by Jeremy Duns
I closed the folder and took a breath. I walked over to the tiny window and pulled the curtain back a fraction, but it didn’t seem to look out onto anything, and the window was glued shut.
I had also pulled back the curtain on the world, I felt. The last few months had shown me more vividly than I could ever have imagined what a sham my life had been – now I saw that the whole of the Cold War was a hollow little sham. The document was amateurish, childish propaganda – and so misguided it was terrifying. The head of Soviet military intelligence thought they could send troops across Western Europe following a series of nuclear strikes, wearing dark glasses and with their coats wrapped tightly to avoid the contamination, the way ahead cleared by street-sweepers. Either he was lying to his superiors or, more likely, he was completely deluded. They could have recruited an army of double agents and they still wouldn’t have a clue. Service, Five and JIC reports might get things wrong, but they were never worded in terms of outright propaganda. It was obvious that the Russians simply didn’t have the mindset to understand the West. And that made the risk of war greater.
The fact that there could be no victors in nuclear conflict was the deterrent on which the whole fragile situation rested. But it seemed that some in the Soviet Supreme Command thought they could win such a war. If Ivashutin convinced Brezhnev of his view, he would be much more likely to order a strike.
Whitehall’s INVALUABLE exercise had, in fact, been completely worthless. The scenario we had gone through had envisioned a gradual build-up of tensions, whereby a hawkish faction in Moscow had taken control of the Politburo and had begun flexing their muscles. But this was a much more frightening prospect: a war resulting from misunderstanding, acted on too rapidly.
Yuri had estimated the Soviets might have to consider launching a strike within twelve hours. But how many hours ago had he estimated that? In the meeting, he’d said that the B-52s would enter Soviet airspace at around noon if they continued on their current path. But would they continue on that path, or would they break off and circle again, as they had done earlier? How close would they have to get to Soviet airspace before Brezhnev acted? An hour away, perhaps two? Or would he hold off a little longer than that?
I stuffed the papers back into the case, locked it, and flushed the toilet. I walked over to the mirror and examined myself quickly. I didn’t look too bad, considering. My suit was ragged and half-sodden, there were dark circles under my eyes and I was as pale as a monk, but none of these things were all that out of place in this part of the world.
I filled the basin with lukewarm water and splashed my face thoroughly, thinking through the take from the case. The documents proved what was happening – but they had to reach the right hands. I needed to find a way to show this material to the Service at once, because they could get into direct signals with London through their protected line, and from there someone could contact the Americans and get them to bring down their planes before it was too late.
But neither Sarah nor I could go anywhere near the embassy, because the moment we entered the gates we would be on British territory, and they would find a way to take us back to London and no doubt lock us both up. The embassy was also guarded, as all embassies were here, by Soviet sentries. I picked up the case and unlocked the door.
We couldn’t go there – but they could come to us.
*
‘Enough evidence?’ asked Sarah once I’d sat down.
I nodded. ‘More than enough. But I can’t go to the embassy because they won’t trust me, so I want to bring them here. I think we’ll have more leverage.’
‘I can call them,’ she said. ‘It might be better coming from me.’
‘Yes, but I think I’ll be able to get through quicker – nothing like the name of a traitor to prick up the ears. Do you mind?’
She didn’t exactly smile, but her cheeks dimpled fractionally. ‘Staying in the warm while you risk being picked up on the streets? I think I can manage.’
‘Watch for any new arrivals, and get out fast if you see anything suspicious. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll meet you at the main entrance to Detsky Mir in an hour from now.’ I thought it unlikely that Yuri would think to send men back there. ‘Agreed?’
She nodded. ‘Agreed.’
Without thinking about it, I leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She didn’t flinch, and I kept my lips there for a moment longer.
‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ I said, and turned towards the door.
*
I walked quickly through the streets, scanning the corners and the reflections for signs of uniforms or anyone tailing me. At one point I saw a traffic policeman and crossed the road to avoid him, but otherwise the way was clear. The first public telephone I came across was broken, the guts of the box ripped out – so much for the crime-free Soviet Union. But there was another one farther down the same street, and it was in working order. Having read the instructions, I shoved a fifteen kopek coin in the slot and picked up the receiver, then dialled 09 for information: Moscow’s only telephone directory is held at the Central Post Office and that was in Kirov Street, a long way away. I asked the operator for the number for the British embassy, presuming that the authorities couldn’t be monitoring every call in the city immediately. After a few seconds I was given the number, and I dialled it. It rang for some time, but finally someone picked up.
‘Good morning, this is the British embassy.’
Nasal quality to the voice. Didn’t sound promising. One of those officious bastards.
‘I would like to speak to Jonathan Fletcher-Peck.’
He got me to repeat the question as the line wasn’t clear. There was a moment’s hesitation, then: ‘I’m sorry. Mr Fletcher-Peck is no longer with us.’
Shit.
