3
MONTY
‘We nearly jumped out of our skins, guv, when the Old Bill rolled up. Gave us the shock of our lives.’
We were sitting disconsolately in a car outside the entrance to the building, waiting for Corless. Above us was the darkened window where, until a short while ago, a light behind a curtain had reassured us that Krasov was safe and sound. In the space of a few moments our world had been turned upside down.
‘What the hell did the police want?’
‘Search me, guv. All very quiet, like. No lights, no bells, nothing. Three cars and a Black Maria. A couple of bobbies posted front and back. Then these three uniformed officers go in through the front door, don’t they? A minute later out they come with some poor sod under a blanket and they’re away. All over in the blink of an eye. Nothing we could do about it, was there, sir?’
‘Who was it, the local nick?’
‘No, sir. The local swears blind they knew nothing was going on in their parish. I’m sure they didn’t take our boy.’
I found a telephone box and rang the duty desk at Scotland Yard. I was given the runaround at once. There is no one more obtuse than a policeman who doesn’t want to be helpful.
Foreign gentleman would he be, sir, with a name like that? Karsov, was it? Could I spell that, please? Nobody of that name, no, sir. Nothing in the duty book. Just a minute, sir. Sounds of a muffled conversation, one hand partly over the receiver. Yes, he could confirm someone had been brought in, Russian gentleman, Mr Krakoff by name. No, sir, he couldn’t authorize that, he’s being held incommunicado at present.
Nothing more after that, just round in circles, an impenetrable defence that left me furious at my impotence and apprehensive about what might happen now.
Corless turned up at midnight, wearing a dinner jacket. He had been angry when I had finally made contact and given him the news about Krasov. His temper hadn’t cooled on the journey back to London.
‘What an utter mess,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you doing with him anyway? You had no authority to take charge. Why didn’t you get hold of me at once?’
I did my best to explain that I’d tried but he wasn’t in a mood for listening.
‘Where’s Krasov now? Do we know who’s got him?’
‘Scotland Yard are holding him overnight.’
‘You’ve asked to see him and some idiot in blue has said no? Is that right?’
‘Out of bounds,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Very unhelpful. Didn’t want to know.’
‘I’m going to make a telephone call,’ Corless said impatiently.
But his contact, whoever he was, wouldn’t oblige. The establishment he thought he’d joined still had him on probation. He didn’t like that, especially since I was a witness to his rejection. (A setback to the growth industry of Corless mythology, not good for rising stars.) His mood darkened.
‘Do you know what pisses me off?’ he said, genuine bitterness in his voice. ‘A man who is probably an active member of the Russian intelligence service and not the friendly journalist some of us imagined him to be’ he glanced at me, ‘is sitting in a nice warm cell a mile away from here, while all because of our bloody bureaucracy we’re out here freezing our balls off unable to get our hands on him. No wonder this country is going to the dogs.’ He pulled up the collar of his overcoat. ‘Let’s go and get a cup of tea. You can tell me the full story on the way.’
We walked to the cabbies’ hut in Pont Street and got two cups of strong tea which we drank in the back of Corless’s car. I told him as much as I knew.
*
‘Christ!’ Corless banged his gloved hand against the side of the car. ‘We had him in our grasp and now we’ve lost him.’
He was sunk in gloom. Krasov was a sleeper, he said. He’d served his years as a journalist, established himself so well that when the call came we were looking the other way. He’d been wrong about Krasov. We’d all been wrong about Krasov.
‘The Soviets need to contact their source in Cambridge. Who better for the job than our friendly Russian? He spins some yarn about being afraid to go home and we all fall for it. Minutes later he’s getting soup and sympathy in the home of his target. Half an hour with Stevens and the deed, whatever it is, is done. Next day he’s back in town, we shelter him for the weekend and as the time comes for a move, Scotland Yard take over and hand him back to his own people the following day and we can’t touch him. All very neat, thank you very much. We’ve been set up, good and proper, that’s for sure.’
