by Aly Monroe
‘And there is the actual play,’ she said.
Cotton nodded. It had occurred to him, for example, that speaking mouths might find it difficult to maintain an audience’s attention beyond, at a push, thirty minutes. Those glossy, moving lips would begin to upset or unsettle people in the stalls and look very far away to people in the gods, unless the words were good.
He poured himself more wine. The wine was still chilly but he could feel his face warming.
‘Have you written it? Or is somebody else doing it?’
‘That would be even more money.’
‘Not if you collaborated with someone else trying to make a name.’
‘I’m not sure the English, despite their experience of the blackout and even the candles now, wouldn’t need something they could relate to.’
‘You’ve just given it, haven’t you? Set it in the blackout. A bomb-shelter. Or the Tube. Crump and thump of bombs in the distance. The audience could be in the tracks, if you know what I mean.’ Cotton leant forward and turned his head left as if looking out for a train.
‘Don’t act, darling,’ she said. ‘Tell me more.’
Cotton laughed, ‘I don’t know. Are you thinking of a comedy? Something sharp? Something sad? You could pick out various characters. You could have children. Even ghosts if you wanted. Bomb victims.’
‘I’m impressed. You’re more imaginative than I thought.’
‘It’s just Mexico. I had a nurse who didn’t marry a man because her dead mother told her not to.’
She beckoned him and kissed him. ‘Thank you. You’d be surprised how ungenerous theatre people can be.’
‘No,’ said Cotton, ‘I don’t think I would.’
She smiled. ‘I think we could make Welsh rarebit. Well, we’ve got bread and there’s a smidgeon of cheese and if we diluted the little bit of Lea & Perrins you’ve got, we could stretch things.’
28
ON SUNDAY, 9 February a thaw set in. By the next day, the slush had frozen into a thick layer of ice. About three o’clock in the afternoon Cotton received a visit from a man often called the Court Circular, to brief him for his meeting with Cherkesov. Allen Beresford was a Kremlin reader for MI6 and, in the same way that previous British spies had studied and interpreted what was happening at the courts of kings such as Philip II of Spain or Louis XIV of France, he examined the Soviet leadership. Dressed in a deerstalker hat and with an Inverness cape over his town clothes, he came with a thermos flask wrapped in its own scarf, his own supply of biscuits and a hipflask.
‘You do realize Stalin is nearly seventy,’ he said, ‘and suffers from high blood pressure? There are several indications that a degree of jockeying is going on amongst those who fancy their chances of succeeding him. All of them claim to recognize that reforms will be needed. Beria undoubtedly wants the job, but his position is not as strong as it may look. I take it you know Stalin called him “my Himmler” at Yalta?’
‘Yes, I had heard that,’ said Cotton.
‘It’s tricky coming on as a reformer if your power base is the secret police,’ said Beresford. ‘I mean, people may not mention it but they do remember the thousands of executions and millions in camps. Despite this, Beria has suggested some loosening of the State’s grip and is standing up for some Jews, letting them out of prison so that they contribute, and so on. He’s finding that rather sticky. Stalin is a visceral anti-Semite, you know, and the other would-be reformers are playing to that. Beria’s not a natural reformer and is almost as paranoid as Stalin. So he’s put his own men where he can. We were led to believe that your Mr Cherkesov might be one of them.’
‘You’re not sure?’ said Cotton.
‘Well, recently a number of stories have been in circulation about Mr Beria’s sexual proclivities. He’s supposed to send his men out to kidnap women off the streets. He then rapes them in the comfort of his own home and has a flunkey give them a bouquet of flowers when they’re shown the door.’
Beresford looked up. ‘Of course, this rape thing may well be a trumped-up charge. We don’t know. But there have also been rumblings about the execution of ten thousand in Georgia in the early twenties, apparently without a fair trial on a case by case basis. And very recently, the faintest whispering in Leningrad, but not so far Moscow, that it was in fact Beria who ordered the killings the Soviets claim the Nazis did in Poland at a place called Katyn.’ Beresford held up a hand. ‘Beria’s opponents are rehearsing accusations that might stick to him.’
