by Jack Higgins
'A nice girl. I liked her. Pretty confused. Nothing more I could do than present the facts. I gave her the material your bagman brought over. She took it, but I wouldn't be too sanguine.'
'I never was,' Fox said. 'Will you be able to smooth things down in Dublin?'
'McGuiness has already been to see me. He wants to move on Cherny. Try some old-fashioned pressure.'
'That might be the best solution.'
'Jesus, Harry, but Belfast left its mark on you. Still, you could be right. I've stalled him for a day. If you want me, I'll be here. I gave the girl my card, by the way. She thought I was a failed romantic, Harry. Have you ever heard the like?'
'You give a convincing imitation, but I've never bought it.'
Fox laughed and rang off. Devlin sat there for a while, a frown on his face, then there was another tap on the French window. It opened and Cussane entered.
'Harry,' Devlin said, 'you're sent from heaven. As I've often told you, you make the best scrambled eggs in the world.'
'Flattery will get you anywhere.' Cussane poured himself a drink. 'How was Paris?'
'Paris?' Devlin said. 'Sure and I was only joking. I've been to Cork. Some university business to do with the film festival. Had to stay over. Just driven back. I'm the original starving man.'
'Right,' Harry Cussane told him. 'You lay the table and I'll scramble the eggs.'
'You're a good friend, Harry,' Devlin said.
Cussane paused in the door. 'And why not, Liam. It's been a long time,' and he smiled and went into the kitchen.
Tanya had a hot bath, hoping it would relax her. There was a knock at the door and Natasha Rubenova entered. 'Coffee?'
'Thank you.' Tanya lay back in the warm, foamy water and sipped the coffee gratefully.
Natasha pulled a small stool forward and sat down. 'You must be very careful, my love. You understand me?'
'Strange,' Tanya said. 'No one has ever told me to be careful before.'
It occurred to her then that she had always been sheltered from the cold, ever since the nightmare of Drumore that surfaced only in her dreams. Maslovsky and his wife had been good parents. She had wanted for nothing. In a Marxist society that had been envisaged in the great days of Lenin and the revolution as giving power to the people, power had quickly become the prerogative of the few.
Soviet Russia had become an elitist society in which who you were was more important than what you were and she, to all intents and purposes, was Ivan Maslovsky's daughter. The best housing, the superior schools, her talent carefully nurtured. When she drove through Moscow to their country house, it was in a chauffeured limousine, travelling in the traffic-free lane kept open for the use of the important people in the hierarchy. The delicacies that graced their table, the clothes she wore, all bought on a special card at GUM.
All this she had ignored, just as she had ignored the realities of the state trials of the Gulag. Just as she had turned from the even harsher reality of Drumore, her father dead on the street and Maslovsky in charge.
Natasha said, 'You are all right?'
'Of course. Pass me a towel,' Tanya wrapped it around herself. 'Did you notice the lighter that Turkm used when he lit my cigarette?'
'Not particularly.'
'It was by Cartier. Solid gold. What was it Orwell said in that book of his? All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others?'
'Please, darling,' Natasha Rubenova was obviously agitated. 'You mustn't say things like that.'
'You're right.' Tanya smiled. 'I'm angry, that's all. Now I think I would like to sleep. I must be fresh for tonight's concert.' They went into the other room and she got into the bed, the towel around her. They're still out there?'
'Yes.'
'I'll sleep now.'
Natasha closed the curtains and went out. Tanya lay there in the darkness thinking about things. The events of the past few hours had been a shock in themselves, but strangely enough, the most significant thing had been the way in which she had been treated. Tanya Voronmova, internationally acclaimed artist, who had received the Medal of Culture from Brezhnev himself, had felt the full weight of the State's hand. The truth was that for most of her life she had been somebody, thanks to Maslovsky. Now it had been made plain that, when the chips were down, she was just another cypher.
