The Desolate Garden

by Daniel Kemp

  She didn't, but wouldn't waste precious time surrounded by desirable, willing men in trying to; her sensuality needed satisfying. When Ceran started her liaisons they were not looked upon, by her husband, as acts of unfaithfulness. They were considered by him as a natural form of progression for her to indulge herself in. For those who wanted to put him straight on what he already knew; he would simply shrug his shoulders and lower his eyes, as his way of acceptance. To Mr English, it was an advantage. Her behaviour distracted onlookers away from the fight that he was engaged in; the one he could, and did, eventually win. No one would ever suspect that a man who could not keep his wife satisfied, would have the balls to screw his own country!

  Igor's penchant for male company was not unsettling for Mr English either, nor the nodding heads at Moscow Centre. What was once described as 'the English disease' by the French had never been frowned on by the Russian puppeteers. It had always been a way into the upper spheres of decadent society, and not just in Britain but the world over, including the self-righteous French. To Igor's youthful good looks were added confidence and charm, and his desire to be noticed was not long in being fulfilled. He joined the young Fabian group of socialist thinkers, joining debates on the gradual reform of society towards democratic socialism rather than a revolutionary approach. He was an erudite orator, and soon published in the New Statesman.

  In 1972, Britain was in darkness for four days a week, because of fuel shortages caused predominantly by the left-wing socialist-led coal miners being on strike. Prime Minister Edward Heath would not govern for long; the few would defeat the majority in a weak democracy governed by greed and self-preservation. The irony of the situation was not lost on Igor when he was approached by the British civil service, one not known to favour votes of reform to its own constitution. He was invited to enter the battle on the side of the Right. It was Dicky Blythe-Smith who made the offer.

  “These are turbulent times in which we live. We risk elected governments being controlled by outside influences and not being able to represent the electorate, but more inclined to render assistance to vested parties. The British Secret Service must see to it that privileges of citizenship of this country are enjoyed by all. Your adopted father's name is held in high regard in the country of his birth, and I'm sure you would welcome the chance to build on the reputation of that name. I am offering you such a chance. We want you to continue to build on your affiliation within the Labour Party. Become a card-carrying member, and, in time, ingratiate yourself into its inner sanctum. Give them stories of depravity abroad, hedonism you've witnessed at the Consul's table, at the Ambassadors Ball. You have a vivid imagination, so use it with tales of self-indulgence, drunkenness, frolicking under the sheets and behind the shed…that sort of thing. Throw in a few underhanded deals, like turning a blind eye to certain transactions for acceptance of a Roll's Royce bid, or one from BP. Better still, use the British Leyland name. They're dying on their feet, and the next in line for another handout from the public coffers. Pull this off, and there is a great future here in England for you. My office door will be open, and that of my club. We'll make you truly English…one of the chosen race. If not, well, don't want to go down that road, do we?”

  * * *

  “Ironic, indeed, the use of implied threats to induce me into the very organisation I want to enter, the head of the serpent knowing nothing of the trail already laid! How easy it is to work amongst snakes,” Igor related to Mr English the following mist-shrouded morning, drawing on Turkish cigarettes and gazing, emotionless, at the London skyline from the boardroom of Smith Kline Beecham, the domain of he who wore the Knight's Cross of Saint Michael and Saint George. “We have done well, Igor. My intuitiveness into the British nature, and your…” Mr English paused for a while, pondering on the right expression to use in describing the next in line as Russia's ears and eyes on America's ally…“exuberance, have seen us through. You are in, my boy; make it count!”

  That is exactly what Igor did. For the next thirty-nine years, he doubled as a double. A complicated thing to do for the ordinary man, but with genes from Stanislav and Yelena and the interference and guidance from Mr and Mrs English, Igor was far from ordinary. At first he began spying on the Red English for the Red, White and Blue English, and then spying on all colours of them for the Russians, who laughed all the way to their bank. The only trouble for this association of reptilian minds was that eventually, when Paulo owned the bank, the deposits made by Igor were never securely underwritten by anyone. Paulo pocketed most of them, never passing on a return on the investments in the depositor's direction. Instead, he returned the capital from whence it had come, insuring Igor's wrath.

