‘What about my visa?’ he asked feebly.
‘You have visa valid how long?’
‘I have to leave the Soviet Union tonight.’
She nodded. ‘That will be arranged. Where is your passport?’
‘Still with Reception.’ He sat up, as the doctor and nurse started towards the door. ‘I don’t want any trouble over my visa when I get to the airport!’ he cried.
‘There will be no trouble,’ said the Aeroflot woman placidly. ‘You will be given the necessary extension until you are able to travel.’ She turned, unsmiling, and the three of them walked out and closed the door.
Cayle waited a full hour before venturing along to the lift and riding down to the marble Metro station under the hotel, where he was safely lost among the mass of travellers from every part of the USSR. He took a train to Sverdlova Square, in the city centre, and walked through driving snow up to the Hotel Intourist, rising behind the Bolshoi like a huge upturned mouthorgan.
The lobby was full of Western businessmen and the cool dry smell of air-conditioning. The girl at the reception desk had mauve fingernails and an American accent. Cayle asked for Room 1727. She lifted a white telephone, whispered into it, and said to Cayle, ‘Your name, please, sir?’
He told her, and she spoke again into the phone, then hung up. ‘The gentleman asks if you will meet him in the coffee-lounge. He’ll be down right away.’
Cayle thanked her and bought a copy of yesterday’s Morning Star, with most of the front page taken up with the threat of an engineering strike and a NATO build-up. Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke was squeezed into half an inch at the bottom of the inside page, under the headline, NO CLUES TO MISSING FO MAN. It was a straight agency story and added nothing to what Cayle had last read on leaving London.
He walked up the shallow open stairway to the coffee-lounge, and had just sat down at a corner table when a hand slapped him on the shoulder from behind. ‘Well, well, long time no see!’ Lennie Maddox sat down opposite and bared his gums in greeting. ‘I called you a couple o’ times, but they told me you’d gone back to the old country. Here for long?’ he added.
‘That depends.’
‘Depends on what?’
‘I think you know that, Lennie. One of your mates among the “Grey Men”. The one who can’t go back to his own country, because if he did they’d slam him in the clink for at least a hundred years. Unless someone killed him first, of course.’
‘Who’s been talking about killing him?’ said Maddox, pressing his knuckles against his damp chin.
‘Just an idle thought. We journalists have a bad habit of always wanting to write the stories that never happen.’
Maddox looked relieved. ‘By the way, how did you know I was here? You didn’t ring, did you?’
‘I came on spec, Lennie. Like I came back to Moscow on spec. I want to take you up on that deal.’
Maddox’s eyes flickered sideways. ‘One thousand dollars, US,’ he murmured.
‘It was five hundred last time,’ said Cayle.
‘That was last time, Barry. I’ve got some more info since then. Something really big — and soon.’
‘I’m not horse-trading any more,’ said Cayle. ‘I’m in a hurry, too. So let’s have a sample of what you’ve got,’
There was a pause. Lennie Maddox seemed to be having difficulty getting comfortable on his chair. When he spoke, his eyes had a dull worried look. ‘Listen, things are coming to a head. That aircraft deal I told you about — well, they’re holding a big reception for it tonight in the Kremlin. Pol’s going to be one of the guests of honour. All the international Press will be there — you too, no doubt?’ He looked expectantly at Cayle. ‘It’ll be a good chance for you to meet Pol,’ he added.
‘I’m not paying to meet Pol. I’m more interested in our other friend. The Grey One. I don’t suppose you’d find him at a Kremlin reception.’
‘Don’t worry!’ Maddox pushed his face right up to Cayle’s and whispered, ‘By tomorrow night I’ll have the full gen for you. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘Where and when do we meet?’
Maddox hesitated. ‘I don’t even know where you’re staying.’
‘The Aeroflot.’
Maddox looked at his watch. ‘I’ll call you there — between four and six tomorrow afternoon.’ He suddenly sounded anxious to leave. He stood up and Cayle said: ‘Anyway, I’ll probably see you tomorrow night in the Kremlin?’