It was enough. She switched on the bedside lamp, reached for her handbag and took out the packet which Devlin had given her. The British passport was excellent; issued, according to the date, three years before. There was an American visa. She had entered that country twice, also Germany, Italy, Spain and France one week previously. A nice touch. Her name was Joanna Frank, born in London, professional journalist. The photo, as Devlin had said, was an excellent likeness. There were even one or two personal letters with her London address in Chelsea, an American Express credit card and a British driver's licence. They'd thought of everything.
The alternative routes were clearly outlined. There was the direct plane flight from Paris to London, but that wasn't on. Surprising how cool and calculating she was now. She would have only the slimmest of chances of getting away, if an opportunity presented itself at all, and she would be missed almost at once. They would have the airports covered instantly.
It seemed obvious that the same would be true of the ferry terminals at Calais and Boulogne. But the people in London had indicated another way, one which might possibly be overlooked. There was a train service from Paris to Rennes, changing there for St Malo on the Brittany coast. From there, a hydrofoil service to Jersey in the Channel Islands. And from Jersey, there were several planes a day to London.
She got up quietly, tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door. Then she lifted the receiver on the wall telephone and called Reception. They were extremely efficient. Yes, there was a night train to Rennes, leaving the Gare du Nord at eleven. In Rennes, there would be a delay, but she could be in St Malo for breakfast. Ample time to catch the hydrofoil.
She flushed the toilet and went back in the bedroom, rather pleased with herself for she hadn't quoted a room number or given her name. The enquiry could have come from any one of hundreds of guests.
'They're turning you into a jungle animal, Tanya,' she told herself softly.
She got her holdall bag from the wardrobe, the one she used to take all her bits and pieces to the concerts. She couldn't secrete much in there. It would show. She thought about it for a while, then took out a pair of soft suede boots and rolled them up so they fitted neatly in the bottom of the bag. She next took a black cotton jumpsuit from its hanger, folded it and laid it in the case. She placed the concerto score and the orchestra parts she had been studying on top.
So, nothing more to be done. She went to the window and peered out. It was raining again and she shivered, suddenly lonely, and remembered Devlin and his strength. For a moment she thought of phoning him, but that was no good. Not from here. They would trace the call in minutes the moment they started checking. She went back to bed and switched off the lamp. If only she could sleep for an hour or two. The face surfaced in her consciousness: Cuchulain's bone-white face and dark eyes made sleep impossible.
She wore a gown in black velvet for the concert. It was by Balmain and very striking with a matching jacket. The pearls at her neck and the earrings were supposed to be lucky, a gift by the Maslovskys before the finals of the Tchaikovsky competition, her greatest triumph.
Natasha came in and stood behind her at the dressing table. 'Are you ready? Time's getting short.' She put her hands on Tanya's shoulders. 'You look lovely.'
'Thank you. I've packed my case.'
Natasha picked it up. 'Have you put a towel in? You always forget.' She zipped it open before Tanya could protest, then froze. She looked at the girl, eyes wide.
'Please?' Tanya said softly. 'If I ever meant anything to you.'
The older woman took a deep breath, went into the bathroom and returned with a towel. She folded it and placed it in the case and zipped it up. 'So,' sh
e said. 'We are ready.'
'Is it still raining?'
'Yes.'
'Then I shan't wear the velvet cape. The trenchcoat, I think.'
Natasha took it from the wardrobe and draped it over her shoulders. Tanya felt her hands tighten for a moment. 'Now we must go.'
Tanya picked up the case and opened the door and went into the other room where Shepilov and Turkin waited. They both wore dinner jackets because of the reception after the performance.
'If I may be permitted the observation, you look superb, Comrade,' Turkin told her. 'A credit to our country.'
'Spare me the compliments, Captain,' she said frostily. 'If you wish to be of use, you can carry my case,' and she handed it to him and walked out.
The Conservatoire concert hall was packed for this occasion and when she walked on stage, the orchestra stood to greet her and there was a storm of applause, the audience standing also, following President Mitterand's example.
She sat down, all noise faded. There was complete silence as the conductor waited, baton ready and then it descended and as the orchestra started to play, Tanya Voroninova's hands rippled over the keyboard.
