Debut for a Spy (30 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

London
,
England
–
the
same
night

I sat in semi-darkness, unable to face the light. Light would force everything into the open, and I needed to hide.

I couldn't remember driving home. My mind was partially blocked – obviously denial. When I stepped from the car I was bathed in sweat. I should have been seething with anger and betrayal, but I felt nothing. I was numb.

Instinct was trying to get me to bed, to wipe it out completely. Instead I fought this and climbed into a warm bath. Over the next hour I relaxed, dozing off and on in the tub. I got out, dried off, wrapped the towel around me and made some tea. As it was steeping I poured a brandy, then sat to sip them alternately.

I still couldn't face it. I was utterly confused. As yet no anger. I was in shock, protecting myself from breakdown. In fact, I could barely think of Marijke at all. My recollection of her was as in a dream of long ago, and in long ago there is no pain.

I was forcing myself to stay awake until I could deal with it, while my instinct said shut down and sleep. What about the cruise? I couldn't go now. I could barely think of it.

The bios of the American pilots. Perhaps if I sorted through them it would start me functioning, and they were far enough away from this disgusting, depraved problem to give me an objective focus. I threw on a sweat suit.

I began to read, then to make notes. I didn't know what to expect, but whatever it was I realized I was going to be disappointed. These people were as American as apple pie, and Reeder and Drinkwater were squeaky clean to boot.

Stavic was one better. He was a war hero, a fighter pilot in both World War II and Korea. Decorated 4 times in the first, twice in the second. Shot down and taken prisoner by the North Koreans. A POW for 18 months. Staff jobs after that – the Pentagon, NATO in Brussels, NORAD, and finally Moscow as the air attaché. Retired at his own request.

So much for the pilots. What about the ambassador? I went through the bio, and every few lines I felt as though I had read it before. I laid Stavic's bio out, and began cross-referencing. Vandenberg had been Stavic's squadron commander in WWII, and his group commander in Korea. Both the Pentagon and NATO appointments had been as a staff officer under Vandenberg. But Vandenberg had not been at NORAD, and he was retired from the air force when Stavic had been in Moscow. No wonder Vandenberg had pushed to get him a job with one of the big aircraft companies, plus his liaison with the P1127. What the hell. That sort of thing happened everywhere. Why should the air force be any different?

I finished reading and realized there was nothing suspicious. I don't know what I had expected to find. It was just a long shot.

I tentatively reached toward my other problem. Could I face it? Not yet. It was a seething cauldron, and I would be badly burned if I ventured in. The phone rang, and I was glad for the distraction. It was Kate, calling from New Hampshire.

“
How is everything in Colebrook?”

“
It's been pretty good. Gram's wonderful. I think I needed her more than she needed me. She has this wonderful country philosophy toward life, full of acceptance and spiritual belief. It's helped me a lot.”

“
When are you coming back?”

“
I'm not sure. We went to Boston to visit Gram's younger sister for a couple of days. We just got back. We've had a break-in, and Gram's place is a mess.”

I had an uneasy feeling.
“Is there much missing?”

“
So far we can't find anything that's gone. There's more vandalism than anything – drawers dumped, books all over the place, upholstery ripped open. It's awful. We can't stay here tonight so we're going to stay with neighbors.”

“
Be careful, Kate. I don't like this. Warn the local sheriff to be on the lookout for strangers, and tell him that it may have something to do with some government papers of your father's that are missing. Get him to call the State Department or the FBI.”

“
Do you really think it's connected?”

“
Don't take chances. These are ruthless people. I'm sorry it followed you to your grandmother's.”

“
I may try to come back on Friday if we can get this mess cleaned up. Will you be around?”

The pendulum swung. Come on – gut reaction. Don't even think. Whatever you feel this instant, go with it. Rationalize it later.

“I'll be away for a week, Kate. I'm singing on a cruise ship, leaving tomorrow. Through the Mediterranean. I'll fill you in when I see you. But I won't be able to meet you.”

