‘And filled with a practical desire to forge the bonds of friendship then and there, the English comrade suddenly rounds on the little professor with the drooping eyelid and presents him with a handsomely bound volume of dialectically incorrect bourgeois history. “Take,” he says, “this simple volume of imperialist lies as a token of the English people’s eternal esteem.”
‘The dwarf professor accepts it with deep gratitude and a long pair of tongs. Applause. Photographers’ flashes. And before the bond of friendship has had time to cool, the professor is brandishing a silver-gilt model of Moscow University. “Be so good,” he says, “as to condescend to accept this worthless, thirty-centimetres high, silver-gilt facsimile of our humble skyscraper.” Thunderstorm of clapping and electronic flashes.
‘And at that moment it struck me.
‘“Holy God!” I thought. “This tiny brigand is handing over the precious secrets of our Soviet state for foreign gold! I can tell by the look on their faces!”’
32
It was beginning to rain. Fat, wet drops smacked down on to the pavement and roadway. Konstantin looked up to investigate, and one struck the right-hand lens of his spectacles, obliterating it entirely and making him jump.
‘There’s a Metro station at the end of this road,’ he said. ‘We might get a carriage to ourselves at this time of night. Sit back – put our feet up. Good as a suite at the Sovietskaya.’
They trotted to the station, dark splodges of wetness speckling their clothes like a rash.
‘Ah,’ said Konstantin, as they got into a carriage with only two old women at the other end of it. ‘This is underground travel as it ought to be. Take a seat. Make yourself at home. Waiter! A bottle of champagne!’
He whipped off his glasses and polished them on the lining of his cap, his nose twitching at the absence of the accustomed weight.
‘It’s a good way to transmit information,’ he said. ‘Much better than furtively depositing it in dead letter-boxes, or hiding it in false-bottomed cigarette-lighters, or slipping it into the pocket of someone’s overcoat at a party. Do something secretive and someone may spy on you. Do it in public, in front of cameras, accompanied by toasts and speeches, and no one can spy on you, because everybody’s watching anyway. Open deception, openly arrived at – the secret of conjurors, businessmen, and tyrants alike.’
‘And you deduced all this from the expression on their faces?’
Konstantin shrugged.
‘A pure blind guess, really,’ he said. ‘A working hypothesis, as we natural scientists call it.’
‘But you thought it was worth testing?’
‘Modesty. If the system had occurred to me I was sure it must have occurred to Western intelligence agencies, too.’
‘So you got Ray a to steal the presents?’
‘Correct. Stole the Soviet ones first – naturally assumed the information was going out. First the silver-gilt university. Then a Spassky Tower in alabaster, a plastic sputnik, a china eagle with outspread wings, a painted wooden cigarette box, and a number of other articles repugnant to Western taste. Not a spark of reaction from Proctor-Gould. Glad to see them go, from all I could tell.’
‘He was being broad-minded about Raya.’
‘Then I thought, perhaps he’s bringing something in – instructions to agents, I don’t know. So we stole the Nescafé. No reaction. Stole the books – and there we were.’
They were riding on the Circle line. One by one the almost deserted stations drew level with the train, ground to a halt, and vanished again. Kievskaya, Krasnopresnenskaya, Bielorusskaya, Novoslobodskaya. Manning watched them dreamily, wondering in what tone of voice the names announced themselves, whether boastfully, apologetically, or benevolently.
‘I’m sorry, Konstantin,’ he said awkwardly at last. ‘I don’t entirely believe you.’
‘In what sense, don’t believe?’ said Konstantin slowly, blinking at Manning.
‘For a start, I don’t believe your story about guessing. That was pure invention, wasn’t it? And your deduction about Western intelligence. That seems reasonable as far as it goes. But there’s another deduction which one can’t help making at the same time – that Soviet counter-intelligence would have thought of the system, too.’
‘So what conclusion do you arrive at, Paul?’
‘I’m not sure, Konstantin.’
