by Ted Allbeury
“Then we have another scandal on our hands.”
“No need to announce it. It can be kept quiet. You can warn the woman not to talk.”
“It’s not as easy as that, Comrade Volnov.”
“Why not?”
“It would be bad for the morale of others we send overseas if we didn’t support Konrad Molody.”
“Let it be a lesson to them. Don’t screw foreign tarts. They expect their wives to be faithful but they live like brothel-keepers themselves.”
“The woman herself did not live an entirely blameless life while he was away.”
“So. Let them stew in their own juice, the two of them.”
“The naval intelligence people were very pleased with what he sent back.”
“So. It was the others who took the risks. The Cohens and the English couple. They did the work and they’re still in jail. Molody just passed it on.”
“That’s all that most of them do.”
“Rubbish.” He paused. “Anyway, what is it you want to do?”
“I’ve suggested that he writes a book. An autobiography. In English so that it can be sold in the West.”
“For what purpose?”
“So that the English and American public can see how inefficient their intelligence services are.”
“They don’t give a damn one way or another.”
“The propaganda section say that it could cause a lot of embarrassment for London and Washington.”
“And Molody is the master-spy who deceives them all. The gallant hero.”
“Of course.”
“And that would keep him happy? And feed his ego?”
“Yes. We should control every word of it of course.”
Volnov shrugged, impatiently. “Do it then, if that’s what you want. But mark my words. There are to be no flags and no heroics in Moscow for Molody.”
“Right, comrade.”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Gavrilov. You’re wasting your time bothering with that arrogant little kulak.”
Reino Hayhanen died in an unexplained car-crash on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Joe Shapiro bought a cottage in Northumberland. Near Bamburgh, within sight of the sea and within easy walking distance of the long sandy beaches. Except for a few weeks in summer the beautiful beaches were deserted and Shapiro and his son walked daily along the coast in all kinds of weather.
Shapiro had chosen that part of the world because he wanted to be away from people. Sir Peter had arranged for medical treatment for John Summers by a Newcastle doctor who was ex-Special Operations Executive and whose discretion could be trusted. He had not been told everything, but enough to understand the background of the man he was treating. When it was impossible to avoid contact with local people they were told that John Summers was a polio victim, an explanation that was readily accepted.
As the months went by the nightmares were less frequent but there was no improvement in speech or hearing. At a two-day check-up just before the Easter holiday Shapiro was told that tests showed that there was a strong indication that his son could now definitely hear sounds at certain frequencies. But what had seemed like good news was dashed by the consultant’s opinion that the tests also indicated that there was no likelihood of John Summers ever recognising speech. There appeared to be some gap in the nervous system that meant that while the ear itself reacted to certain sounds there was no link to the brain itself, and therefore no recognition of the sounds. Although it was cautiously and considerately put it was made clear that Shapiro could expect no improvement. He would best accept that his son’s life would continue to be physically normal but mentally retarded.
Shapiro’s life was devoted entirely to his son. A life of routine drudgery as nurse, guardian and housekeeper that he bore with a stoicism that was a mixture of irrational guilt and resignation, and a genuine affection for the human being who had been so ruthlessly destroyed by evil men. There were times when his spirit flagged and he classed himself as one of the evil men.
In January of the second year they had to go for another consultation. This time in London. The journey by train from Newcastle had been such a strain on his son that he decided that it would be better to take a plane back to Newcastle. The short journey had been uneventful despite the take-off being delayed because of the bad weather.
When they touched down at Newcastle they were warned about slippery steps because of the snow, and snow swirled around them as they walked towards the terminal building. They were almost there when his son grabbed his arm trying to stop him from walking into the building. As he turned to look at him his son was shaking his head, grunting as he sometimes did when he was disturbed. And then, as if by some miracle he heard the words. Words in Russian. A jumble of half-finished sentences. Swear words, curses, violent protests and then, his chest heaving, his eyes staring John Summers gasped, “Where in God’s name am I? What am I doing here? Where are the guards?”
Shapiro spoke, also in Russian. “You’re safe, Jan. You’re free. There are no guards. We’re going home to the cottage.”
“They are waiting for me inside. We didn’t land at Sheremetyevo. They know. They’ve got a photograph.” He looked away, towards the people inside the well-lit terminal building. Then he looked back at Shapiro. “This isn’t Moscow … not … I don’t feel well.” There were tears coursing down his cheeks and Shapiro put his arm around him. “We’re in England, Jan. There’s nothing to worry about. The car is in the car-park. We’re going home.”
As Shapiro drove up the A1 to Alnwick he listened to the flow of words from the back seat. Sometimes Russian, sometimes Polish. And finally in English. Strange juxtapositions of the words of hymns, girls’ names and endearments, a short burst of laughter and then quiet heavy breathing as John Summers slept.
They sat together in the cottage until it was getting light the next morning. As they talked Shapiro picked his way carefully through the minefield of a brain that had too much to unload. But as he sat there with the man who was his son he knew that the long slog was over. It was going to be all right. His son could hear and speak and sometimes he stopped and replied to a question. All he had to do was help that wounded psyche get back to health and peace and then, by God, he could make amends.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ted Allbeury was a lieutenant-colonel in the British Intelligence Corps during World War II, and later a successful executive in the fields of marketing, advertising and radio. He began his writing career in the early 1970s and became well known for his espionage novels, but also published one highly-praised general novel, The Choice, and a short story collection, Other Kinds of Treason. His novels have been published in twenty-three languages, including Russian. He died on 4th December 2005.
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