The Starlings of Bucharest

by Sarah Armstrong

  Surveillance audio tapes from within the Natsional, Metropol and Rossiya cafés and restaurants, led to interesting information which added to our picture of Walker (transcripts in file). The discussion revealing his dissatisfaction with his job and living conditions raised further movements on our part, which worked well with his desire to break into journalism. We were also able to make an early assessment of the relationships he formed with Alan Sullivan and Ursula Koskinen, and early intervention disrupted this with great success. As was reported, the British had made use of Sullivan in other roles and his constant appearance at Walker’s side made things very difficult. Koskinen was less of a threat as she was already anxious about spending time in Moscow and relies on support. This can be followed up (see transcript for details regarding her family), but it is unlikely to be fruitful. However, as we know, relationships are currency. The transcripts provided allowed us to establish where Walker’s greatest self-doubt could be exploited in order to encourage his reliance on other sources.

  With the background and audio information, as well as the earlier reports from Bucharest, we were able to approach Walker in a specific way which addresses our concerns about the changes within British journalism. The final elements of this were put into place at the house of ——— Nosovikhinskoye Shosse, Balashikha, Moscow Oblast (see transcripts). Walker had debts which had strained his relationship with his parents, no close friends, an unsatisfying job and no opportunities to improve his position, all due to the financial position of his parents and his class. By offering him a way forward (a satisfying job, solvency and a chance to become the person he desired to be) he will have a loyalty to those who put arrangements in place which allow him to move forwards.

  We did not directly discuss politics, but the conversation makes clear that the working classes are already politicised in every aspect of British society. We just need to get better at seeing where they are ready for change. This current target also makes a habit of reading all newspapers and, as a result, has a strong interest in the way they are written as well as a strong distrust of what they say. It can be assumed that he is attracted to the role of ‘journalist’ as a way of exercising power over others, for being ‘heard’ instead of forgotten.

  In the past there has been a sweetness to turning the cream of British society against their makers. This form of ‘traitor’ has particular resonance in the newspapers, although we know that the treachery goes much deeper and much higher than them. ‘Fisherman’, as a journalist, will be a perfect tool to spread information, if and when we choose to employ him in that capacity. It may be that his malleability suggests other uses, with the potential for moves into political or foreign reporting. He has no reason to feel loyal to his country which failed to educate him properly. At the same time, his frustration at having to wait to be recognised as a fully functioning adult in the corrupt British system could also mean that he should be receptive to stories which reflect this. His country failed him, but we must protect him and ensure his reputation remains intact.

  Separately, although the information gained was useful, we must alert Bucharest to get rid of ‘Starling’ in whichever way they see fit. Now that ‘Ingrid’ has revealed where the afflicted Romanian woman, Ana Boldea, is being held, arrangements need to be made to access and move her to another institution.

  Nadia Osipova (‘Nadenka’) was making some complaints about the loss of her asset. After being assured that her husband, Benstrup, would receive a letter telling him where to look in his house to find the cause of his illness, she has agreed to cut links with Walker and will hire another ‘critic’ willing to travel. Arrangements have been made to add financial incentives to her co-operation.

  Finally, the incident in London last night will need further investigation. For now, ‘Kingfisher’ is detained.

  ALL WALKER FILES TO BE COPIED TO First Chief Directorate: Information Service (Special Service I) AND CROSS REFERENCED WITH REYNOLDS.

  END

  KGB First Chief Directorate

  Information Service (Special Service I).

  ‘WOLFCUB’ INTERIM REPORT:

  FOR ADDITION TO REYNOLDS FILE

  Martha Reynolds [married name Hughes] update 5 August 1975

  For cross-referencing with Walker file

  The actions of ‘Wolfcub’ after her return to Britain were not what we anticipated. Having applied to the University of Essex, an ineffective approach served not only to get a refusal but also resulted in her returning to familiar territory. She changed her mind about studying Politics, and returned to Classics, picking up her degree in the second year at Birkbeck. She is expected to graduate in July 1976.

  ‘Wolfcub’ does not respond well to changes within friendships. If she is to be approached again, it must be by someone whom she already knows or believes to be working for us.

  She has maintained contacts with friends and family working within the area of state secrets, but there is no reason to expect that she would willingly provide information on them in the future. It was discovered that enquiries had been made in relation to her future after graduation in the sphere of government, specifically working as a government researcher. She has been heard to refer to this as being a ‘glorified secretary’, so we await her career decisions to see whether they may be useful.

  We know that ‘Wolfcub’ maintains an interest in the USSR due to the books she borrows from the public library, which are unconnected to the degree-related books she borrows from the university library. She has not sought out any dissidents or disinformation. She remains interested in people as individuals, and resists stereotypes. She also maintains an insubordinate streak (two warnings from the Vice-chancellor’s office), and shows no sign of behaving in a manner appropriate to her class and upbringing.