‘Call me Kostik, Paul. It’s more normal.’
‘The conclusion that suggests itself, Kostik, is that you’re working for Soviet security in some way. Perhaps in a freelance capacity. I suppose you’re trying to bluff Proctor-Gould into letting himself be blackmailed, so that somebody can use the fact of his having allowed himself to be blackmailed in order to blackmail him further.’
Konstantin didn’t answer. He sat in silence from one station to the next, looking out of the window and biting his thumb-nail. Then he sighed.
‘There’s a lot of truth in what you say,’ he said, and began to bite his thumb-nail again.
‘Listen,’ he said at last. ‘What does a kopeck look like? It depends which side you look at it from. Raya and I, now – from your point of view we look like thieves and hooligans. But from the usual side, the Soviet side, we’re respectable citizens. Raya teaches Diamat at a leading institute of higher education. I’m an aeronautical metallurgist. Raya’s father is very grand – a candidate member of the Presidium. We’re both Komsomol leaders. Activists. Responsible young people. We’re trusted to maintain moral standards. If you want to know what sort of people we are, take the case of your friend Lippe.’
‘Katerina?’
‘Katerina Fyodorovna Lippe. Lippe K.F. A head stuffed with nonsense, as we activists would say. She was expelled from Komsomol for telling lies about our country to a young visitor from Austria. Expulsion from Komsomol, of course, automatically meant expulsion from the university. Who took the decision to expel her from Komsomol? Metelius R.P., then joint-secretary of the Moscow State University branch, and chairman of the committee that considered Lippe’s case. And who confirmed the decision of Metelius R.P.? Churavayev K.S., member of the Executive Committee, Moscow District.’
Manning stared at Konstantin, who shrugged, and pushed his glasses up his nose.
‘That’s Soviet life, Paul. These things occur. As it happens, Lippe was a poor student. It could have been someone more valuable.’
‘Poor old Katya.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Do you often break people’s careers?’
‘I’ve confirmed five expulsions. None of them entirely without reason. One man later killed himself. He’d been expelled for stealing from girls he lived with. I tell you all this not because I’m proud of it, or even because I’m ashamed of it. I just want you to have a clear picture of me from the other side.’
He sounded rather depressed.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘someone guessed about Proctor-Gould. The K.G.B. – the G.R.U. I don’t know. Must have put them in a difficult position. Proctor-Gould has a very high standing in this country. Close personal links with a lot of senior people in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. People say he’s a friend of Mikoyan’s. Is that true?’
‘I’ve heard it said.’
‘Very difficult to make investigations without letting him know he was under suspicion. All right, search his room. But if what they were looking for was really well hidden it would mean coming back day after day. And if Proctor-Gould was a spy, he’d presumably have taken some precautions. People used to leave hairs in their papers, and that kind of thing. Do they still do that?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I expect there’s some new trick. Anyway, he’d almost certainly have found out. Disposed of the evidence. Then complained to his friends in the Foreign Ministry.’
‘So they asked you?’
‘They asked Raya. It’s normal. A pretty girl – a loyal member of Komsomol. Working in the university like yourself. Natural for her to get to know first you, and then Pro
ctor-Gould.’
‘It was done as cold-bloodedly as that?’
‘I’m afraid so, Paul. Don’t be downcast. She thought you were both terribly attractive. Told me so. Thought you were both wonderful. Particularly Proctor-Gould when he flew into a rage and threw the books about. She was really very impressed.’
‘The K.G.B.,’ said Manning, ‘just told her to go and live with Proctor-Gould?’
‘They weren’t quite that optimistic, Paul. They just asked her to get to know him, and see if she could get inside his room. Well, they didn’t know Raya as you and I know her. They underestimated her. Each morning she used to go and report progress to a fatherly man with sciatica in a little office behind the Izvestia building. When she went in and told him she was actually living in Proctor-Gould’s room, he jumped up like a kangaroo, he was so surprised. Brought on a violent spasm of sciatica. Almost killed him. Couldn’t do anything but bend over the desk and groan for ten minutes. Then he started shaking his head and saying he had a daughter himself. Never intended Raya to stoop to immorality, he said. Nevertheless, she stayed.’