Of course he bloody wasn’t. The very fact that I knew he was the Head of Station meant they’d posted him back to London. Sasha hadn’t got round to asking me the names of all known British agents, but no doubt he would have done soon enough. I’d effectively ruined Fletcher-Peck’s career. Well, it wasn’t the first, and now wasn’t the time for a fit of remorse.
‘Can I speak to his replacement, please? It’s urgent.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, he’s not in the office at present. If you would like to leave a message, I’m sure—’
‘This is an emergency,’ I said. ‘My name is Paul Dark.’
He paused, and I held my tongue. He would know my name, and I had to hope that he couldn’t risk ignoring it.
‘Can I take your number please, sir, and I’ll call you back?’
‘Yes, but do it from a telephone well outside the embassy, and please do it quickly. I’ll wait here.’
I gave the number and replaced the receiver, then started pacing around the cubicle. There was no sign of any of Yuri’s men. Yet. How long would it be before the message went out to every militsiya patrol in the city? All calls to and from the British embassy would be monitored as a matter of course, but the Station staff knew that and so rarely said anything of great interest on the internal lines. Under normal circumstances, the transcripts of the embassy’s calls probably went to the KGB only once a week, if that, unless something notable was said. But if Yuri had thought on his feet, and if the bureaucratic wheels had turned fast enough, he would have given the order to report all calls to and from the British embassy at once. He could already have given that order, in fact, as they might be listening out for when the Service scrambled its staff to the cellars and senior officers said goodbye to their families.
And so I’d told them to call back from an outside telephone. In Prague, we’d always had at least one car on standby for situations such as this, and several call-boxes within a five-minute drive that we felt were not listened to with the same level of scrutiny as those inside the embassy. The calculation was that all telephones in the Soviet Union were likely to be bugged, but that it was impossible for the authorities to monitor every single conversation
in the hope of catching discussions between foreign agents.
I couldn’t remember precisely what Moscow Station’s telephone set-up was, and wished I’d asked Sarah before leaving the café. I hoped the call-boxes they used weren’t too far away, because I couldn’t wait here long: every moment that passed gave Yuri more time to think of his next move. One of those would probably be to step up surveillance on the British embassy and follow anyone who left it, so if they didn’t take the usual precautions they might find themselves tailed by a KGB or GRU car, which would then radio back which call-box to listen in on, and then the whole thing would be…
‘Have you finished? Kindly make way.’
I looked up to see an elderly woman in a plastic coat glaring at me. She had already taken her money out of her purse and was trying to push past me. I told her I was still using the telephone, and she gave me a dirty look.
‘I don’t have all day to wait for you to receive calls, young man,’ she said, and made to step into the cubicle. I stepped in front of her, barring her from reaching it.
‘Get out of the way!’ she shouted, raising a cane in my direction.
I had to do something, and fast. She was going to attract a patrol.
‘I’m waiting for a call,’ I said. ‘Please wait, it won’t take—’
The receiver rang and I swivelled and snatched at it.
‘Yes?’
‘This is the British embassy.’
Thank God. It was a new voice – a little lower in register, a little more authoritative. I nodded at the old woman, indicating that the call was the one I’d been expecting, and she stepped back, muttering curses before turning on her heel and stomping off down the street.
‘Hello,’ I said into the receiver. ‘Thank you for calling back. Are you outside the embassy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tailed?’
Hesitation, then a peevish: ‘No.’
‘Good. I need to meet with the Head of Station.’
He didn’t say anything, but I could hear him breathing.
‘I have information HMG needs to hear,’ I said. ‘It suggests Clasp.’
The breathing came to a sudden halt.
‘Where?’ said the voice, finally.
‘Victory,’ I said. ‘It’s a café on Neglinnaya. In half an hour’s time. Tell him to come alone.’
I replaced the receiver.
*
I walked quickly back to the café, watching for tails again but also weighing up the response I’d received. I had taken a risk using the word ‘Clasp’. It was the codeword to signify ‘the beginning of a period of tension’, usually meaning an impending nuclear strike. Or at least it had been the codeword – they might well have changed it now. It was risky, because I wanted the British to be aware that the Soviets were considering a strike so they could defuse the situation, not so they could panic and launch their own strike as a result.
But, I decided, that was rather unlikely. They would need a lot more than a phone call. During the Cuban crisis, when the Service had been running Penkovsky, Moscow Station had given him an emergency signal to use if the Soviets were about to launch a strike. He was to call a special number, breathe down the phone three times, hang up, and then do the same a minute later. The missile crisis passed, but a few weeks after it Cowell received just such a call. Protocol dictated he alert London at once, but he guessed that Penkovsky had been caught and had revealed the code under torture, so did not press the panic button.