  LONDON

  CHAPTER 37

  I had time on the aeroplane to consider exactly what I had agreed to. I would get the certificates I needed to achieve what I wanted. I would be given information. I would, essentially, be gifted my future and, in return, I would have an obligation to consider information that I was given. Still undecided on whether I was actually going to do this, I was hard pressed to find a downside as I sipped my wine and looked out over the clouds. They couldn’t make me write anything that I didn’t think there was a market for. Their material would be biased, I was sure, but I’d read enough versions of the same newspaper story to know that there was no truth, only interpretations of it.

  The only thing left was the whole idea of being loyal to my country. There was no round platform in Trafalgar Square for the execution of traitors, because the establishment wouldn’t want to remind people that they didn’t have to agree with the way things were run. They relied on people being passive, and I could be loyal, struggle on and let down my parents, but I needed something to change. If I could help Eva reunite with her son, I would. She’d looked after me and given me the space to make decisions. I knew there would be strings.

  There was just the man in the grey jacket who had clearly been following me for her. Maybe that was the question I should have asked her, but I didn’t think so.

  The pilot announced that we had left Soviet airspace and there was a cheer from the back of the aeroplane. I put my head back and tried to sleep. The letter that Christopher had given me from Ursula remained unopened. The information from Ingrid on the lost sister stayed in my film notes, but I had no idea how I would get the information to Marku, somewhere in Bucharest. If I phoned Mihaela she would be investigated for having links with Westerners. I didn’t trust Vasile, or any of them, to tell Marku. It felt unfair that I had found out the facts when it wasn’t possible to tell the man who needed to know.

  But maybe this was my story. If I could find it all out and get it published in a newspaper, wouldn’t Marku find out too?

  A grim-faced Mr Attridge was waiting for me at arrivals, arms crossed.

  ‘Mr Walker.’ He uncrossed his arms and put his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll drive
you into London, if that suits.’

  ‘That suits me fine.’

  We walked outside and a police officer, standing by a black Triumph, moved away.

  ‘Is he making sure you don’t get towed?’ I asked.

  Mr Attridge didn’t answer. We got in and he said nothing until we were on the A4.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened in Moscow, Mr Walker?’

  ‘You know what happened.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it from you.’

  ‘I went to the film festival for a few days, spoke to a few people, and was arrested for non-payment of a bill which had been paid, and spent a few days at a dacha.’

  ‘Do you know that foreigners are not allowed to stay at the houses or apartments of any Russians?’

  ‘No, but she’s not Russian, is she?’

  ‘She’s not British. Didn’t I tell you that anyone who approached you would want something from you?’

  ‘You said to watch out for Russians. What is she, then?’

  He sighed. ‘What is it that you think she wanted?’

  ‘Company. She seemed lonely.’

  Mr Attridge stared at me, and then braked hard before he nearly hit the car in front which was slowing down. We had already reached the turning for the South Circular.

  Richmond, Putney, Clapham.

  ‘What did she offer you, Mr Walker?’

  ‘Lamb kebabs. Chicken Kiev.’

  ‘This is not a joke. This is the security of the country.’

  ‘Vodka.’

  ‘Mr Walker, please.’

  ‘You know what I brought back. I was searched. They went through everything.’

  ‘We don’t know what you brought back in your head,’ he muttered.

  Or my pockets, I thought. My book was not touched, or my inside pocket, just the luggage.

  Dulwich, Forest Hill, Lee.

  ‘Last chance, Mr Walker.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say. I didn’t trust the embassy to help me, and they didn’t even turn up. I had to trust her.’

  He pulled up suddenly opposite the Royal Artillery Barracks. A car behind beeped and drove around. Cars using their horns. It seemed quite alien.

  He tapped on the wheel and looked straight ahead. ‘I take it that you know how to get home from here.’

  ‘I do.’ I opened the door.

  ‘We will have no choice but to find out what happened through other means, Mr Walker. It won’t be easy for you.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘We have just driven past HMP Wandsworth and HMP Brixton. I could have left you outside there, saved us all some time, but we’re good at the long game. If you change your mind, you have my number.’

  I slammed the door closed. His number was floating around Bucharest. I lit a cigarette and crossed the road. Nightingale Road, and then Plumstead Common Road and I’d nearly be home. I looked behind me at the open fields and smiled. It wasn’t so bad here. It was nice to be back.

  When I saw the policeman standing outside my house, my stomach dropped. Mr Attridge had meant it. I was going to be persecuted before I was prosecuted. I stopped, but he’d seen me, so I continued up to the door.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I live here.’

  He took a small notebook from his pocket. ‘Name, please.’

  ‘Ted Walker. I’m in C, the room at the front.’