‘What has Cherkesov to do with this?’ said Cotton.
‘We’re not entirely sure, but one of our analysts has suggested he had something to do with the rape story, that if it does not come from him, it was at least edited by him. He has a certain literary panache rare in Soviet rumour, a turn of phrase. That bouquet of flowers to the unfortunate women is his style, apparently.’
Cotton looked doubtful. ‘Why does your analyst think that?’
Beresford made a face. ‘Because during the purges Cherkesov is supposed to have suggested that the condemned be given a bouquet before execution and the instruction “Pass it along”.’
‘It’s hardly the Scarlet Pimpernel,’ said Cotton. ‘Is your analyst seriously suggesting Cherkesov has a monopoly on the word “bouquet”? How does Beria take this?’
‘If he knows, of course, I imagine he’d understand Cherkesov is retaining his options. Cherkesov also knows Malenkov very well, by the way. He’s another runner.’
Cotton nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Cherkesov began in TASS, the Soviet news agency, in the twenties. He was sent to the US in the early thirties. He speaks excellent English, as you’ll see. In late 1939 he was rather abruptly packed off to Canada. He went back to the Soviet Union in late 1940 or early 1941 and is given great credit for his work organizing aircraft production. This is what brought him into contact with Beria and with Malenkov.’
‘How old is he?’
‘About the same as them. All born around 1902.’
‘But Cherkesov is not a contender for the throne?’
‘No, no. By Soviet standards he’s something of a dandy, at least in manner and appearance. But he has a first-class mind.’ Beresford paused. ‘He’d certainly know that the reformers would not immediately reform Stalin’s methods of eliminating enemies real or perceived.’
‘What was he doing in the US, do you know?’
‘Something that had already made him, unofficially, persona non grata in 1939. The Soviets were very quick and early in getting agents organized and into place in America. Cherkesov is given a lot of credit for that. He’s quoted as saying “The Great Depression was a great opportunity for us. We were able to react even before the Americans voted for F. D. Roosevelt.” As well as a skilled, insinuating propagandist, he’s a considerable strategist.’
‘So what’s he doing in London?’
‘Apart from us showing the Americans we don’t do everything their way? He’s supposed to be looking at the consequences of the money that will be coming to Europe from the US as part of the Economic Recovery Program. The Soviets are being offered help but have no intention of accepting it. Amongst his jobs, Cherkesov appears to be acting as a liaison, squaring this with Communist Parties in France and Italy, mostly. But we also know he’s been meeting some people from Palestine as well, both Arabs and Jews. You’ll see for yourself what he’s like when you have luncheon with him tomorrow at Simpson’s in the Strand.’
‘Who on earth chose Simpson’s?’
‘He did,’ said Beresford.
Pre-war, Simpson’s had specialized in traditional fatted plenty, roast beef, saddle of mutton and steak and kidney pie. The problem in 1947 was that, even allowing for the privileged position of restaurants in a world of rationing, their famous ingredients, like Aberdeen Angus beef hung for a lunar month, were in short supply. Cotton had also heard there was a labour dispute in the Savoy Group to which Simpson’s belonged.
‘He’s not going to lecture me, i
s he?’
Beresford blinked. ‘I shouldn’t have thought so. It’s his favourite place, apparently.’
After Beresford had gathered up his flasks and wrapped himself up again and left, Cotton stretched and felt stiff and weary. He wondered if he was going down with something. He asked Miss Kelly if she had an aspirin for him.
‘Well, I do, sir but—’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘They are difficult to get now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Apparently coal comes into their manufacture and we know what’s happened to coal.’
‘I have aspirin at home,’ said Cotton. ‘I have a bottle of fifty pills. I’ll replace it.’
He took an aspirin and decided to have a drink with Miles Crichton. Miles was, Miss Kelly found out by telephoning the Garrick Club, ‘in his usual chair’.
