‘By when?’
Radin looked at his watch. ‘It’s now four. You should be able to do this in four hours. Nine o’clock tonight at the outside.’
‘I have an external meeting.’
‘Cancel it. This is more important.’
The telephone rang. Radin motioned to Valery that he had said all he needed to say. He was to get on with his task.
*
There was nothing he could do. He could not leave the Institute, take the metro to the Conservatoire, make some hurried explanation to Kate and then race back to his office. What if Radin called for him and he wasn’t there? How would he explain his absence? He couldn’t telephone Kate at the Conservatoire. The operators on the Institute’s switchboard had instructions to prevent the staff from making outside calls to any destination that had not previously received security clearance. The Conservatoire, he knew, would not feature on the list of agreed destinations.
As he ran through a series of mechanical calculations he imagined Kate waiting, her scarf around her face against the cold, impatiently looking at her watch, wondering what could be keeping him. He saw her stamping her feet to keep herself warm as the minutes passed and he didn’t show up. He saw her confusion at his lateness growing into disappointment and anger before she gave up and went home. And all because some idiot at Baikonur was unable to complete a set of calculations correctly.
He tried writing notes of apology in his mind, but he could find no convincing words of excuse or explanation. What could he say? ‘I work for a secret state organisation. I cannot mention its name nor tell you what I do. When I am at work I have no way of communicating with the outside world. Last night, when I should have been meeting you, I was unavoidably detained …’
Whatever he wrote it would be far from the truth, and she was worth more than that. What could he say to her that bore some relationship to what had happened? In the end, he neither telephoned her nor wrote to her. He remained silent, using the secrecy of his work at the Institute as his excuse. He hated himself for it.
4
Hart had chosen a small French restaurant off Kensington Church Street where, he claimed, not only was the food good – he was sure Pountney would appreciate their liver and bacon – but it was never full at lunchtime. With luck they might have the place to themselves, which would give them a chance to talk. What they might talk about Hart didn’t reveal on the telephone. But if he was prepared to break his habit of a packet of crisps, a sausage and a pint in one of his smoky pubs in Victoria, then it had to be something out of the ordinary.
Pountney had met Hugh Hart five years before, introduced by his publisher soon after he got the commission from Fischer Stevens to write his book, Wrong Time, Wrong Place, a critical account of the Suez catastrophe and the Hungarian uprising.
‘You ought to meet Hugh Hart,’ Danny Stevens had said one afternoon when Pountney was in his office discussing the outline. ‘He was in Budapest with Bobby Martineau. They were both MI6, working undercover as members of the diplomatic corps. Hugh always maintained that Martineau had been sending warning signals to London throughout the summer of 1956, long before there was any hint of the explosion to come, and that Merton House deliberately ignored him. Whether he’ll hold to that story now he’s been promoted is anyone’s guess, but it’s worth a try.’ He tore off a page from his notebook, on which he had written down a telephone number. ‘Give him a ring. Tell him I suggested the two of you get together. You never know, he may be able to help.’
How a publisher was on close terms with an officer in the Intelligence Service defeated Pountney. Wherever he turned, Stevens seemed to have connections, and he showed no reluctance in exploiting them. Perhaps using your friends to further your own business was one of the characteristics of being a successful publisher.
Stevens was right. Hart had been unexpectedly forthcoming. His anger at Martineau’s treatment was still raw. Whichever way you looked at it, he said, it was inexcusable. The man had been shamelessly ignored. Everything he had predicted had happened. Thousands of innocent Hungarians had died, and their blood was on the conscience of a number of his former colleagues who, he argued, had been wilfully deaf to Martineau’s reports. If there hadn’t been a clear-out at Merton House after the Hungarian Revolution had been crushed, Hart would probably have resigned.
Much of what he subsequently told Pountney during a few long and drunken evenings found its way into the narrative, suitably disguised. After the book came out, to generally favourable reviews, and Pountney began his new career as a journalist, they had lost touch. It was more than two years later, shortly before his departure for Moscow, that Hart unexpectedly reappeared in his life.
