Somehow without his being aware of it they must have returned to the hotel, for he woke to discover himself propped on Wicklow’s arm among the Finnish alcoholics stumbling shamefacedly round the lobby.
‘Great party,’ he told anyone who would hear him. ‘Splendid band. Thank you for coming to Leningrad.’
But as Wicklow patiently hauled him up to bed the undrunk part of Barley glanced over his shoulder, down the wide staircase. And in the darkness near the entrance, he saw Katya, seated with her legs crossed, her perhaps-bag on her lap. She was wearing a pinched black jacket. A white silk scarf was knotted under her chin, and her face was pressed towards him with that tense smile she had, sad and hopeful, open to love.
But as his gaze cleared he saw her say something saucy out of the corner of her mouth to the porter, and he realised she was just another Leningrad tart looking for a trick.
And next day, to the fanfare of the most discreet of British trumpets, our hero came home.
Ned wanted no display, no Americans and certainly no Clive, but he was determined on a gesture, so we drove to Gatwick and, having posted Brock at the Arrivals barrier with a card saying ‘Potomac’, we installed ourselves in a hospitality lounge that the Service shared uneasily with the Foreign Office amid endless argument about who had drunk the gin.
We waited, the plane was delayed. Clive phoned from Grosvenor Square to ask ‘Has he arrived, Palfrey?’ as if he half expected him to stay in Russia.
Another half-hour passed before Clive phoned again and this time Ned himself took the call. He had scarcely slammed the phone down before the door opened and Wicklow slipped in grinning like a choirboy but contriving at the same time to shoot his eyes in warning.
Seconds after him, enter Barley looking like his own surveillance photographs, except that he was white-faced. ‘Buggers cheered!’ he blurted before Brock had got the door shut. ‘That prissy captain with his Surrey vowels! I’ll kill the swine.’
While Barley stormed on, Wicklow discreetly explained the cause of his distress. Their charter flight out of Leningrad had been occupied by a delegation of young British traders whom Barley had arbitrarily branded yuppies of the vilest sort, which by the sound of them they were. Several were drunk by the time they boarded, the rest were quick to catch up. They had not been more than a few minutes in the air when the captain, who in Barley’s view was the provocateur of the incident, announced that the plane had left Soviet airspace. A roar went up while the air hostesses scampered up and down the aisle doling out champagne. Then they all broke into ‘Rule, Britannia!’
‘Give me Aeroflot every time,’ Barley raged at the assembled faces. ‘I’m going to write to the airline. I’m going to –’
‘You’re going to do nothing of the kind,’ Ned kindly interrupted him. ‘You’re going to let us make an enormous fuss of you. You can have your tantrum later.’
As he said this, he went on shaking Barley’s hand until Barley eventually smiled.
‘Where’s Walt?’ he asked, peering round.
‘I’m afraid he’s off on a job,’ said Ned but Barley had already lost interest. His hand trembled violently as he drank and he wept a bit, which Ned assured me was par for the course for joes coming back from the field.
11
The pattern of the next three days, like the wreck of a smashed aeroplane, was afterwards minutely examined for technical faults, though few were found.
After his outburst at the airport Barley entered the bright stage, smiling a lot to himself on the car journey, greeting familiar landmarks with his habitual shy affection. He also had a sneezing fit.
As soon as we reached the Knightsbridge house, where Ned was determined Barley should spend the night before returning to his flat, he dumped his luggage in the hall, flung his arms round Miss Coad and, declaring his undying love for her, presented her with a splendid lynx-fur hat which neither Wicklow nor anyone else could afterwards remember him buying.
At this point I removed myself. Clive had commanded me to the twelfth floor for what he termed ‘a crucial discussion’, though it turned out that what he really wanted was to tap me. Was Scott Blair nervous? Was he above himself? How was he, Palfrey? Johnny was there, listening but scarcely speaking. Bob, he said, had been recalled to Langley for consultations. I told them what I had seen, no less, certainly no more. Both were puzzled by Barley’s tears.