She was filled with a joy, an ecstasy almost, played as she had never played in her life before with a new, vibrant energy as if something which had been locked up in her for years was now released. The orchestra responded as if trying to match her so that at the end, in the dramatic finale to Rachmaninov's superb concerto, they fused into a whole that created an experience to be forgotten by few people who were there that night.
The cry from the audience was different from anything she had experienced in her life before. She stood facing them, the orchestra standing behind her, all clapping and someone threw a flower on the stage, and more followed as women unpinned their corsages.
She went off to the side and Natasha, waiting, tears streaming down her cheeks, flung her arms around her. 'Babushka, you were wonderful. The best I ever heard.'
Tanya hugged her fiercely. 'I know. My night, Natasha, the one night I can take on the whole world if need be and come out ahead of the game,' and she turned and went back on stage to an audience that refused to stop applauding.
Francois Mitterand, President of the Republic of France, took both her hands and kissed them warmly. 'Mademoiselle, I salute you. An extraordinary performance.'
'You are more than kind, Monsieur le President,' she answered in his own language.
The crowd pressed close as champagne was offered and cameras flashed as the President toasted her and then introduced her to the Minister of Culture and others. She was aware of Shepilov and Turkin by the door, Nikolai Belov talking to them, handsome in velvet evening jacket and ruffled shirt. He raised his glass in a toast and moved towards her. She glanced at her watch. It was just after ten. If she was to go, it must be soon.
Belov reached for her right hand and kissed it. 'Tremendous stuff. You should get angry more often.'
'A point of view.' She took another glass of champagne from a waiter. 'Everyone who is anyone in the diplomatic corps seems to be here. You must be pleased. Quite a triumph.'
'Yes, but then, we Russians have always had a soul for music lacking in certain other peoples.'
She glanced around. 'Where's Natasha?'
'Over there with the Press. Shall I get her?'
'Not necessary. I need to go to the dressing room for a moment, but I can manage perfectly well on my own.'
'Of course.' He nodded to Turkin who came across. 'See Comrade Voroninova to her dressing room, Turkin. Wait for her and escort her back.' He smiled at Tanya. 'We don't want you to get hurt in the crush.'
The crowd opened for her, people smiling, raising their glasses, and Turkin followed her along the narrow corridor until they came to the dressing room.
She opened the door. 'I presume I'm permitted to go to the toilet?'
He smiled mockingly. 'If you insist, Comrade.'
He took out a cigarette and was lighting it as she closed the door. She didn't lock it, simply kicked off her shoes, pulled off the jacket and unzipped that lovely dress, allowing it to fall to the floor. She had the jumpsuit out of her case in a moment, was into it within seconds, zipping it up and pulling on the suede boots. She picked up the trenchcoat and handbag, moved into the toilet, closed the door and locked it.
She had checked the window earlier. It was large enough to get out of and opened into a small yard on the ground floor of the Conservatoire. She climbed up on the seat and wriggled through. It was raining hard now. She pulled on her trenchcoat, picked up her shoulderbag and ran to the gate. It was bolted on the inside and opened easily. A moment later, she was hurrying along the Rue de Madrid looking for a taxi.
Chapter Eight
DEVLIN WAS WATCHING a late night movie on television when the phone rang. The line was surprisingly clear, so much so that at first he thought it must be local.
'Professor Devlin?'
'Yes.'
'It's Tanya - Tanya Voroninova.'
'Where are you?' Devlin demanded.
'The Gare du Nord. Paris. I've only got a couple of minutes. I'm catching the night train to Rennes.'
'To Rennes?' Devlin was bewildered. 'What in the world would you be going there for?'
'I change trains there for St Malo. I'll be there at breakfast time. There's a hydrofoil to Jersey. That's as good as being in England. Once there, I'm safe. I'll catch a plane for London. I only had minutes to give them the slip, so it seemed likely the other routes your people supplied would be blocked.'
'So, you changed your mind. Why?'