‘We were wondering,’ he said, as they dined in a Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of Richmond, ‘if from time to time you could give us the benefit of your knowledge of Moscow and the Soviets.’
Pountney, anxious to do nothing to compromise his new position as a foreign correspondent, showed reluctance. Was he being recruited as a spy in all but name?
‘No cloak and dagger.’ Hart laughed at the thought. ‘The days when we employed amateurs are long gone. What I’m suggesting is an informal relationship, nothing compromising. We’re looking for occasional access to your wisdom, that’s all.’
He was that rare commodity, Hart reminded him, a specialist on Soviet affairs who was there, on the front line. He could report on what he saw in the street, the amount of food in the shops, the demeanour of the people, the buzz, if there was one, on the diplomatic circuit. All they were asking him to do was keep his eyes open, and he was already doing that for his paper, wasn’t he, and answer a few questions. ‘Not exactly onerous, is it?’ Hart concluded.
On that definition, Pountney had to admit that what Hart wanted him to do was neither onerous nor compromising. Should he have a word with his editor?
‘We already have,’ Hart added with a smile, ‘and he has no objection.’
Hart had stuck to his word. Twice on leave Pountney had been given a decent dinner and was asked some questions, all of which he had been able to answer without compromising himself. It was all pretty harmless, Pountney admitted. He was glad to be of help.
*
His life as a correspondent in Moscow was not as he had expected, though on reflection he was not sure what he had expected. He had a room on the tenth floor of a decaying hotel whose lift was permanently out of order, where the food was worse than any he had eaten anywhere and the heating was either tropical or didn’t function at all. All his attempts to interview members of the government or senior members of the civil service were turned down. Those whose names were supplied as official contacts seemed too frightened to give him any useful information. The press agencies were useless, providing government propaganda barely concealed as information. Good stories were hard to find. He met journalists from other countries and discovered that, like him, they depended upon Soviet newspapers and gossip. As the winter gripped the city in a cold whose intensity he found terrifying, he wished he were back in London. He viewed the coming months with gloom.
*
Soon after his return to Moscow in December from a short trip to visit his ailing mother, Pountney was taken aside at an embassy party by a diplomat he’d not met before.
‘My name’s Peter Wiley,’ the tall young man said, grinning broadly. ‘I’m new here. One or two people at home have suggested I look you up. You wouldn’t be free, would you, to come and have a bite of supper when this shindig is over?’
Wiley had taken him back to his flat in the diplomatic compound and introduced him to his wife, Jane. She was walking up and down calming a crying baby when they arrived.
‘Meet Bill,’ Wiley said proudly. ‘My son and heir. All often weeks.’
‘The poor little man’s got colic,’ Jane said. ‘If you’re hungry, you’ll have to fend for yourselves, I’m afraid, or wait until I’ve settled him.’
Pountney sat in the kitchen drinking b
ottled beer while Wiley made cheese omelettes. They gossiped about the embassy and the diplomatic community. Jane joined them later, and they questioned Pountney about the difficulties of living in Moscow. At ten she announced she was going to bed. Bill was going through a patch of waking two or three times a night, and she was exhausted.
‘I should be going too.’ Pountney got to his feet.
‘Please, not on my account,’ Jane replied.
‘Have a nightcap, old man.’ It was clear Wiley wanted to talk to him alone. Tempted by the offer of a malt whisky, and against his instincts, Pountney agreed.
‘I think you might know a friend of mine,’ Wiley said later. ‘Hugh Hart. Ring a bell?’
Pountney felt as if a net had been thrown around him. Wiley was not a diplomat, he was one of Hart’s Merton House gang. He should have guessed.
‘He said you and he go back a long way.’
‘Not that far,’ Pountney said, wishing he could deny ever having heard of Hart.