“
That's okay. The embassy will arrange it. I'll see you when you get back. Have a nice time, David. I mean it.”

Fat chance of that.

“I'll see you next week. Give my love to your grandmother, and don't forget to see the sheriff.”

I put down the phone, wondering what the KGB would make of that conversation, and replaying it in my mind to see if I had inadvertently made reference to anything I shouldn't. In retrospect it seemed to be pretty normal under the circumstances.

Maybe my remark about the FBI would help to scare them off.

I was about to consider my immediate problem and the snap decision just reached when there was a tap on my door. What the hell? Who could it be at two in the morning? I looked through the spy hole. No one in sight. I called through the door.

“Who is it?”

“
Delivery for Mr. Baird from British-Lion Export and Import,” said a quiet voice which I recognized.

I pulled the door open.
“Colonel Hammond? What's up?”

I shut the door quickly as he entered the flat.

“Couldn't use the phone, as you know. Had to tell you before you left tomorrow. One of the P1127's has gone down.”

“
Down? You mean crashed? Jesus! What happened?”

“
They were doing a night trial. Aircraft had some electrical problems, lost all instrumentation. Chase plane lost him in cloud. Went down somewhere in the channel. Air-Sea Rescue are looking for wreckage or the pilot right now. So far, nothing.”

“
Who was flying?”

“
Chap named Stavic. American. There's going to be hell to pay when the American ambassador hears about it.”

“
Yeah, I know about their connection. Stavic worked for Dwight Vandenberg in several postings during his service.”

“
Did you meet him at Dunsfold?”

“
No. Just saw him from a distance. Is there more?”

“
The engineers at Dunsfold are adamant that nothing was amiss with the electrical systems. They're convinced there had to be some outside interference, sabotage of some kind.”

The sin of omission hit me like a hammer.

“Interference from a transmitter of some kind?” I asked.

“
It's possible.” He caught the look on my face. “Do you know something?” He put it together. “Of course… that microwave antenna you asked about. You'd better tell me, Minstrel.”

I told him about the house, the playroom, the film and recording equipment, and the antenna. I didn't tell him about Marijke. Not yet, I thought. I've still got to face that one.

“This is difficult. If the house is legitimate, then we can't enter. It's Soviet territory. We can just watch the place and see who comes and goes. I'll get it checked tomorrow – no, we'll do it tonight. With that aircraft down I can't take chances. The source still protected?”

“
Yes.”

“
Pity.”

“
That may change soon, colonel.”

“
Good, though it may be too late to save the project.”

I walked him to the door.

“You've got some real looking and listening to do on that ship. If you can, find out if they brought the aircraft down, and if they did, how. But be on your guard, Minstrel.”

He had barely gone and I realized I was thinking about the Soviets, the KGB, and Marijke. Suddenly, I could deal with it. She was on the other side. One of 'them'. The enemy. Suppressed rage surged through me, tinged with disgust, loathing, and betrayal. Now, for what had happened to Kate, the Fletchers, the P1127, and to me
– now I could deal with it.

I wanted to get even.

I wanted revenge.

I started to pack.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

London
,
England
–
Wednesday
,
June
20
,
1962

I was up early. My clothes were already packed, and I was organizing the case of 'charts', the musical arrangements I was taking for the trip. I wondered how this was all going to fit into one car if there were others traveling as well. I made sure of my passport. It wouldn't do to find myself in Odessa with no way off the ship.

It was not quite seven when Wicks buzzed to say that the car had arrived for me. Though I felt prepared for this initial encounter with Marijke, I realized it was not going to be easy. My throat was dry, my palms moist, and my heart rate increased. It was like opening night. I hoped I could bring off the performance. She was waiting beside the car.

“Good morning, David,” she smiled. “It is good to see you. I am so looking forward to this wonderful trip. Are you well?”

“
I'm fine thanks. Will we get all our luggage in? I have a case with music to bring along.”

I could hardly look at her. I couldn't smile. Some actor you are, I fumed. She didn't seem to notice.