  He wrote something down. ‘Wait here, please.’

  This was something else. I put my suitcase down and waited for him to return, but it was a different man, this one in a suit.

  ‘Mr Walker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Haverly. Come inside, please.’

  I followed him into the hallway and the first officer went back out to the doorstep.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Can I ask you where you were last night?’

  ‘Moscow.’

  ‘Moscow? What were you doing there?’

  ‘I was covering a film festival. Do you want to see my aeroplane ticket? I just flew in this morning.’

  ‘Please.’

  I took my ticket and passport from my inside pocket and passed them to him.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Can I know what happened now?’

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your fellow lodger, Mr Shepworth, was murdered last night.’

  ‘Who is Mr Shepworth? Do you mean Barry?’

  ‘Yes, Barry Shepworth. I take it that you weren’t close.’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Barry had been murdered. ‘Is Mrs Cunningham all right?’

  ‘She is helping with our enquiries.’

  ‘You don’t think she killed him?’ I laughed, and then made my face serious again.

  ‘Your landlady had a friend staying but she is proving reluctant to give us any details about him. Can’t give us a surname, or much to go on. You don’t happen to know anything about him, do you? A,’ he checked his notes, ‘Vic, or Victor?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know she had any friends at all. I never saw anyone.’

  If I’d been here, I’d be top suspect. If I’d been here, it might have been me who was killed. I leaned back against the banisters. DI Haverly looked at me sympathetically.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to take in, sir. We’d be very grateful if you could come to the station and give us a statement. Just anything you know about Mr Shepworth and Mrs Cunningham.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I’m afraid that you’ll have to find somewhere to stay for a couple of days until we finish up here.’

  ‘Could I get some things from my room first?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll escort you up, but please don’t touch anything on the landing.’

  I carried my suitcase up the stairs. Now I could smell the iron stickiness of blood.

  ‘You will have to be careful where you put your feet.’

  I was very careful. It must have been a knife, there was so much blood.

  DI Haverly held my suitcase as I unlocked my door, and handed it back to me as he waited outside.

  I emptied the last of my clothes into my suitcase, a couple of books and the money from the bottom drawer. An overcoat over my arm, and that was it. I didn’t need to come back, if I chose not to.

  I went to lock the door and Haverly coughed.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir, we’d like you to keep that door open. Just so we can check that the intruder didn’t come through here.’

  I gave him the key and carefully followed him back outside.

  ‘I’ll arrange for someone to collect you for that statement, then you’ll be free to go.’

  Go where, though?

  HARWICH

  CHAPTER 38

  It was late Monday evening by the time that I got to Harwich Town station. I walked down to the quay, thinking of all the times as a boy that I’d dreamed of being on one of the ferries that sailed out of the Stour to more exciting lands. The Mayflower which sailed to America had been built here, but now it was mostly journeys to Holland, Denmark, Germany or Sweden. That had seemed exotic enough back then. Now I looked across the water to Shotley and took a deep breath. Time to go home.

  ‘Teddy!’

  Mum was in her dressing gown, her rollers in, having her last cup of tea before bed.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? You’re not in trouble, are you? Don’t you have work to go to? Dad has to get up for the tide, so I won’t wake him. He’ll get such a surprise tomorrow. Let me put the kettle on.’

  As she clattered around the kitchen I took the money from my case and the book, and laid everything I owed her on the table.

  She brought in my tea, and put it next to the money. ‘I’m just making you some toast. You can have beans on it, if you like.’

  ‘Just toast is fine, Mum.’

  Then she saw the notes. ‘Oh Teddy, you did it.’ She threw her arms around me. Just before she turned back to the kitchen I saw she was crying. Sh
e took her time over the toast.

  I’d done it. It was worth it.

  I told her about my work, how I had a couple of days off, and she beamed. Then I said I’d have to move, my landlady had got in a bit of trouble, and she berated this woman she’d never met. She got out the Qantas brochures from the travel agent and we looked at the pictures together. Then she slipped some money from the pocket of her house coat, hanging on the back of the chair.

  ‘I want you to have this, Teddy. I did a thing, answered lots of questions, and they gave me £5. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t tell your father, but I saved it for you.’

  ‘Spend it on yourself, Mum.’

  ‘I’d rather you took it.’ She looked at the pile of notes again. ‘I can’t believe it. I’m going to see my sister. I’m going to Australia.’ Her eyes filled with tears again.

  I wondered whether she had ever told my Dad that they would lose the deposit and have to keep saving up.

  Back in my old room with the window open I could hear men leaving the pub at the end of the road. I settled down in my bed as I had done only months earlier. It wasn’t a muted dark, like it had been by the lake; the orange streetlights strained through the curtains. I tried to get my head around waking outside Moscow and ending up here. And knowing that Barry was dead.