It was meant to hurt and it did.
‘Nothing more we can do tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ve lost this round. Let’s get some sleep. We’ll meet again at eight and see if we can retrieve something then.’
The light of day didn’t make things better. Colin Maitland put his head round the door. Rupert had summoned him at dawn from the depths of Sussex.
‘Our boy’s in the embassy, Rupert. First thing this morning. Police escort all the way. Looked like royalty. The press are on to it, I’m afraid. Someone tipped them off.’
Corless’s secretary came in (another early-morning telephone call to her flat in Putney). ‘I got on to Northolt, sir. There’s an Aeroflot plane leaving at two-thirty.’
‘That’s the one they’ll be going for,’ Corless said, suddenly animated. ‘That gives us five hours.’
‘Do you want me to get the car, sir?’
‘Better still, Maureen,’ he said, scribbling a number on a piece of paper and giving it to her, ‘see if you can raise Willy Glover, will you? Say I need to speak to him urgently.’
‘You won’t be popular,’ Maitland said. ‘Glover’s spending the weekend with David Iredale.’
‘I’m not in this to be popular,’ Corless snapped. ‘I’m sure Glover will think national security’s more important that slaughtering birds on Iredale’s estate.’
The buzzer went on Corless’s desk.
‘Mr Glover for you, sir.’
It was a fairly stilted conversation and Corless didn’t get his way at first. But he stuck to his point, Glover gave in and said he’d be with us by eleven. He was senior to Corless and he had the clout Rupert so obviously lacked. Rupert’s idea, I imagined, was to get him to sanction his scheme, whatever it was.
Corless put the telephone down and we heard Maureen’s voice on the intercom.
‘I’ve put the car on standby all day. We’ll pick up Mr Glover at Victoria.’
‘Thank you, Maureen.’ Corless looked at his watch. ‘Maybe there’s a chance we can pull something out of the bag.’ He pressed the buzzer again. ‘Maureen. Some of us missed our breakfast. We’d love one of your famous cups of tea. And any chance of a piece of toast, Mr Maitland asks?’
*
‘This had better be good, Rupert.’ In his tweed suit Glover looked more like a country squire than a senior civil servant, what Corless in the days before his elevation had called weekend fancy dress but which now he copied slavishly. ‘David Iredale doesn’t like his guests being called away when he’s asked them down for a shoot.’
Corless said he hoped Lord Iredale would accept his apologies for the inconvenience. If he hadn’t judged it important, he would never have asked for the meeting. He reported that he had evidence that Krasov had been in Cambridge, in contact with a senior British nuclear scientist already suspected of working with the Russians. He wanted an order to prevent Krasov from leaving the country, pending further enquiries. The Russian was to be arrested and handed over to SOVINT for questioning.
‘No can do, Rupert. Sorry.’
‘Why not?’ Corless was horrified.
‘Number of reasons. One. We’ve no evidence he’s done anything wrong. Two. They informed us an hour ago that Krasov is seriously ill and must return to Moscow for immediate medical treatment.’
‘For God’s sake, Willy, they’re shooting a line. You don’t believe it, do you?’
‘We offered them medical facilities here, but the embassy spokesman said
Krasov requires specialist treatment only available in Moscow. We have naturally accepted their judgement in the matter.’
‘Aren’t you surprised that a man who is perfectly healthy one minute should fall so desperately ill the next, Willy? Doesn’t it make you ask questions? Doesn’t it stink?’
‘Not our job to question the competent medical authorities,’ Glover said. ‘The Soviets have their own doctor, and he has made the diagnosis. Krasov’s health is a matter for them.’
‘Do you think Krasov’s collapse might have been engineered with the use of drugs administered under duress?’
‘We have no evidence for that. We cannot act on supposition, however convenient it might be to do so. Our contacts at the Soviet embassy have assured us that Krasov will receive the very best medical attention in Moscow. They hope he will be back at his desk before long.’