‘I was at the theatre last Saturday evening,’ said Miles. ‘Little Christopher Isherwood was there looking good enough to eat. Nobody could take their eyes off his new clothes. So the threadbare audience huddled round him like sheep surprised they had survived. He was quite witty. The actors had heroically stripped off their coats and moved about the stage as if in the last stages of the shakes or arthritis. They had vapour to accompany their words, a curiously misplaced cartoon effect. Christopher said he had not before appreciated that suffering for art meant equivalent sizes for the male penis and the female nipple.’
Cotton nodded and looked round at the fire. It was bulked up by wood from broken wine boxes. He wondered how Rosemary, Crichton’s wife, was managing in Macklin Street.
‘You’re not laughing today? Mm, you’re beginning to look a little like our members who come here to hide from their wives,’ said Miles. ‘It’s in the eyes. It’s not quite the same as in those who have to earn a living and have seen awful things. It’s sadder.’
Dutifully, Cotton smiled.
‘They’re not having a lot of trouble keeping the champagne on ice.’ Miles beckoned the steward.
‘Oh, you’re still tall and young and with that expression of looking and knowing just where to cut at the neck.’ Miles Crichton laughed. ‘Did they feed you stodge at school?’
‘Suet pudding?’
‘Yes. It’s training for Whitehall and Empire, old man.’ The champagne arrived. ‘Ah. My kind of cold shower!’
‘Do you know of Sir Cyril Healey-Johnson?’
‘Hear-Hear Johnson? Of course,’ said Miles.
In 1938 during a vociferous foreign policy debate in the House of Commons an MP called Commander Robert Tatton Bower had advised Manny Shinwell ‘to go back to Poland’. Above the ensuing uproar, a fraction before Shinwell crossed the floor of the House to slap the commander’s face, the advice had received an enthusiastic ‘hear, hear’ from Sir Cyril Healey-Johnson.
‘I have absolutely no time for Bob Boothby,’ said Miles, ‘but he was perfectly correct in accusing Sir Hear-Hear and other half-witted egotists of appeasing their own privileges even more than they appeased Hitler.’
‘And now?’
‘He’s slipping, feels upstaged by the war.’
Cotton smiled.
‘Oh, that’s rather more common than we like to think,’ said Miles. ‘One of his favourite insults is “upstart”. Oh yes, there’s “jumped up” as well. Frightful snob.’
‘What about drugs?’
‘Ah. A little pinch of cocaine, I understand, at the tip of the knightly member. He is sometimes called the Earl of Sandwich. Mm? Young girl to the front, young boy to the back. He has what he calls conga parties.’
‘In East Grinstead?’
‘Oh. You mustn’t underestimate market towns or British degenerates,’ said Miles.
Cotton wondered whether champagne worked quicker at very low temperatures. He pushed his champagne glass towards Miles Crichton.
‘Tell me how Sir Hear-Hear could be involved in other criminal activities.’
‘Really?’ said Miles. ‘I suppose that would be better returns on investments. He might be what is called a banker. Criminals are hopeless at money. They need investment all the time and are used to paying very high rates of interest. If they have some nefarious scheme, they need a backer, you see, to fund them.’
‘Right,’ said Cotton. ‘But wouldn’t that work on nobody knowing who the backer is?’
‘Absolutely. There’s a chain involved in which the perpetrator is beholden to someone he does not know.’
‘In this case—’
‘If you know about it, he really is slipping.’
‘What if a drug dealer telephoned him?’
‘He’d cut him off, of course.’
Cotton frowned. ‘Does he have a wife?’
‘Oh yes. Madeleine. Lives at the Savoy mostly. Quite fond of musicians, I understand, often from the West Indies. Now you give me something.’
‘I’m having lunch with Oleg Cherkesov.’
Miles clasped his hands together and looked up. ‘Bless you,’ he said.
Cotton smiled. ‘He insisted apparently on Simpson’s in the Strand.’
‘Of course,’ said Miles. ‘The roast beef of old England!’ He looked round, made a contrite face. ‘I’ve just got a thrill, you know, hearing his name.’ He shook his head. ‘We do get impressed by men responsible for all kinds of horror. He’s Beria’s man here, isn’t he?’
‘Apparently we’re not sure about that. In any case we’re not going to be talking about Beria.’