‘You mean he said he was going back?’ said Clive.
The same night Ned dined with Barley alone. This was not yet the debriefing. It was the coming down. The tapes reveal Barley in staccato mood and his voice a key higher than usual. By the time I joined them for coffee he was talking about Goethe but with artificial objectivity.
Goethe had aged, had lost his bounce.
Goethe was really shot up.
Goethe seemed to have stopped drinking. He was getting his highs elsewhere. ‘You should have seen his hands, Harry, shaking over that map.’
You should have seen yours, I thought, when you were drinking champagne at the airport.
He referred to Katya only once that evening, also in a deliberately unemotional way. I think he was determined we should know that he had no feelings that were not ours to control. That was not deviousness on Barley’s part. With the exception of what we had taught him, he was incapable of it. It was his fear of where his feelings might end up if they were no longer anchored to us.
Katya was more scared for her kids than she was for herself, he said, again with studied detachment. He supposed most mothers were. On the other hand her children were the cyphers for the world she wished to save. So in a sense what she was doing was a kind of absolute version of mother love, don’t you agree, Nedsky?
Ned agreed. Nothing harder than to experiment with one’s own children, Barley, he said.
But a marvellous girl, Barley insisted, now in patronising mode. A bit too hell-bent for Barley’s personal taste these days, but if you liked your women to have the moral fibre of Joan of Arc, then Katya was for you. And she was beautiful. No question. A bit too haywire to be classical, if we knew what he meant, but undeniably striking.
We couldn’t tell him we had been admiring photographs of her for the last week, so we took his word for it.
At eleven, complaining of the time difference, Barley flopped. We stood in the hall watching him haul himself upstairs to bed.
‘Anyway it was good stuff, was it?’ he asked as he clung to the banister and grinned down at us through his little round spectacles. ‘The new notebook he gave us. You’ve looked at it?’
‘The boffins are burning the midnight oil over it at this moment,’ Ned replied. He could hardly say they were fighting over it like cats and dogs.
‘Experts are addicts,’ Barley said, with another grin.
But he remained on the half-landing swaying, while he seemed to search for an appropriate exit line.
‘Somebody ought to do a bit of work on those body microphones, Nedsky. Bloody saddle-sores all over my back. The next bloke you send had better have a thicker hide. Where’s Uncle Bob, by the by?’
‘He sends love,’ said Ned. ‘Business is brisk at the moment. He hopes to catch up with you soon.’
‘Is he out hunting with Walt?’
‘If I knew I wouldn’t tell you,’ said Ned, and we all laughed.
That night, I remember, I received a particularly irrelevant phone call from Margaret, my wife, about a parking ticket she had picked up in Basingstoke – in her view, unfairly.
‘It was my space, I had put my indicator out when this bloody little man in a brand-new Jaguar, a white one, with slicked black hair –’
Unwisely I laughed, and suggested to her that Jaguars with slicked black hair had no special dispensation at parking meters. Humour was never Margaret’s strong point.
The next morning, the Sunday, Clive again required my attendance, first to pump me about the previous night, then to hear me ‘talk turkey’ with Johnny on such esoteric matters as whether Barley co
uld legally be styled an employee of our Service and, if so, whether by taking our shilling he had renounced certain rights – his right to legal representation in the event of a dispute with us, for instance. I was Delphic, which annoyed them, but basically I said the answer was ‘yes’. Yes, he had renounced those rights. Or more exactly, yes, we could gull him into thinking he had, whether he had in law or not.
Johnny, if I have not mentioned it already, had graduated from Harvard Law School, so for once it was not necessary for Langley to send us a chorus of legal advisers.
In the afternoon, Barley being restless and the day sunny, we drove to Maidenhead and walked the towpath beside the Thames. By the time we returned, I suppose you could say Barley had been debriefed: for what with no questions coming down to us from our analysts, and his operational encounters already covered by technical means, there was really very little left to debrief him about.