‘Well, we won’t argue about that.’ Wiley smiled. ‘Hugh’s got a small commission. He asked me to sound you out.’
‘What kind of commission?’ Pountney’s voice was full of suspicion.
‘There’s someone here we’re beginning to think might be important. The trouble is, our fellow’s a little shy about putting his nose out of doors. Hugh wondered if you could help.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘Research, really. That’s the best way of describing it. We’d like to know a bit more about him. We thought you’d be just the man for it.’
‘Who is he? Some politician?’
‘Not a politician exactly, no.’
‘Who then?’
‘Bloke called Viktor Radin. Ever heard of him?’
‘No. What does he do?’
‘He’s a boffin.’
Pountney brightened. An exit had suddenly become visible. ‘You mean he’s a military scientist, don’t you?’
‘Works on missiles and space rockets, yes.’
‘Men and women who work for the military,’ Pountney replied with authority compounded with relief, ‘are invisible people, without addresses or telephone numbers. They live strictly supervised lives in secret cities that are given numbers, not names, not one of which appears on any map. They’re miles from anywhere, surrounded by barbed wire, legions of security and God knows what else. To compensate for their lack of freedom, they are paid well, and their living conditions are much better than elsewhere in the Soviet Union. To disguise what they do, they are employed by ministries with strange-sounding names, like the Ministry of Light Engineering, which builds nuclear bombs.’
‘That must explain our lack of profile,’ Wiley said. ‘We were hoping you’d be able to help us put some flesh on the bones.’
‘Even if you could find them, which you can’t, boffins like Radin are strictly out of bounds,’ Pountney said with conviction, hoping to end a conversation whose direction he was increasingly uncomfortable with. ‘Tell Hugh what he wants simply can’t be done. It’s impossible. Sorry.’
‘He’ll be disappointed.’ Wiley looked put out. Clearly, Pountney hadn’t reacted in the way Hart had led him to expect. ‘Radin sounds an interesting man. He’s the brains behind the Soviet space programme. Been obsessed with rockets since boyhood, apparently. That’s about all we know about him, except that his hands don’t work. They’re damaged, useless, he can’t do anything with them. We don’t know how it happened. The rumour is that his own people did it to him years ago in the war, when they got it into their heads that Radin was working for the Germans. No evidence of that either, or none that our people ever found when we looked into it after the war.’ He looked at Pountney sadly. ‘I suppose nothing I can say would make you change your mind?’
‘It’s not my mind you need to change.’
‘Pity.’ Wiley surveyed his empty glass. ‘But there we are. Worth a try. At least we all know where we stand. No hard feelings, I hope? Still friends.’
*
‘You’ve got to come, Gerry,’ Annabel Leigh was shouting excitedly down the telephone. ‘I’m asking everyone I know and I won’t take no for an answer. Vinogradoff’s a rising star. Everywhere you go in Moscow people are talking about him. He’s booked to play at the Festival Hall next summer, so you’ll be way ahead of the field if you see him here first. You simply can’t say no to me, can you?’
He’d never heard of Vinogradoff and he wasn’t mad about Russian music – he didn’t really know much about it – but Annabel Leigh was a formidable matron at the British Council in Moscow whom it was hard to refuse. There was also the enticing prospect of a decent meal. Her supper parties were renowned.
‘You can count on me, Annabel.’ He hoped he’d struck the right note of enthusiasm. ‘I’d love to come.’
‘You’re an angel, Gerry darling. Bless you.’
In the interval of the concert, eating caviar and drinking excellent Georgian wine, he was talking to the bureau chief of the Washington Post and a man he vaguely knew from the American Embassy, when he was drawn to one side by Annabel Leigh.
‘Gerry, I want you to meet a good friend of mine.’ She had her arm through that of a tall, dark-haired Russian whom Pountney had never seen before. ‘I don’t think you know Andrei Berlin. Dr Berlin’s a historian at the university. He’s in my good books because he’s always helping me entertain my visiting academics. Aren’t you, darling? I’m sure you two have lots in common. Now don’t let this lovely man escape, Gerry, while I’m looking after my other guests. He’s promised to sit next to me in the second half and I shall be coming back to claim my prize.’