‘Mum’s the word,’ said Miles. He raised a crutch at the bar for more champagne and put on his confiding face. ‘I’m not at all interested in what people get up to in bed, you know. But over the lunch table! Mm? You will feed me a few scraps, won’t you?’
Cotton nodded. ‘I’ll do my best but—’
‘I suppose they’ll be debriefing you, things like that. But there might be something left over?’
Crichton looked at Cotton for a moment and frowned.
‘You’re looking a little peaky,’ he said. ‘What I do in these cases is bury myself under blankets and sweat it out. Take a hot toddy as well.’
Cotton took the advice and went back to the flat. Anna Melville neé Sokol was not there. In the morning he felt lighter and cleaner than he had for some time. He took five aspirins to Miss Kelly wrapped in a twist of paper.
‘I didn’t need interest, sir.’
‘I was thinking of an office supply.’
29
AT 1 p.m. on Tuesday, 11 February, Cherkesov appeared at Simpson’s in the Strand with two squat, thick-necked guards. Cherkesov was much taller than either of them, languidly autocratic, and very, very thin. He had, rare in any Soviet Embassy, a definite theatrical side, was wearing an overcoat draped over his shoulders that he shrugged off. His shrugging reminded Cotton of Ed Lowell raising his arms at the Connaught to allow the waiter to drape a napkin over his lap. Cherkesov too raised his arms so that one of the bodyguards had to stoop and lurch to catch his coat. His fur hat he tossed to the other. His hair was dark enough to be dyed but lank and thinning and all the same length, quite long, down to his earlobes. Cherkesov pushed his hair back and waved the guards away.
‘They say I look like your Sir Stafford Cripps,’ he told Cotton, ‘but it must be the similarity of antithesis.’ He smiled. ‘I hate all vegetables except radish and mustard. I like fermented grain and am addicted to chopped tobacco leaf.’ He held out a large, cold, tobacco-stained hand and squeezed once. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. Shall we, my dear?’
Cotton understood he was translating or pretending to translate from the French – mon cher. Cherkesov looked nothing whatsoever like Cripps. He had a strong, high-bridged nose and a quarter-moon look from the side, and raised his chin as he turned to make his entry into the dining room.
Years before, in 1936, on their last visit to the UK before his mother’s death, his parents had taken Cotton to dinner only to find they were obliged to share the restaurant with the actor Donald Wolfit.
Wolfit had posed at the door and used his reaching-to-the-gods-above voice to greet his dining companion.
Cherkesov simply spoke loudly enough for all the other people in Simpson’s to hear.
‘I like this place,’ he announced. ‘It reminds me of somewhere in Petersburg when it still was that. On the Bolshoya Morskaya. My father had had to make a delivery and as we trudged along I remember this vision through a window. I was about ten. The light was the colour of champagne. The wood panelling gleamed. There was a sizzle of lamb chops from somewhere downstairs and the hot, fat, sweet smell of privilege granted.’
Cotton remembered a Soviet in Washington DC who had quizzed him on his knowledge of Russian literature. He smiled. ‘Pushkin,’ he said.
Cherkesov laughed rather low. ‘You’re right. Have you read Gogol yet?’
‘The Overcoat but I haven’t got round to Dead Souls.’
The restaurant had given them a table in the centre of the room. Cherkesov took the first chair and waited for Cotton to go round. He picked up a knife.
‘Feel the weight of that,’ he said. ‘It reassures in a way prayers can never do.’
Cherkesov waited for Cotton to sit before he did but there was nothing comrade-like about his instructions. He snapped his fingers for attention. The wine glasses on his side of the table were removed and replaced by a solitary small tumbler. An ashtray was placed on either side of him. There was no question, as with Ed Lowell, of not drinking. The waiters provided an ice bucket for Cherkesov’s bottle of vodka.
He told the maître he would have his ‘usual. Rare. With horseradish and bread sauce.’ ‘I eat one course,’ he said, ‘but a lot of it.’
The maître then turned his attention to Cotton.
‘We have venison, sir, from Cameron of Lochiel. And perhaps his excellent smoked herring to start with.’
Smoked herring would be a kipper, thought Cotton, but he was interrupted.