The girl giggled slightly, but her voice was doubtful. ‘You are serious?’
‘Never more so in my life. I’ve got to get the heat turned off for at least another twenty-four hours, and then with luck we can get away.’ He took her into his arms and kissed her lips. ‘But have you enough nerve? Do you mind giving the driver a little exhibition? And remember there may be more than one.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t mind. And I’m not scared. But where will you be?’
He pointed to the built-in wardrobe. It was large enough to hold at least two people, almost a small cupboard. ‘In there. With a gun. And now we must start smoking. The General’s got a packet of cigarettes in his pocket. Let’s get through them quickly. We want a pile of stubs. And one other thing, sweetheart, you’d better get ready for action in case the car arrives early. Get some clothes off.’
She pushed one of the General’s cigarettes into her short amber holder and then slithered out of her dress. ‘Leave it lying on the floor,’ said Grant. ‘Looks more natural that way.’
Her slip had been bought in Paris, a pale lilac wisp of pure silk embroidered with peacocks around its scalloped edges. She looked at him mischievously. ‘This too?’
‘That too,’ he nodded. ‘And let it lie on the floor.’
Carefully she lifted it over her head, and frowned as it swirled down on top of the dress. ‘You must buy me another if it is damaged, David. In Russia a slip like this is worth a fortune.’
She was wearing tights, a finely woven bottle-green pair of combined pants and stockings, form fitting and warm which moulded every muscle of her arrow-like body. An old-fashioned woollen singlet was tucked in above, its short sleeves covering her shoulders, and a pink ribbon gathering the top together round her neck. ‘I use this just for the winter, so don’t be alarmed,’ she grinned. ‘It is not chic but it is practical. Must it come off, too?’
He was now smoking two cigarettes at the same time, burning them rapidly down to long stubs which he dropped casually on and around the ash-tray. ‘We’ll do it properly,’ he said. ‘But keep on these lovely pant things. They make you look like an elf.’
‘And you are trying to make me look like a prostitute.’ She untied the ribbon and wriggled out of the top half. Her brassière was of bronze-coloured nylon, its cups worked in lace. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and her flesh gleaming like ivory. Grant had almost forgotten how breathtakingly lovely she was. On the stage she had appeared as an ethereal sylph-like wisp of a creature, a thing of no substance, a spirit rather than a body. But now he was remembering again that her body was a warm vibrating volcano of passion and that the spirit behind it was as temperamental and unpredictable as a panther. ‘I know I must look silly,’ she laughed, ‘but I love you terribly much.’ She knelt on the floor by his side and placed her head on his thigh. ‘How I wish that car would come.’
He looked at his watch again. Less than an hour to go. He lifted her on to his knees and she curled up against him like a cat, snuggling into his arms and caressing his cheeks with her long questing fingers. ‘Now you are beginning to feel like velvet worked with needles again,’ she sighed. The room was heated by an old-fashioned stove which gave out tremendous warmth, and the stink of vodka combined with fug from a dozen cigarettes was oppressive, but neither of them noticed it as they filled in the gaps of four months of separation.
They were planning a time-table for the following day when there was a noise of crunching snow outside, the swing of headlamps shining through the curtains and a sound of slithering tyres.
Grant pointed to her quilted housecoat. ‘Put that on but let it hang open a bit and keep them interested.’ Sokolnikov was still deeply asleep. He lifted his own bag into the wardrobe, pulled out his gun and released the safety catch. ‘Downstairs as soon as the bell rings. And don’t worry. If you seem a bit excited that will be understandable.’
Opening her compact Maya lifted out a tube of Helena Rubenstein lipstick. ‘Bought in France,’ she whispered. ‘Can’t be had here at any price.’ Smiling slightly she smeared a little against Sokolnikov’s lips and across his cheek, and then, as the bell rang tripped downstairs humming a popular song whilst Grant quietly walked into the cupboard, leaving the door ajar.