‘You let them say that, Willy? You let them get away with it?’
‘What grounds do I have for not believing them? Certainly not the extravagant story you’ve spun me.’
‘Krasov was perfectly fit when he left Scotland Yard a few hours ago. There was nothing the matter with him. Do you want me to produce witnesses?’
‘Got to take the Soviets’ word for it, old boy. We can’t risk a damaging political incident out of this, you know.’
Corless was controlling his anger only by the skin of his teeth.
‘We’re now almost certain Krasov is a Soviet intelligence officer. It is our belief that he may be taking British nuclear secrets back to Moscow with him. Are you still prepared to let him go?’
‘Come on, Rupert. You can do better than that.’
‘I want an answer, Willy.’
‘I can’t stop him, and you know I can’t.’
We were kicking against an invisible wall. There is nothing so smug nor self-assured as an official working within the strict guidelines of the rule book. Willy Glover did not put a foot wrong that morning and we got nowhere. The armour of the rule book was impenetrable. Corless threw up his hands in despair.
We stood helplessly on the sidelines while Krasov was taken away. Our department’s efforts to prevent the Russian embassy removing him, drugged and strapped to a stretcher as reported by Northolt security officers, ‘seriously ill’ according to a Russian press officer when only twenty-four hours earlier he had been in the best of health, had failed utterly. But what depressed us most was the hostility we met from our own side.
‘Soviets one, SOVINT nil,’ Adrian Gardner said. There was a general reluctance to go home on this wet and depressing Sunday afternoon. We had suffered our first defeat and we knew it. The trouble was, we didn’t know what to do about it.
4
RUTH
Miskin has disappeared from her life. The last communication between them was a brief exchange as they passed unexpectedly in a corridor the morning after she asked her question about the security measures in D4.
‘We must stay away from each other,’ was his whispered instruction, ‘It is too dangerous to meet.’
He has kept his word. Since that moment she has not heard from him. This doesn’t surprise her. Even if he betrayed no reaction on that first day of her unexpected outburst, she has spent enough time in his company to imagine his astonishment at seeing her play a role so out of character with the woman he knows, and he knows more about her than anyone else at the Institute.
When has he ever heard her express any of these opinions in private? When has she voiced any opinions at all? Where has this new passion come from? None of it fits, she can hear him saying. Her behaviour makes no sense.
Week follows week without any word from him. She interprets his silence as anger. If only they could meet, so he can have it out with her. She could give him some lie about her motives that might at least allow them to remain friends, even if the previous intimacy were now gone. (Is that in itself such a loss? Probably not.) Whatever happens, she is desperate not to lose Miskin.
Then at last he arranges a meeting. But as she leaves her apartment, her telephone rings, two short bursts, then silence. There is no mistaking the familiar urgency of Andropov’s summons, nor any doubt about what she must do. How can she get hold of Miskin? She cannot telephone his home to postpone their meeting. (Contacting him at home has always been expressly forbidden. He does not want his wife to know of Ruth’s existence.) She does not have time to go to the rendezvous and tell him that she is summoned elsewhere. She will have to stand him up. But her heart is heavy and she is fearful of the consequences.
She knows the level of distress he will feel at her non-appearance, how in his confusion he will have allowed his good nature to be overruled by fantasies of disaster or conspiracy. His anger will burn away slowly inside him until a fire rages, bringing the risk of a sudden downward spiral into a depression that will release the voices he fears so much when he is rational and he listens to so assiduously when the madness takes him.
She hears from Miskin again. This time she leaves the apartment before any rival summons. He hardly glances at her when she gets into the car beside him. She is shocked by his appearance. He is very pale, there are deep rings under his eyes and the twitch on his right cheek is more pronounced. He drives fast out of Moscow, saying nothing. The city is a grey ghost in the distance when they turn off the road and Miskin rolls the car down a track to come to rest beneath the trees, well out of sight of the highway. This is not a meeting place she knows.