  With the qualifications he gained at Cambridge and the patronage of a KCMG father, a significant place was found in Price Waterhouse for Igor's material talents, whilst his spiritual ones prospered inside the Labour Party. He walked in exalted air, perfumed by success and dressed in the refineries of wealth and prominence. Paraded to all and sundry as 'the son of our distinguished last Ambassador to the United States' when accompanying his elders at development conferences for business purposes or for political ones. There, he tagged along behind the very leaders of the Socialist party as a volunteer aid in his spare time. For years he enhanced Dicky's knowledge of the left wing of British politics, while at the same time alerting Moscow of pickings to be found among the disillusioned far left-thinking periphery. These, Moscow instructed, were to be encouraged and developed by hands other than Igor's in replacing the ones that Dicky had told Igor to concentrate on; the ones already suspected as Russian sympathisers, and now confirmed by Moscow. These were the same names that Paulo was informed about when he found Jack Simmons. They were spent, used up. Igor could confirm Dicky's suspicions and make himself indispensable in the cause against the subversives. He dutifully obeyed his instructions, putting an end to several established and potential political careers in the process. As his reward, he was presented with the Official Secrets Act document, and asked if he would be good enough to add his signature. “Become one of us, dear boy. Make daddy proud.”

  They never gave him the combination to the safe that day. Even fools don't always make mistakes. However, no amount of education can turn a stubborn fool into a wise man, and they awarded it later.

  Mr English was indeed proud and satisfied that their plans had been completed, and he danced around that second star on the right, that Ceran had so liked, with excitement. Stanislav never came to hear of his son's elevation. Had he done, I'm sure he would have laughed whilst tending Yelena's grave, whispering “All will be avenged, my love, Russia is to be great again.”

  Chapter Forty-Two: Shadows Along the Path

  “There must be something you remember about him, George. What about the colour of his hair?”

  “I've told Judith, Harry. There is nothing. At the check-in he wore a hat, and I was never that close in the hotel. I never saw his face only the name I heard when I was beside him at Heathrow. I never looked across in case it spooked him. He was taller than me…that's all I have. It was a long time ago, and I never thought it would end up like this. If I had, I would have taken a photograph or maybe a gun would have been better, and then we wouldn't be where we are now! Look, it's no good how long you go on…I just can't remember.” He was agitated, as we all were, but George was more so. His frustration was born from all that Tanya had said, and I hadn't had a chance to address any of it. He had spent almost the entire day exclusively in Judith's company whilst she had 'walked him through' the episode ending with his abortive attempt to find his father in Berlin. We had met for the first time on our way to the chapel for the memorial service held after all the other mourners had left, when the two households combined for their own private show of grief.

  The rain had persisted all day and as we walked towards the chapel, under the canopy of the overhanging ash trees, the polyethylene protecting the gifts of flowers crackled, as though several cars were being driven acro
ss gravel. On our return, the rain had finally stopped. Now the droplets from the overhead leaves made the sound of a single pebble being kicked along a cobbled path, as if Elliot and Edward were now saying their final good-byes to us on our walk home.

  I had locked the doors on the coffins and the three of us followed the poignant procession of the umbrellas, paired off in twos and threes, back to the welcoming warm glow of the Hall. The severity of the situation was not lost on any of us, but it was George who commented on our escort.

  “Are they any good with those guns, Harry, or are they just for show do you think?” His previous bravado was abandoned. The reality of the heavily armed police and their purpose eating away at his confidence as Sunday drew ever nearer.