Two men arrived and he could hear Maya laughing. Their voices sounded friendly, and after a few moments he heard them walking upstairs. There was the usual groan from the eighth tread and a familiar squeak second from the top, then heavy steps on the landing and a nervous giggle from Maya. Cautiously he stared through the narrow crack between the cupboard doors. Two men in uniform were standing within a yard of the bed. Their faces were deadpan as they stared at the sleeping general but when one of them turned to look round the room Grant saw that his eyes were dancing with amusement and that he had difficulty in keeping his face straight. Maya was playing her part well, her speech slightly slurred and her walk a shade unsteady. The housecoat was flapping open as she suddenly broke into an impromptu dance and her long green limbs twinkled like a spinning top on the wooden floor. She ended by dropping to the ground in a parody of the dying swan and then looked up towards the policemen, grinning stupidly as they began to applaud.
When she stood up she splashed out a stiff shot of vodka. Holding it head high she sipped it once and then offered it to the older of the two men who lowered it in three gulps and placed the glass down bottoms up on the stove. Maya bowed mischievously and then poured out a second dose. Her lips ran lightly round the rim, and then, waving a kiss, she handed it to the other man who swallowed the lot in one smooth trickling motion of his throat.
Then she fumbled inside a dressing-table drawer and produced a packet of imported cigars. The police laughed as she solemnly handed one to each of them, her housecoat again flopping open as she leaned forward to offer a light. Her ivory flesh was now gleaming with sweat and the mounds of her brassière heaved with excitement as Grant watched her chatter on, telling story after story whilst the men stood and watched her, roaring with laughter every few minutes until the cigars were stubbed out against the stove. She pouted with displeasure as they made to leave the room and then, laughing, took each of them by the arm and escorted them downstairs.
He listened to the door close and then to the grind of gears as the Zim drove off. Quietly he slipped the gun back into its holster. Downstairs he could hear Maya moving around in the kitchen. The rope was in his cupboard. Systematically he again trussed Sokolnikov in a series of loops and slip-knots. The prisoner’s pupils were pinpoints, with his pulse still slow, and for some hours at least he would be perfectly safe. Maya returned carrying a tray of coffee as he lifted the Russian from the bed and placed him on the floor against the wall. ‘Have you more sheets?’ he asked.
Together they stripped the bed, remaking it with fresh linen and then opening the double windows until the stench of stale tobacco and alcohol had been removed. ‘You were terrific,’ Grant whispered. ‘Nobody could’ve done better. But are you sure you’ve covered us for tomorrow?’
She smiled but the old nervous look had returned to her face and her lips began to twitch with tension. ‘I couldn’t do that again. Not even for you. I was terrified. These men are two of the most dangerous people in the G.R.U. Sokolnikov uses them as a personal bodyguard when he’s up to something really dirty, or when he wants to be sure of secrecy. They are dead loyal to him. In fact if they hadn’t seen him lying there they would never have believed it. He is supposed to be strict about drink. Doesn’t take much at any time.’
Reaction had set in and Grant moved swiftly. Easing her on to the bed he lay down beside her, gently kissing every frown of tension, and soothing away every wrinkle on her forehead. As he watched her begin, once more, to regain confidence his hand slipped down over her elfin pants and tickled her in the groin. She squirmed with surprise but snuggled into his embrace and slowly began to relax. ‘Let’s have coffee first, David,’ she smiled. ‘And then love me. I’ve earned it.’
> The coffee was freshly ground and pungent. They shared the same cup, and although Grant preferred a pipe, the same ciragette and later the same tooth-brush in the bathroom.
Before going to bed they had a quick shower, stripping together to stand under the tepid jets of stinging water and soaping one another down whilst Grant scrubbed her shoulders with a long coarse loofah and she drew weird designs with her finger on the wet black hair of his chest.
Back in the bedroom Sokolnikov was still unconscious, and Maya was stepping into a pair of yellow silk pyjamas, another souvenir of her visit to the West, when Grant remembered the one thing which had been forgotten. His night things were still in the Leningradskaya and the travelling bath-robe which he had borrowed was too small by half. ‘I think you will look more handsome without that,’ whispered Maya, her eyes twinkling with laughter as she lay back on the cool white sheets and held out her arms. ‘But if it makes you feel happier I’ll get rid of my things too and then we’ll both be in the same boat.’