‘I suppose Gordon and I both made complete fools of ourselves.’
Konstantin shrugged.
‘I warned him,’ said Manning. ‘I thought from the first that Raya was a bit too good to be true.’
‘I don’t want to moralize,’ said Konstantin. ‘But deceivers must expect to be deceived. Spies can’t complain if they’re spied on.’
‘This is where your thesis goes astray, Kostik. Gordon’s not a spy.’
‘How do you know, Paul?’
‘It’s not in his character.’
Konstantin waggled his head from side to side.
‘Character, character,’ he said. ‘If you were wrong about Raya, why do you think you understand Proctor-Gould?’
‘We come from similar backgrounds, Kostik. We were at the same university. And you get a certain insight into someone’s mind when you interpret for him. Honestly, Kostik, I understand Gordon and you don’t.’
Konstantin didn’t comment. He blinked, and wrinkled his nose up.
‘What you and I think doesn’t really matter,’ he said. ‘Our security forces think Gordon is carrying espionage materials. Gordon thinks he’s carrying espionage materials. Those two expert opinions are enough for our purposes.’
Manning stared at Konstantin.
‘God knows what your purposes are,’ he said. ‘If you think Gordon’s a spy, why don’t you go ahead and have him arrested? Why are you arguing it out with me?’
‘I shall explain.’
Suddenly Manning believed he saw the reason. A warmth ran through him, as if he had taken a draught of scalding coffee.
‘You’re warning us,’ he said. ‘You’re giving us a chance to get out.’
33
The suggestion embarrassed Konstantin. He tore off his spectacles and began to wipe them on the lining of his cap all over again. He coughed, and muttered so rapidly that Manning found it still more difficult to catch what he was saying.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘that’s not formally true…. Sorry to say…. A certain basic misunderstanding….’
‘What?’ said Manning.
Konstantin cleared his throat and pulled the wires of his glasses back round his ears.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Let me explain what Raya was doing for the old man with the sciatica.’
‘She was stealing Gordon’s belongings.’
‘By no means.’
‘What?’
‘Well, of course not. Do you really suppose the security services of the second most powerful nation on earth would have to resort to methods of such crudity?’
‘But we both know what happened….’
‘You’re letting yourself be dazzled by the obvious. Raya was exchanging Gordon’s belongings. She reported to the old man what presents Gordon had in his room. He supplied her with replicas which she put in their place. Then she took the originals to the office.’
‘But, Kostik …’
‘First it was the model university, the Spassky Tower, and the rest. Then the various Russian books Proctor-Gould had been given. Then they had six tins of Nescafé flown over from England. Imagine that! Picture our agent in London. Taken off stealing the plans of submarines, and told to go out and buy six tins of Nescafé! Next they began to have copies of the English books flown in.’
‘But, Kostik, I don’t understand this at all. Raya was stealing those things. We found the books and the Nescafé in your apartment.’
Konstantin sighed.
‘Private enterprise,’ he said. ‘Characterized by all the signs of haste and compromise that go with lack of adequate resources and proper central planning. Like many Soviet citizens, Paul, we were attempting a little private speculation over and above our commitments on behalf of the state. Result: poor quality of production. Only thing to be said in its favour – it worked, and the state enterprise didn’t.’
‘You were stealing the stuff unofficially?’
‘Exactly. And of course we followed the usual habit of speculators – we gave priority to our private efforts. That’s to say, we stole the goods first. If there was no reaction from Gordon we knew they were harmless. In which case we’d pass them on to the public sector. So we come to the books, which we estimate are not harmless. Now we have two possibilities. Either we can turn them over to the state like all the rest of the stuff. Or else we can forward not Gordon’s books at all, but the books Raya was given to replace them with. That would be more likely to promote Proctor-Gould’s continued prosperity. Which we do, of course, depends on Proctor-Gould.’