  “Nobody will blame you if don't want to carry Elliot's casket tomorrow,” I responded. “We can keep you out of sight you know. It's not as though you have to do it or be at the graveside to be seen to pay your respects. Everyone knows how you feel, George, how you loved Elliot and what you did for him when he was alive,”

  “I don't know. I don't know anything at the moment…I'm a little scared, if I'm honest. The truth is I would rather be anywhere than here right now. Lying on a beach enjoying the fortune I knew nothing of sounds pretty good to me! But I can't, Harry, can I? No, it's got to be done. One way or another, I have to be here. Oh, I don't know. Let me sleep on it and make a decision in the morning. Maybe I'll find some Dutch courage by then.”

  “Okay, George. But remember, everything is fine by me. You do what sits well with you, old chap,” I added, still trying to reassure him.

  Judy had been quiet throughout the sojourn to and from the chapel but now, as we reached the warmth of the Hall, she spoke to George. “We will have to go through it again, now that Harry is here. He may think of something I've not mentioned or asked. Another mind on the job George, perhaps a different perspective, eh? Then, if we come up with nothing, so be it. We face it tomorrow, and catch the bastard.”

  “All right. Now that you're here, Harry, it would seem a shame that you have missed out on all our fun.” For the first time in days I saw his self-assurance return with the flicker of a smile.

  “That would be an ideal place to start, George. Tell Harry about the fun and games you had at the check-in desk that day.” We were in the library, the site of my own interrogation but without the machines which had gone. I was sure, however, that Judy would have some means of recording our conversation.

  “It was a joke, really. There I was, with just the name on Jack Simmons' message to Paulo. I had no way of knowing what he looked like, so I had to find out somehow. Well, as I said, it was comical in the extreme. I made out that I was nervous about flying, which wasn't far from the truth, There were about five or six girls on duty behind the check-in desk and it wasn't a busy flight by all accounts, so it was easy for me to walk up and down, pretending to decide whether or not to board the flight. I kept talking to myself, saying — Shall I get on it, or not get on it? I'm sorry, can't make up my mind yet, give me time! I had to do it for about half an hour, you know. Made myself look an idiot, but they were ever so polite and understanding, especially as I told them that I was like this every time before I boarded an aeroplane, made them laugh that did. Each time someone checked-in, I hovered around them like some eccentric old fool until I heard their name, then off I'd go again, apologising to all. That's how I discovered Mr Rowell and knew it was him when he eventually arrived at the Hotel.”

  “That was clever! I wouldn't have thought of that, George…showed some high quality initiative there. Did you get a glimpse, anything we can build on?” I asked, knowing that Judy would have covered it, but I was trying to help.

  “Look, I used to play a brain-teasing game on one of Mrs Squire's nephew's electronic Nintendo, one where it shows you words for about a minute or so and then you have to write down as many as you can recall. I was useless at it. Got about three out of forty. I'm just no good at that sort of thing and, as I've said, I didn't know that this day would arise, did I?” George was not made to remember facts about people in airports or hotels. It's an art that can be taught, but George had never had the need for the lessons.

  “How were they, Rowell and Paulo, to recognise one another?” I asked. “Oh, that was simple. Rowell would lay his briefcase flat on the table, handle pointing away from himself. He put that in his message.”

  Judy went back over everything she and George had covered in my absence; what he was wearing, what he ordered to drink at the Hotel and on the flight, whether he was right or left-handed…even the size of his shoes. There was nothing constructive that I could add.

  “There was one thing, he smoked.” George suddenly announced. “The waiter lit a cigarette for him when he sat at the corner table in the restaurant. Yes, I'm right. He sat facing the door on my left side, with his back to the wall.”

  “Did you see what brand?” Judy asked, excited by this new lead, but it lead nowhere.

  “No chance, he was too far away. But there was something though. I remember the waiter picking up the packet and looking at it as though it was special, and I saw him blush. I thought it was the light at first, but it wasn't…it was a definite blush.”