Was Barley affected by our worries? We were as jolly as we could be, but I couldn’t help wondering whether the atmosphere of menacing stagnation was getting through to him. Or perhaps his feelings were such a maelstrom of confusion and anticlimax that he merely lumped us in with them.
On the Sunday night we ate supper together in Knightsbridge and Barley was so mild-mannered and reposed that Ned decided – as I would have done – that it was safe to send him back to Hampstead.
His flat was in a Victorian block off East Heath Road and the static surveillance post was situated directly below it, manned by a bright young Service couple. The rightful tenants had been temporarily resettled elsewhere. Around eleven, the couple reported that Barley was in his flat alone but prowling. They could hear but not see him. Ned had drawn the line at video. He was doing a lot of talking to himself, they said, and when he opened his mail, curses and groans came over the monitors.
Ned was unbothered. He had read Barley’s mail already and knew it contained no horrors beyond the usual.
Around one a.m., Barley rang his daughter Anthea in Grantham.
‘What’s an ig?’
‘An Eskimo house without a loo. How was Moscow?’
‘What do you get if you cross the Atlantic with the Titanic?’
‘About halfway. How was Moscow?’
‘What do you get if you cross a sheep with a kangaroo?’
‘I asked you how Moscow was.’
‘A woolly jumper. How’s your boring husband?’
‘Asleep, trying to be. What became of the cream bun you took to Lisbon?’
‘Rained off.’
‘I thought she was permanent.’
‘She is. I’m not.’
Barley next telephoned two women, the first a former wife over whom he had retained visiting rights, the second not previously listed. Neither could oblige him at such short notice, not least because they were in bed with their men.
At one-forty the couple reported that Barley’s bedroom lights were out. Ned gratefully went to sleep, but I was already in my little flat and sleep was the last thing in my mind. Memories of Hannah were teeming through my head, mixed with images of Barley in the Knightsbridge house. I remembered his falsely casual way of talking about Katya and her children and I kept comparing it with my own repeated denials of my love for Hannah, back in the days when it endangered me. Hannah looks a bit down in the mouth, some innocent would remark every five minutes of my day. Is that husband of hers leading her a dance or what? And I’d smile. I gather he likes to knock her around a bit, I’d say, with exactly that same superior tone of detachment that I had heard in Barley, while the cancerous secret fires inside me ate away my heart.
Next morning Barley went to his office to resume work, but it was agreed that he would drop by the Knightsbridge house on his way home from work in case there were points to clear up. This was not quite the loose arrangement that it sounds, for Ned by now was locked in a serious shoot-out with the twelfth floor, and it was likely that by evening he would either have to give ground or face a full-scale battle with the mandarins.
But by then Barley had disappeared.
According to Brock’s watchers Barley left his office in Norfolk Street a little earlier than expected, at four-forty-three, carrying his saxophone in its case. Wicklow, who was in Abercrombie & Blair’s back office typing up an account of the Moscow trip, was unaware of his departure. But a pair of Brock’s boys in jeans followed Barley west down the Strand and, when he changed his mind, crossed with him into Soho where he went to earth in an afternoon watering-hole frequented by publishers and agents. He spent twenty minutes there, emerged still carrying his saxophone and looking perfectly steady. He hailed a cab, and one of the boys was close enough to hear him give the address of the safe house. The same boy bleeped Brock, who called Ned in Knightsbridge to say ‘Stand by, your guest is on his way.’ I was elsewhere, fighting other wars.
Thus far nobody was to blame, except that neither of the boys thought to take the cab’s number, an oversight that later cost them dear. It was rush hour. A trip between the Strand and Knightsbridge could take an age. It was not till seven-thirty that Ned gave up waiting and, worried but not yet alarmed, returned to the Russia House.
At nine when nobody had any sensible suggestions Ned reluctantly declared an in-house alert, which by definition excluded the Americans. As usual, Ned was operational cool. Perhaps subconsciously he had steeled himself for such a crisis, for Brock later commented that he slipped into a prepared routine. He did not inform Clive, but as he explained to me later, telling Clive in the present poisoned atmosphere was as good as sending a singing telegram to Langley.