For some time he says nothing. He leans forward and rests his head on his hands, still gripping the wheel. She wants to touch him, to soothe his distress and tell him the truth. It takes all her strength to stay silent. When at last he speaks, his voice is worryingly calm.
‘What happened the other night?’
‘My mother was ill. I couldn’t leave her.’
‘I waited over an hour.’
‘I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t do that deliberately.’ It is the first time she has lied to him.
‘I don’t know anything any more.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Whatever you want it to mean.’
‘Yuri?’ She wants to reach out and touch him but she is afraid to do anything.
‘What’s happened, Ruth? What am I to think? I hardly know you any more.’
She has prepared for this moment. So far Miskin is behaving as she’d expected. He is defensive, mystified, controlling his anger, but revealing the strain he is under. She has to gain control of the situation so she bursts into tears. Miskin hates tears: they bring out the instincts he wants to conceal. Expressing his humanity betrays a weakness he is afraid of. Tears can always move him.
‘Oh, Yuri.’ She has her handkerchief held tightly against her mouth.
‘Ruth, please.’
He puts his arm around her and she leans her head against his shoulder and sobs. He holds her to him. Suddenly, he speaks, his voice almost strangled with emotion.
‘Tell me his name. You must tell me his name.’
‘Whose name?’
‘Your lover’s name. Who is he?’
‘I haven’t got a lover, Yuri.’
‘I want to hear his name on your lips.’ He has turned to face her, his expression showing how near the limit he is.
‘Each night you leave your apartment very late, you meet a man in an official car, he takes you to different places all over the city, you stay with him for an hour or so, then you are driven home. Night after night I have followed you. You were with him three days ago when you should have been with me. You cannot expect me to believe that man is not your lover.’
‘It isn’t what you think it is,’ she says, hating herself for her inability to speak the truth.
‘Then deny it,’ he says hoarsely.
‘Would you believe me if I did?’ she asks.
‘How can you ask me that, Ruth?’
His mouth has dried with emotion and the words sound strange and unlike him.
‘Can’t you trust m
e after all these years?’
‘Then tell me I’m wrong!’ His voice is raised. He turns away from her and bangs the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. ‘Tell me it isn’t true.’
For an instant she thinks he is about to hit her and she is terrified. The night air is cold and she wraps her coat around herself.
‘Take me home, please, Yuri.’
‘No.’
His voice is like an explosion, a burst of pain from deep within him, his jealousy and suffering uncontrolled.
‘Your lover is an intelligence officer. His name is Andropov. He is a diligent, unquestioning servant of the state, a man who will commit crimes at the instruction of those he serves. Ask him about the blood on his hands, Ruth. Get him to tell you about the innocent men and women he has killed because he was instructed to do so. Then you will know you are sleeping with a murderer.’
‘No, Yuri. No. That is not true.’
He shouts: ‘What isn’t true? That Andropov isn’t a murderer? Or that he isn’t your lover? Are you his whore, Ruth? Does he pay you when it is over? Do you have fur coats and hats and shoes and silk stockings? Is that how he buys your silence, your compliance in his crimes?’
She is sobbing now, real tears from deep within her.
‘Tell me what is going on.’
The appeal in his voice has vanished. This is an order, not a request.
‘I am seeing Andropov but it is not what you think.’ It sounds so hollow that she is ashamed, and yet it is the truth.
His head falls forward on the steering wheel. She watches him almost physically deflate, as if her words have removed from him some property that up to now has kept him going.
He moans. She thinks he is saying: ‘No, no, no,’ but he speaks so quietly she can’t be sure. She dares not say anything. She is so close to him and yet unable to help in any way. She feels at that moment not love for him – she doesn’t think she has ever loved him – but sympathy, tenderness, a fellow feeling for another suffering being in this land of suffering. She is stronger than he is, she has always known that, and she wants to protect him. But he has rejected her and in that rejection he has withdrawn terrifyingly inside himself.
Making Enemies Page 15