Grant watched her slip off the thin jacket and wriggle out of the narrow pants. Her hair was flopping over the pillow and her skin glowing with colour. ‘Forget about tomorrow, David. Just show me how much you love me.’
He switched off the light. Sokolnikov was breathing slowly and heavily. Outside he could hear the quiet hum of faraway traffic and muffled night sounds from the snow-bound city. Maya’s head shimmered pale in the darkness and as he lay down beside her she turned towards him, her arms surrounding him with warmth whilst she gently nibbled the line of his jaw, her lips stealing downwards to the hollows of his neck and over the slow pulse in front of his heart. He allowed his arms to fall around her, his fingers caressing the straight line of her back and his limbs pressing against the taut power of her dancer’s thighs, until, after long minutes of serene, love-giving contact she erupted into a frenzy of passion, the damask touch of her lips changing to surging, probing fire, and even the sleeping General was forgotten as they satisfied the hunger of months. They lay, clasped together, as though afraid to separate, until, at last, Grant combed her hair with his fingers, brushing it back from her forehead to bring her back to reality. ‘Tell me, honey,’ he whispered, ‘do you know a man called Professor Gusev, a doctor of sorts?’
She pinched him wickedly on the arm. ‘I don’t want to talk about other things, David. Just you and me.’
His voice became grim again. ‘This has a lot to do with us. Do you know him?’
He could feel her head nodding against his cheek. ‘Yes. A nasty old man who likes young girls.’
‘Like you?’
‘A bit younger. I’m twenty-two now. He hangs around Bolshoi a lot. Knows everyone who matters there and uses his influence to catch any of the corps de ballet who takes his fancy.’
‘But do you know him to speak to?’ he persisted.
She hesitated and then rose from the bed to switch on the light. ‘I want to see your face, David. You sound serious. Why is this man Gusev important?’
She was standing with unconscious grace, her every muscle tense with expectation and he chose his words carefully. ‘It may be that he’s in charge of research connected with a new disease, but if so I want to meet him.’
‘To do what?’
‘Listen, Maya,’ said Grant quietly, ‘the less you know about this the better. Just trust me and if you do as I say we’ll be on our way out of here within a couple of days.’
A tiny furrow was wrinkling her forehead and she looked at him with faint surprise. ‘It is you who isn’t trusting me. Why should I be told as little as possible?’
‘In case you’re caught. If you know nothing you can’t say anything.’ He saw that she was becoming angry. ‘Please, sweetie. Give me two days and then I’ll tell you everything. But right now ignorance might turn out to be bliss. Especially if they tried to grill you.’ She walked towards him and stopped beside the bed, his head level with her long slender fingers.
‘David. I’m willing to go away with you, although I know you won’t marry me and I’m also giving up my country and my career for you. Surely I deserve to be told the whole story.’
‘You forget something,’ he added quietly. ‘I’m taking you away from Sokolnikov. And he would still have blackmailed you into marriage if I were not here. In fact he told me so himself. So don’t let’s quarrel. We are in this together and we need each other’s help.’
She struck like lightning and slapped him viciously across each cheek, the cracks sounding almost like pistol shots in the silence. He lay motionless, staring at her with surprise and his silence did more to annoy her than anything else. Flushing with temper she struck again like a cat, her nails jabbing towards his face. In the same split second he dodged the blow and caught her wrist as it dug into the pillow beside his head. Jerking her forwards across the bed and on top of the blankets he lifted her bedroom slippers with one hand and held her down with the other whilst he smacked her buttocks with the soft leather until she squealed with laughter. Her mood had changed in a flash and rolling into a ball she wriggled back between the sheets and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing the crimson weals on his cheeks. ‘Honestly, David,’ she laughed, ‘I can’t blame you for not wanting to marry me, I’ve a horrible temper, but now we’ll have some more coffee and I’ll be good. So tell me what you want done.’