Maddox stopped and gave a cheerless laugh. ‘At a diplomatic reception? You must be joking! Or else you don’t know much about dips. Hardly my social scene, old boy.’ He waved. ‘Till tomorrow evening — okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Cayle; and he watched Maddox scuttle across the floor with his rusty head tilted to one side.
Some moments later a waitress sauntered across to take Cayle’s order.
Charles Pol returned to his suite in the Hotel Intourist at just after five that evening. He bathed luxuriously with a tumbler of Johnny Walker Black Label at his elbow; shaved and trimmed his goatee; sprinkled himself with Eau Sauvage; and with the help of a hand-mirror arranged his remaining hair in an intricate spiral round the crown of his egg-shaped skull, signing it off with the black comma of kiss-curl across his forehead. He then dressed in an outsize suit of white slub-silk over a lace-frilled shirt and bold floral tie; and balancing his great weight on a pair of slipperlike shoes — the swelling in his right foot having greatly subsided — he confidently rang the Ministry and ordered a car for 7.30 to convey him to the Kremlin’s Spasskye Gate.
The car arrived to the minute, and he was accorded an impressive ride into the ancient fortress of Russian power. Again the car’s headlamps were kept on high-beam; the traffic lights at all the street intersections began flashing red at their approach; and militiamen stood holding back pedestrians with their lighted batons. They reduced speed only on the ramp up to the great gate in the crenelated wall behind its row of fir trees.
The two red lights on either side of the gate turned to amber, and a guard with an automatic rifle slung across the front of his long greatcoat stepped down and carefully inspected their credentials, saluted and lifted a wall telephone. Instantly the twin lights turned to green and the iron gate swung soundlessly upwards like a drawbridge, then slid shut behind them as they drove into the blue glare of an arc-light. Two more guards, carrying only side-arms this time, appeared from inside a bullet-proof glass cubicle, studied the documents again, and a shrill bell began to ring.
It went on ringing as the car rumbled softly forward over a cobbled avenue, swept free of snow, between high walls of darkened windows, then into a courtyard ablaze with light and full of black official limousines, many of them with diplomatic number-plates.
The car stopped, the door was pulled open, and Pol stepped out into an unnatural stillness. Boots creaked on the cobbles, and a couple of plain-clothes men escorted him through a pair of massive folding doors, into a vestibule where he was relieved of his vicuna coat and astrakhan hat, then ushered through another pair of doors into a long hall full of formally dressed men and women gripping glasses of champagne and talking in undertones.
From Pol’s experience of Soviet Government receptions, he knew that protocol not only controlled the rank of guest, but also extended to standards of behaviour. Receptions given at Politburo level were always conducted with severe decorum — although lapses had been known. (Western Ambassadors had been insulted to their faces; top Government officials had tried to dance the Gopek; and on a recent notorious occasion a member of the Central Committee had goosed the wife of a senior Scandinavian diplomat.)
Pol saw at once that the reception in his honour rated only second billing. The Central Committee was not represented, and most Western countries had sent only their First Secretaries or Heads of Chancery. On such occasions, the pace tended to be set by members of the foreign Press corps; but it was early yet, and only the first tentative sips had been taken.
Pol succeeded fina
lly in detaching himself from the row of formal greetings, and now made for the long white-covered table laden with regiments of bottles, plates of canapés, cream-layered cakes, caviar, fresh sturgeon, and giant pickled mushrooms. The most active of the waiters were elderly and discreetly efficient, like experienced croupiers, while behind them, standing like sentinels, stood rows of stocky pug-faced men in ill-fitting white jackets who rarely moved from their positions round the walls.
Pol noticed that as usual the women were conspicuously uninteresting, although it was clear that the Western wives had taken some trouble to paint and preen themselves. The guests themselves were mostly still congealed in self-segregated groups from the various diplomatic colonies: there were the familiar African faces, and little parties of awkward-looking men from other parts of the world huddled together sipping sweet gassy lemonade. There were no Chinese.