Berlin smiled indulgently at his hostess, then turned his attention to Pountney.
‘Annabel tells me you’re a journalist,’ he said in precise but accented English. ‘You must have committed a serious crime to deserve banishment to our Moscow winter. It gets very cold in this city, as bad as Siberia.’
Berlin, he had to admit, cut an impressive figure. He was tall, with long black hair pulled back from a high forehead and deep-set eyes that stared soulfully at you. When he talked he had the engaging habit of fixing his attention fully on you. Was it surprising Annabel flirted so obviously with him, even though she was old enough to be his mother?
Berlin was full of questions. What did Pountney think of John Kennedy? Was he a serious presidential candidate or a playboy? Would the Democrats really nominate him? How close were the British to the Americans? Was the so-called special relationship between the two countries real, or simply a convenient piece of propaganda with which to threaten the Soviets?
Pountney was giving his opinion when an older man, small, with thinning spiky grey hair and a long beaky nose, approached Berlin. He reminded Pountney at once of a character from a children’s book. Mr Weasel, perhaps? He muttered a brief apology in Russian to Pountney and then spoke to Berlin, who bent down to hear what he was saying. Pountney remembered a brief glimpse of the man’s hand resting momentarily on Berlin’s arm. It was larger than his physical size suggested, swollen and deformed, as if it had been made without bones, a parody of what a hand should be. Was this Wiley’s man, Radin? He dismissed the thought and returned to Berlin’s questions.
The bell rang for the second half of the concert. Annabel returned with a shriek and dragged Berlin off with hardly an apology. ‘You’re not going to escape me this time, darling. I’m having you all to myself for the rest of the evening.’
‘I have enjoyed our conversation,’ Berlin said, smiling warmly. ‘We must meet again some time.’
Pountney took his seat once more. ‘I often wonder,’ his neighbour, an ageing member of the British Embassy, whispered as the musicians took the stage, ‘whether Annabel gets to sleep with her trophies, or whether the relationships are purely platonic. I’ve always imagined making love to Annabel would be like riding a fire engine on its way to a fire.’
At the last moment Pountney saw the small Russian squeeze past others to
sit directly in front of him, his arms folded, concealing his hands from view. At some point in the recital the Russian rested them briefly in his lap. Pountney saw their odd pancake-like shape, the splintered, discoloured nails, the misshapen fingers, the scars over the joints on the knuckles, the inflamed, puffy surface of the skin. He had the impression that his hands were hot, as if they’d been roasted. From what he could see, few bones had been missed, suggesting that the damage had been inflicted deliberately and precisely to create a maximum of pain and permanent disability. He noticed that, when each piece ended, the Russian did not clap or use his hands in any way. He nodded his head in appreciation. This was Radin all right: it had to be. And he was sitting less than three feet away.
*
A month later, very late at night, Pountney received a phone call in his apartment.
‘Is that Mr Pountney? The English journalist?’ His caller was a woman with limited, halting English.
‘Yes. Who am I speaking to?’
‘I have little time. Listen please. Today was killed Kyrill Radin, son of Viktor Radin. Kyrill is pilot on MIGs. He tries to make new world speed record. Now he is dead. You know Viktor Radin? He is Chief Designer of Russian spaceships. Kyrill is much-loved son. It is new tragedy for man who has already suffered much. Now he only has daughter, Olga. The father is good man. Not what you think. Thank you.’
His mysterious informant rang off. Pountney had received calls like this before, though usually from men. A woman was unusual. News was given to him anonymously in the hope that he would report it. It was without exception propaganda, and the method a transparent attempt by the authorities to control what appeared in Western newspapers. This, for reasons he found himself unable to explain, felt different.
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