She knew less than he had hoped, but when Gusev was chasing any of the ballerinas he usually collected her shortly after nine o’clock in the evening. It was said that he worked in hospital during the day, returning to his Kremlin office in the later afternoon and staying there for hours on end doing some sort of work. But none of the girls had visited his Kremlin flat and he had hinted that it was out of bounds even to other professors in the university.
An hour later she lit one last cigarette and switched off the percolator. ‘Summing up then, you want me to meet his latest girl friend tomorrow and try to find out if she has a date at night. I must try to get a hint if Professor Gusev will be in his Kremlin rooms during the evening and when he is likely to leave. And after that you want me to get two tickets for the Armoury Museum but to be back here before lunch. Right?’
‘Yes,’ said Grant. ‘And then we can make final plans for the last stage of the exercise.’ He stifled a yawn and laid down his cup. ‘So now how about sleep?’
‘Poor us,’ smiled Maya. ‘So much to do and so little time left for loving.’ Quietly she switched off the lights, and hand in hand they returned to bed. Grant had his own private alarm clock, a mental discipline which had come from years of training. Already it was almost three a.m. Six-thirty, he said to himself and closed his eyes. Maya’s arm was lying across his chest, a soft warm band of love. Smiling slightly he listened to her quietly regular breath sounds whispering against the slow sighing rhythm of Sokolnikov and the creak of freezing snow packed around the window. Tomorrow would see it settled, one way or the other!
Chapter Thirteen – This is where we separate . . .
Subconsciously Grant’s mind had become attuned to a symphony of small night sounds, and Sokolnikov’s deep throated groan returned him to life like a wild thing.
He didn’t move. Maya was sleeping like a child, a slight flush on each cheek and her body gleaming in the pale light of very early dawn. Traffic had already begun to crunch its way through the frozen snow and a dog was barking angrily in the distance.
And then he heard it again, the gurgling intake of breath as Sokolnikov began to throw off the effects of his drug. He was staring at Grant, still confused but with the first flickerings of understanding returning to his fuddled brain.
Moving so as not to disturb Maya, he put his feet on the floor and slipped into the bath-robe. There was a folk-weave type of shopping bag in the cupboard. Opening it out he pulled the thing over Sokolnikov’s head and anchored the corded handles below his chin with a neck scarf. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he said. ‘This lady will be rising soon and she must have some privacy but after she has finished
dressing we’ll start thinking about you.’
The electric razor was with his other clothes in Leningradskaya but he found a sharp miniature open blade used by Maya in preparing her toilet for the theatre. The water was warm, and though there was no shaving soap he worked up a lather from a mixture of brilliantine and detergent powder which softened his beard enough to leave him smoothly clean without drawing blood. After a quick shower he returned to the bedroom to find Maya leaning against the pillows and combing her hair.
‘Our boy friend’s wakening up,’ he whispered. ‘Dress and go downstairs. I’ll see you there for breakfast in about an hour.’ She pulled down his head and kissed him noiselessly on the lips.
When she had gone he dressed with leisured indifference, and then, lighting a cigarette, sat down on a low stool beside Sokolnikov, who was now well enough able to understand orders. ‘I’m going to untie you, General, and take you to the bathroom where you can have a rub down. But if you make the slightest noise to arouse my suspicions in any way I’ll shoot you dead. And that’s a promise.’
The man’s eyes were bloodshot and there was a stench of foul breath as his cracked lips parted. ‘You won’t get away with this.’
The voice was thick and tired, but Grant ignored the threat and continued to loosen the key knots. ‘You can do the rest yourself. But, when you are ready to move, stand up and wait for orders, and remember that when I said noise I included speaking.’ He held his gun loosely as the Russian gradually unravelled himself. The man was still weak and looked ridiculous in his long underwear with Maya’s lipstick streaking his face like a smear of arterial blood. Stiffly he moved his legs and as he struggled to his feet Grant edged him towards the bathroom. ‘Get cracking. But don’t open your mouth except to rinse it out or I’ll plug you through the navel and let you understand how two of those Japs felt at Lubianka.’
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