yes, why didn’t he stop me while I was there? Rust kept asking himself. What if he did? What if Yelena and my father are already being interrogated? Or dead.

  A policeman brought in his briefcase and the plastic bag with hi
s duty-free goodies. Rust took out a cigar. That gave him a chance to glance through the contents casually. Everything was there. It had been checked thoroughly, no doubt, but Rust could only hope that nothing had been found. It would have taken ages to examine every item for possible microdots. He was itching to take a closer look at the dictionary and chocolates, but if he was now watched by some hidden device, it would only call attention to Yelena’s presents. Damn you all, Rust swore silently. He hated the lot of them. Them and their trade. And his own involvement, too. So it was painful to admit that he loved every minute of it. Risk and double cross and murder notwithstanding. It was like coming back to life after a long period spent in a coma.

  *

  Boychenko reread the brief message that had just been decoded for him. “Target at Staines police station. Waiting for suitable opportunity. Target has been visited by driver of specially adapted taxicab.” It had come from the “wet affairs” team assigned by the London Resident. Boychenko wished he were there himself to complete the job. But he had enough to do in Moscow.

  The specialist from the First Directorate U.K. desk called him on the phone: “We’ve identified the owner of that cab. It’s a Sir Charles Stoker, who used to be in Moscow at the time Rust was here. We’ve alerted everyone who might be able to block Stoker’s channels of communications if Rust passed the message to him.”

  “You think they can do it?”

  “It’s hard to tell.”

  “Thanks.” Boychenko hung up and buzzed for his orderly.

  Kolya took the cigarette out of his mouth and smartened himself up a little before answering the call. His boss had been in a rather bad mood lately.

  The GRU “cobbler” was shown in to Boychenko, who wanted to know everything about the American passport for Rust. He was furious that it had cost him a full day to get permission to question the cobbler. He took an instant dislike to the fat and jolly little man, who revealed an artist’s self-indulgence in explaining the work.