Ned drove himself first to Bloomsbury where the Service listeners owned a run of cellars under Russell Square. He used a car from the pool and must have driven like the wind. The head duty listener was Mary, a compulsive eater of forty, rose-faced and spinsterish. Her only known loves were unattainable voices. Ned handed her a list of Barley’s contacts, compiled by the departed Walter from intercepts and watch reports. Could Mary cover them immediately? Like now?
Mary damn well could not. ‘Stretching regulations is one thing, Ned. A dozen illegal taps is completely another, can’t you even see?’
Ned might have argued that the extra numbers were covered by the existing Home Office warrant but he didn’t bother. He phoned me in Pimlico just as I was uncorking the bottle of burgundy with which I proposed to console myself after a dirty day. It’s a rather awful little flat and I had the window open to get out the smell of frying. I remember closing the window while we talked.
Phone warrants are in theory signed by the Home Secretary or in his absence by his Minister. But there is a trick to this, for he has provided the Legal Adviser with a delegated authority to be used only in emergency and accounted for in writing within twenty-four hours. I scribbled out my authority, signed it, turned off the gas – I was still boiling the Brussels sprouts – clambered into a cab and twenty minutes later handed the authority to Mary. Within the hour the telephones of Barley’s twelve contacts were covered.
What was I thinking as I did all this? Did I think Barley had done away with himself? No, I did not. His concerns were for the living. The last thing he wished to do was leave them to their fate.
But I considered the possibility that he had broken ranks, and I suppose my worst fantasy was of Barley loudly clapping as the Aeroflot pilot announced that his plane had re-entered Soviet airspace.
In the meantime, on Ned’s orders, Brock had persuaded the police to put out an emergency call for any metropolitan cab-driver who had picked up a tall man with a saxophone on the corner of Old Compton Street at five-thirty, destination Knightsbridge but probably changed en route. Yes, a tenor saxophone – a baritone sax was twice the size. By ten they had their man. The cab had started out for Knightsbridge but at Trafalgar Square Barley had indeed changed his mind and asked to be driven to Harley Street. The fare came to three pounds. Barley gave the driver a fiver and told him to keep the change.
By a small miracle of quick thin
king, assisted by the late Walter’s records, Ned made the connection – Andrew George Macready, alias Andy, former jazz trumpeter and listed Barley contact, had been admitted to the Sisters of Mercy Hospice, Harley Street, three weeks ago, see scrawled letter intercept in pencil, Mrs. Macready to Hampstead, serial 47A, and Walter’s lapidary comment on the minute sheet: Macready is Barley’s guru on mortality.
I still remember how I clung to the grab handle of Ned’s car with both hands. We arrived at the hospice to be told Macready was under sedation. Barley had sat with him for an hour and they had managed to exchange a few words. The night matron, who had just come on duty, had taken Barley a cup of tea, no milk or sugar. Barley had topped it up with whisky from a flask. He had offered the matron a dram but she declined. He asked her whether he might ‘play old Andy a couple of his favourite numbers’. He played softly for ten minutes exactly, which was what she had allowed him. Several of the nuns had gathered in the corridor to listen, and one of them recognised the tune as Basie’s ‘Blue and Sentimental’. He left his phone number and a cheque for a hundred pounds ‘for the croupier’ on a brass collection plate at the door. The matron had told him he could come back whenever he wanted.
‘You’re not police, are you?’ she asked me unhappily as we made for the door.
‘Good Lord, no. Whyever should we be?’
She shook her head and would not answer, but I thought I knew what she had seen in him. A man in flight, hiding from his own actions.
Using the car telephone as we sped back to the Russia House Ned ordered Brock to list all clubs, concert halls and pubs in the London area where jazz was being played tonight. He should distribute as many watchers as he could muster over these events.
For good measure I added the lawyer’s ten cents’ worth. In no circumstances was Brock or any watcher physically to restrain Barley or close with him. Whatever other rights Barley might have waived, he had not waived his right to defend himself and he was a powerful man.
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