'Let's just say I've realized I like you and I don't like them. It doesn't mean I hate my country. Only some of the people in it. I must go.'
'I'll contact London,' Devlin said. 'Phone me from Rennes, and good luck.'
The line went dead. He stood there, holding the receiver, a slight ironic smile on his face, a kind of wonderment. 'Would you look at that now?' he said softly. 'A girl to take home to your mother and that's a fact.'
He dialled the Cavendish Square
number and it was answered almost at once. 'Ferguson here.' He sounded cross.
'Would you by any chance be sitting in bed watching the old Bogart movie on the television?' Devlin enquired.
'Dear God, are you going into the clairvoyance business now?'
'Well, you can switch it off and get out of bed, you old bastard. The game's afoot with a vengeance.'
Ferguson's voice changed. 'What are you saying?'
'That Tanya Voroninova's done a bunk. She's just phoned me from the Gare du Nord. Catching the night train to Rennes. Change for St Malo. Hydrofoil to Jersey in the morning. She thought the other routes might be blocked.'
'Smart girl,' Ferguson said. 'They'll pull every trick in the book to get her back.'
'She's going to phone me when she gets to Rennes. I presume, at a guess, that would be about three-thirty or maybe four o'clock.'
Ferguson said, 'Stay by the phone. I'll get back to you.'
In his flat, Harry Fox was just about to get into the shower before going to bed when the phone rang. He answered it, cursing. It had been a long day. He needed some sleep.
'Harry?'
He came alert at once at the sound of Ferguson's voice. 'Yes, sir?'
'Get yourself over here. We've got work to do.'
Cussane was working in his study on Sunday's sermon when the sensor device linked to the apparatus in the attic was activated. By the time he was up there, Devlin was off the phone. He played the tape back, listening intently. When it was finished, he sat there, thinking about the implications which were all bad.
He went down to the study and phoned Cherny direct. When the Professor answered, he said, 'It's me. Are you alone?'
'Yes. Just about to go to bed. Where are you ringing from?'
'My place. We've got bad trouble. Now listen carefully.'
When he was finished, Cherny said, 'It gets worse. What do you want me to do?'
> 'Speak to Lubov now. Tell him to make contact with Belov in Paris at once. They may be able to stop her.'
'And if not?'
'Then I'll have to handle it myself when she gets here. I'll keep in touch, so stay by the phone.'
He poured himself a whiskey and stood in front of the fire. Strange, but he still saw her as that scrawny little girl in the rain all those years ago.
He raised his glass and said softly, 'Here's to you, Tanya Voroninova. Now, let's see if you can give those bastards a run for their money.'
Within five minutes, Turkin had realized something was badly wrong, had entered the dressing room and discovered the locked toilet door. The silence which was the only answer to his urgent knocking made him break down the door. The empty toilet, the window, told all. He clambered through, dropped into the yard and went into the Rue de Madrid. There was not a sign of her and he went round to the front of the Conservatoire and in through the main entrance, black rage in his heart. His career ruined, his very life on the line now because of that damned woman.
Belov was on another glass of champagne, deep in conversation with the Minister of Culture, when Turkin tapped him on the shoulder. 'Sorry to interrupt, Colonel, but could I have a word?' and he took him into the nearest corner and broke the bad news.
Nikolai Belov had always found that adversity brought out the best in him. He had never been one to cry over spilt milk. At his office at the Embassy, he sat behind the desk and faced Natasha Rubenova. Shepilov and Turkin stood by the door.
'I ask you again, Comrade,' he said to her. 'Did she say anything to you? Surely you of all people would have had some idea of her intentions?'
She was distressed and tearful, all quite genuine, and it helped her to lie easily. 'I'm as much at a loss as you are, Comrade Colonel.'
He sighed and nodded to Turkin who moved up behind her, shoving her down into a chair. He pulled off his right glove and squeezed her neck, pinching a nerve and sending a wave of appalling pain through her.
'I ask you again,' Nikolai Belov said gently. 'Please be sensible, I hate this kind of thing.'