‘How much are you asking, Kostik?’
‘A lot, Paul. An opportunity like this doesn’t arise every day.’
‘How much is that in roubles?’
Konstantin wrinkled up his nose.
‘What makes you think the price is in roubles?’ he asked. ‘Money isn’t the only thing that people want. Some people value contentment above wealth. Some power. Some fame. Some obscurity. Also it depends what’s in short supply. There are commodities in shorter supply than money in this country.’
Manning studied Konstantin’s face in silence.
‘I told you earlier,’ Konstantin went on, ‘that Raya came from a very grand family. My family was honourable as well – once. A celebrated Bolshevik family, Paul, and very proud. My maternal grandfather was one of the members of the Moscow Soviet who voted for Nogin in 1917. My paternal grandfather lost an arm fighting against Kolchak in Siberia in 1919. Then in the thirties the family was trampled into the ground. Nothing unusual. A normal phenomenon at that time. My maternal grandfather was arrested. He died in prison before he could be brought to trial. My paternal grandfather was sent to a camp. He died there. My father I can’t even remember. He was called up in 1941, when I was three, and killed in the battle for Kharkov two years later.
‘I was brought up by my mother and my maternal grandmother. My grandmother was a proud woman, Paul. They would have murdered her in 1936 as well as her husband, but they were ashamed to touch anyone so erect and forbidding. So my mother always believed, anyway. Grandfather’s death didn’t change her views at all, in any direction.
‘“If you believe in the Revolution,” she used to say, “remain loyal to it, however its name is disgraced.” And the other thing she used to say was: “Know the truth, even if it goes with you in silence to the grave.” She used to sit bolt upright on a hard chair, and when she said these things she would tremble slightly, like tempered steel under load. People like that – not our generation, Paul. She didn’t speculate, as we must, whether the killing, and the lies, and the darkness were all inevitable once the violence had begun, and society had been unmade.
‘So I was always brought up to distinguish the truth, and to value it, without regard to its expediency. As a result I have a craving for it. I’m like a gourmet in a chronically starving land. I hunger not just for the mass of random facts with
which some starving people stuff themselves until their brains are swollen. I want information that’s relevant to our condition. I want disinterested interpretations, honest commentaries.
‘Don’t think I reject my country, Paul. Or even reject what it has become. We can overcome our famine. I’m not cynical about Gordon’s activities. If I thought they would harm Russia in any way whatsoever I should do everything in my power to destroy him. But thorough mutual espionage is a blessing to both sides. How can we politick safely against each other unless we can be sure that our true strength and intentions are known?
‘Not that espionage works out quite so well in practice. The information that spies steal is always vitiated by the possibility that its sources are corrupt. Where the source of information is not open to inspection, the possibility always exists that the selection of material is deliberately misleading. Information on its own is not enough; one always needs to know its origin. Stolen secrets either confirm what their recipients already know, or they’re not believed.
‘And that’s the position that we are in, too. The supply of information is controlled in this country. The selection we get is distorted. So the value even of the information that does get through the filter is diminished. We know nothing worth knowing about what goes on outside our frontiers. Worse – we know very little more about what goes on within them. Beyond the light of one’s own personal experience – darkness. What are people thinking? What are they feeling? How do they behave? Messages of reassurance or exhortation come through. One reads between the lines. Friends pool their knowledge. But in general we live like animals, in ignorance of the world around us.
‘So in despair those of us who can do so turn to the West to learn about ourselves. We use our academic status to read Western publications in the closed sections of the libraries. Visitors smuggle us books. Such information as I get hold of is seen not just by Raya and me. It’s passed to a whole circle of trusted friends we have built up over the years. Our aims aren’t subversive, Paul. Don’t think that. Not one of us who isn’t a pure Leninist. There must be dozens of similar circles in Moscow alone.
The Russian Interpreter Page 15