Pol spotted his own Embassy delegation at the far end of the hall, surrounded by Russian dignitaries. Since the function was in honour of a nominally French enterprise, the Ambassador was present, together with all heads of departments; but Pol, who held diplomats in only slightly less contempt than politicians and policemen, was in no hurry to grant them the pleasure of his company.
One of the older waiters handed him a glass of champagne, which he recognized as Georgian, but tolerably dry this time. He helped himself to a plate of sturgeon and a pool of shiny grey Beluga, while all around him his Russian hosts lurked in surreptitious groups of twos and threes, choosing the people they talked to with obvious caution. Pol estimated them to be junior functionaries, interpreters, and informers.
At a few minutes past eight the Ministers of Trade, Transport and Civil Aviation made their entrance, to an obsequious shuffling and bowing among the Soviet contingent. It was the signal for Pol to step reluctantly into the limelight.
The Press had been among the last arrivals, distinguished by the speed to which they helped themselves to drinks and the way they moved, with weary indifference, among the various groupings about the hall. Barry Cayle came in the company of one of the less reputable members of the Western Press corps, Frank Smollett, an angry little Irishman with red eyes and a beard like a hunk of shredded wheat.
Smollett was on his fourth cherry-vodka, and Cayle stood watching the guests, when there was a call for silence. A thin bespectacled man climbed on to the rostrum and began to speak into a microphone which at first failed to work. There were several whines and crackles, a piercing shriek, then a monotonous flow of Russian, followed by translations in French and English, to introduce the three Ministers. A burst of loud, indifferent applause followed, then came the speeches.
The journalists stealthily refilled their glasses, since even the older waiters were now immobile. The thin man on the rostrum was translating a peroration about increased Franco-Soviet cooperations in the field of trade and technology, when Cayle felt his pulse quicken with the dawning of great excitement. He was looking at the latest arrival to the party from the British Embassy — a short dapper man with glossy hair and small compact features. He nudged Smollett and pointed: ‘Know that little chap on the left?’
‘Not personally. He’s only been out here a few weeks.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Why, d’you fancy him?’
‘Come on, Frank, we all have to do our share of arse-licking. What’s his name?’
‘Hann. Simon Hann. With a name like that he should be running a bloody antique shop!’ There was another burst of applause, as Pol was hauled on to the rostrum and waddled up to the microphone, his silk suit shining like shark-skin under the chandeliers.
Cayle’s interest was momentarily divided. Each of the Soviet Ministers stepped up and embraced Pol, their bodies swaying together like pairs of grotesque lovers. ‘What’s his position, do you know?’ said Cayle.
‘Something to do with Chancery, I heard. Which means he’s probably a spook.’ There was a ripple of polite laughter round the hall, as Pol made a joke in bad Russian. He stood beaming down at his audience, his lips parted in an impish grin. Cayle lowered his voice and said, ‘I’d like to have a chat with this Hann. Can you introduce me?’
‘I suppose so. I’ve nothing to lose but my sense of humour.’
The British party consisted of three men, all of whom looked round with obvious distaste as Smollett approached. The First Secretary broke off what he was saying and gave an artificial smile: ‘Hello, Frank, enjoying the festivities?’
‘A laugh a minute. You know Barry Cayle?’
‘Yes, I think we all know Mr Cayle, at least by reputation.’ There was a heavy pause; then the Press Attaché, a fastidious little man called Giles, cleared his throat and said: ‘I think, perhaps, there has been a failure of communication somewhere. A few days ago, Mr Cayle, we were informed through London that the Soviet authorities had declared you persona non grata.’
Cayle chuckled. ‘Then there must, as you say, have been a failure in communication. Only why was London so interested? I mean, I know you still believe in looking after your ex-colonials, but I wouldn’t want Whitehall to overwork themselves on my behalf.’ As he spoke, he glanced at Hann. Everything about him was statutory FO: pinhead worsted suit with three tips of white handkerchief, flat gold cufflinks, small square watch by Patek Phillipe. Only his eyes were remarkable; they were grey, cold and oily. Cayle had seen the man before. He was certain of it now.