This had comforted me in one way, but troubled me in another. The Service had done its best to avoid discussing Penkovsky’s motives ever since, preferring to focus on the fact that he had helped avoid the Cuban crisis escalating to war. The possibility that the Soviets had genuinely wanted to provoke an attack from the West had been quickly discounted – it was suicidal. It seemed to me that what had most likely happened was that Penkovsky had told his interrogators that the code meant something much less dangerous. But he had known full well what it meant. In which case, he had decided that the world should end in nuclear war, and had tried to trigger it. If he had made the call a couple of weeks earlier, or made it to someone more jittery than Cowell, it might have happened.
I reached the Victory, but realized the moment I came through the door that something was wrong. The table where I’d left Sarah was vacant. She’d gone.
‘Over here, darling!’ said a lilting voice in Russian, and I turned towards it and saw her seated at a table on the other side of the room. I rushed over.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ I said.
‘Nothing. This table just came free and I realized it offered better protection from the windows.’ I looked across and saw that she was right: it still had a view of the door, but we couldn’t be seen from the street as easily. I slid into the seat next to her, my heart still thumping in my chest from the thought that she’d been captured.
I told her about the phone call, and asked her if anything had happened since I’d left. She gestured to a group of labourers who had come in and taken over a nearby table, and I looked them over. Their overalls were smeared with tar, their hands were deeply calloused and several had missing or rotten teeth. They were genuine. Apart from them, there were fifteen other people in the café: two were waitresses and the rest customers. There were probably a couple of people in the kitchen making the food, so that would make it seventeen. Of the remaining customers, five were grouped together and had the ragged jumpers, scarves and slightly febrile, furtive look of students. The remainder were either sitting alone or in pairs, including a couple of old men hunched over a chessboard. All had been here when I’d left, so were nothing to worry about. It was anyone new that we had to watch now: the Head of Station might think to send an advance party. They might want to try to use the occasion to kidnap us – especially me. The chance to capture a double didn’t come along too often.
I looked around, searching for an alternative exit. I couldn’t see one: no staircase or back door, and the window in the lavatory had been glued shut. There would probably be a way out to the street through the kitchen, but finding that in an emergency might prove difficult. I took a sip of coffee, my hand shaking a little as I lifted the mug. Had I just made a dreadful miscalculation in telling the Service where to find us? I wasn’t sure if it would be much more preferable to being captured by Yuri’s men.
A sound came from somewhere to the right, and I jerked my head towards it. It was laughter: one of the students had told a joke and it had gone down especially well. Several of the young men were throwing their heads back in hysterics, but on the other side of the table sat a slender girl smoking a cigarette, with just the hint of a smile on her lips. She was pretty: a brunette in a dark sweater and pleated woollen skirt. The young man who had told the joke kept glancing in her direction, but I could have told him he was wasting his time, because she didn’t like him, she liked his friend with the beard. As if sensing my appraisal, the girl suddenly swept a coil of hair back with her fingers, turned her head and stared straight at me, exhaling smoke through her mouth. I turned away at once, and caught Sarah looking at me.
‘Having fun?’ she said, and I blushed.
The music that had been playing on the radio halted abruptly and a news bulletin began, discussing plans for the centenary of Lenin’s birth the following year. I’d seen posters for it plastered along the street, proclaiming ‘Lenin is more alive than the living’.
It was nine o’clock on the morning of Monday, 27 October, which made sense – my reckoning had been that it was the 25th, but I must have underestimated the time they’d held me under with drugs when I’d first arrived. It gave me a perverse pleasure that I’d been within two days of being right, despite them checking everything around me every evening to make sure I didn’t make notches in the wall with my fingernails or any such thing. I’d counted in my head, and I’d kept it intact enough to count nearly six months to within two days.
I listened to the bulletin as I con
tinued to survey the room, waiting for any mention of fugitive prisoners wanted for murder. None came, but I didn’t think that would be the case with the next bulletin – if we were still alive by then. The programme wound up and another began, about a factory that was producing more than its quota purely because of its passionate devotion to Lenin.
‘They didn’t mention the attacks,’ Sarah said. ‘I suppose that’s to be expected?’
I nodded. ‘It’s not like Cuba, when it was the Americans who accused them of mischief. This time it’s they who have detected a threat, or think they have, and their reaction will be the utmost secrecy.’
‘Presumably that means there won’t be any warning, either. If they decide to strike, they’ll just do it.’
‘I’m afraid so. But let’s not get grim.’
‘What if he doesn’t come?’ she said. ‘The Head of Station, I mean. What’s our contingency, our “Plan B”?’
‘He’ll come,’ I said, with more conviction than I felt. What if he decided it was a trap? I ran my hands across the surface of the table. Resting on top of it were salt and pepper pots, a dirty glass that looked like it still had a couple of inches of vodka left in it, presumably missed while clearing up the previous night, and a chipped ceramic ashtray. I picked up the latter and placed it on a free table nearby, because I knew the KGB installed microphones in such things. It was unlikely they’d done it here, because they were usually interested in restaurants frequented by foreigners, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I tipped ash into my empty coffee cup instead.