  “For someone who says that they can't remember anything that's quite a lot, George. Thank you, I'm sure we'll find some sense in that,” I replied, not knowing what that meant.

  “We can assume that this man Rowell met someone on the way to rendezvous with Paulo, and that's why it took so long but what I can't understand is if that was Alexi Vasilyev, then why didn't he give Paulo a description?” Her question was addressed to me as I was the only one in Judy's company, but I had no answer to it, nor to others that my cowardice would not allow me to ask.

  “Maybe it wasn't Vasilyev that he met, or maybe he was in disguise,” I added my pennyworth, just in case she was about to leave and find more intelligent answers on the telephone or in her computer.

  “Hmm…could be.” Those long fingers were drumming against her knee, tucked under herself in that usual repose of hers. With her unpainted nails and absence of make-up, she seemed vulnerable and naked, without the pretence of infallibility coupled with supreme confidence that she usually gave to the voyeurs of the outside world. Was I being allowed further within her inner refuge, or was I an avuncular figure around whom complacency could be casually worn? I felt clumsy and uncomfortable as I tried not to stare at her, silhouetted against the iridescent flames from the fire that again coloured her hair a twinkling orange, and shimmered from her skin. She looked as if she belonged here; it was I who didn't.

  “Do you think that you will keep in touch once all this is over, Judith?” I asked, boyishly…hoping for the stupid romantic answer of I'm never going to leave you Harry, I'll stay with you forever and a day!

  “What did you say, Harry? Sorry…I was miles away. I wonder if it was the killer he met, and not Alexi? That would explain why he doesn't know what our man looks like, don't you think, seems to me to be the only answer? Go on…what was it you were saying?”

  I was in a no-such-place without any room for a lovesick Harry Paterson. I offered up Edward's friend, the one who had found him, and some of his other friends, as my excuse to leave. I said that I was expected to meet with them at their hotel in Harrogate before the next day's funeral. It was a lie, but it was all I had in the locker left to use. I retreated to my office and watched the fading sun paint the sky red between the remains of the disappearing clouds. I brooded on what I could not change, and what was impossible to have. My frivolous past had caught up with me, and now was the time to pay.

  For the three years between the end of Able Archer and the death of Mr English, nothing about Igor was frivolous. He diligently went about his Moscow-driven assignment of tracking Tanya, but to no avail. He could neither support nor disclaim the fact that Mother was in America. He was back on familiar ground, being posted as an attaché to the British Embassy in Washington after GCHQ picked up radio traff
ic from Moscow to the squadrons they readied for retaliation, had Reagan not stopped his psychological games. Fleming was then 'C', and Margaret Thatcher had promised her soul mate, Ronnie, all the assistance she could. Fleming, however, had never been briefed, and wanted to know “what the f—k was going on!” As he succinctly put it. “No one told me that we were about to start the thing for real! I was told it was an exercise no more. It came too bloody close for my liking!”

  So Igor went and had a meeting with American middle ranking officers of the intelligence community, swapping stories of tactics used, radar station locations, response times, and who the hell knew who this Mother was?

  Igor played his ace. “I do,” he said.

  With lecherous ears, Rudi Mercer listened carefully to all Igor told him about Tanya. “How do you know all this?” Rudi asked.

  “We know because, in 1956, Paulo Sergeyovitch Korovin left her in England to spy for the Russians. She somehow came here and is now on your Strategic Studies Group, thank God. That cowboy Ronnie of yours almost tipped the balance. He had them going for a while, you know. According to our reports, they were really spooked,” Igor told the all attentive Rudi.

  Rudi had never wanted to liaise with the Brits, but he liked London, and a few crumbs in their direction occasionally kept their plumage plumped up. It allowed them to believe the fabrication that they were the most important among the equally unimportant rest of the outside world. He didn't take kindly to this effeminate Turk insulting his President, either. Turks were, in his opinion, only good for one thing, but he never elaborated on what that was!