The First Secretary said, with a light laugh: ‘I’m quite sure that you can look after yourself. It’s merely that as representative of a leading British newspaper, it could — as I’m sure you’ll agree — be potentially embarrassing to Her Majesty’s Government if you were to find yourself in any difficulties with the Soviet authorities.’ He inclined his head. ‘But of course, I speak as someone who is not privileged to know all the motives that your editor had in sending you to Moscow. This is your second visit in just over a week, isn’t it?’
‘Right.’
‘They’re keeping you busy, Mr Cayle.’ It was Hann who spoke, in a controlled, impassive voice. ‘What is it this time?’ he added, with a discreet veneer of insult: ‘Another big in-depth exposé?’
Cayle stared over Hann’s sleek head, at the rostrum where Pol was pumping hands under the glare of flashlights. ‘I don’t know about an exposé,’ he said, ‘unless you’re thinking about something that happened a long time ago? About thirteen years ago, to be exact.’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about, Mr — I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Cayle. Barry Cayle.’ Bad move, he thought: professional diplomats don’t forget names at official receptions. He smiled down at Hann’s drink; it was a pale whisky. ‘Keeping off the vodka, eh, Mr Hann? Very sensible! The real stuff can be pretty fierce. What someone we used to know in Beirut calls “Russkie snakebite”.’
Hann didn’t move; and his eyes had that same dead oily look as when he’d marched Kim Philby out of the hotel bar in Beirut all those years back. The First Secretary had turned to greet an elderly American couple and Cayle heard Giles unctuously agreeing to make up a bridge party. Frank Smollett’s glass was empty and he prowled away in search of a waiter. Cayle was alone with Hann.
‘You didn’t tell the truth just now, Mr Cayle.’ There was no accusation in his voice; it was a statement of fact. Cayle said nothing, and Hann continued: ‘I’d be interested to know, off the record, how you managed it. Slipping in without a visa, I mean. That sort of thing is rather difficult in Russia.’
‘A lot of things are more difficult in Russia than getting a legitimate three-day visa from Aeroflot when you’re in transit.’
‘In transit for three days, eh?’ Hann allowed himself a slight white smile. ‘And how did you manage to get yourself invited here?’
‘That nice Madame Goncharova, at the Press Department of the Foreign Ministry — I called on her this afternoon and showed her a couple of letters, from my editor and my embassy in London, and hey p
resto! a lovely gilt-edged invitation.’
‘You’re sailing pretty close to the wind, aren’t you?’ said Hann. ‘I’d say we both are. Have you talked again to your fat chum up there yet?’ He nodded towards the distant rostrum where there was a dense crowd, still illuminated by the flash of cameras.
‘One doesn’t get a lot of time to talk to people at these sort of functions,’ Hann said tonelessly. ‘What about you? Have you any particular interest in this Troika-Caravelle project?’
‘I might have. Or rather, somebody else thinks I might have.’
Hann gave a little cough and put a finger to his old Harrovian tie. ‘It’s rather crowded here. Let’s try and find somewhere a little quieter.’ He began to lead Cayle towards the back of the hall where there was a table with a stout copper samovar and a row of lacquered wooden mugs. He put down his glass of whisky and nodded gravely. ‘You’re quite right about the drinking out here. It’s not only a habit — it’s an occupational hazard. The one thing the Russians can do well is tea.’ He pushed a wooden mug under the samovar spout, then paused. ‘You mentioned Beirut. The connection escapes me.’
‘It was eleven in the morning and Kim was resting on the bar. You came in and rescued him — rather too keenly, for my liking. None of us bothered that much about Kim’s drinking. He had remarkable powers of recovery.’
‘Yes, he was very curious in that respect.’ Hann turned the tap of the samovar and the tea spurted out dark and boiling. He waited till the mug was a third full, then shut it off. ‘You said that somebody thought you might have an interest in this French deal? Would you mind telling me who it was?’ He handed the tea to Cayle, then slid a second mug under the spout and jerked the handle again.
Cayle said: ‘An Englishman called Leonard Maddox. Works for Charles Pol. I expect you know him?’
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