“We have the van behind us for luggage. There are things from the embassy which we take, so there is no problem.”

The driver of the van put my cases in, and I walked to the car, a large Mercedes limousine. Nalishkin was there, one other lady besides Marijke, and now me.

Nalishkin was in an ebullient mood. “It's wonderful to see you on such a lovely day, my friend.” He turned to the lady. “Tatania, may I present David Baird of the beautiful voice who will sing for us on the cruise. David, this is Tatania Voronin, First Minister of Culture in the Supreme Soviet.”

We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and I took stock of this very smooth, cultured lady in her forties who had risen to such an elevated position in the Soviet government. Behind that elegant facade there was probably an iron lady.

“David, you will sit in the back with Tatania and me. That way we can talk easily. I'm sure Marijke won't mind.”

Nalishkin was expansive, positively beaming. Why, I wondered. The cat who ate the canary? The downed P1127? Very possibly.

Marijke caught my eye as we got in the car, looking for a smile. I gave her a pale imitation.

The next two hours were difficult. I hate small talk at the best of times, and that's exactly what occurred all the way to Southampton. For the most part the conversation focused on comparing Soviet cultural institutions with those in the western world. Needless to say the opinions were loaded.

While I was conscious of Marijke throughout the drive, we hardly spoke at all, and there was little eye contact because of our respective positions in the car. It was just as well, for despite my resolve I was not in control of my emotions. I hoped that would improve.

*

The Empress of Britain was a fairly new ship of over 27,000 tons. Launched in 1955 by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, she was ideal as a cruise ship, for she was completely air-conditioned, yet with considerable open deck space for sports and games, much of it enclosable in case of inclement weather. She could carry 150 first-class passengers and 896 tourist-class with a crew of 465. The Soviets had really wanted her sister ship, the Empress of Canada, brand new and with a complete cruise-class potential, but Canadian Pacific were reluctant to part with their flagship. Normally berthed at Liverpool when in the UK, it was unusual for any of the Empresses to be docked in Southampton.

The driver wasted no time getting us to gate number 4, the Main Gate of the Southampton Docks. The ship was at the Ocean Dock, and we could see her straight ahead as we entered the dock on Central Road. She shone in her white paint with the green riband extending around the hull at B deck level, her yellow funnel high above the terminal with its red and white checkerboard of CP Steamships. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement even through my personal misery.

Our embarkation was smoothly effected, and in minutes I was standing in a large first-class suite on the port side of A deck, my luggage arriving right behind me. Marijke had a single cabin across from mine on the inside of the ship. I presumed that this was because she was my liaison for the cruise, not because of a suspicion of our involvement.

Involvement? I wondered. Had I been taken for a ride from the beginning? I became depressed as I thought about it, and I was in no mood to talk with her, so I escaped quickly up a few stairways or 'ladders' to the boat deck. Here I could lean on the rail, observe the water traffic in the River Test, and watch a tall smokestack belching on the far side of the river. I squinted up at the halyards and saw that we were flying the Blue Peter, the 'P' flag, blue with a center white square. This was to indicate that we were about to sail. Of course, I thought, our carload from London were the only additional passengers
– the rest had come across the Atlantic

As I watched, another flag was hoisted, white over red horizontally. The pilot was on board to guide us out of harbor. There was a blast from the ship's horn, the gangway was hauled aboard, and one by one the lines were cast off, the Blue Peter being struck as the last line was let go. We were underway. Tugs backed us out into the harbor, but once we turned they let go their hawsers, and we were under our own power, sailing at maneuvering speed in the deep channel of Southampton Water.

We followed the channel down to The Solent, the strait between the Isle of Wight and the mainland. Soon we passed Portsmouth with its large naval base, then I was jolted back to reality when I saw Bracklesham Bay, the site of that forbidding house with the 'playroom'. It was enough to make my head pound as I thought of Marijke in the context of everything I now knew.

I forced myself away from those depressing intrusions, looking up at the rigging and the flags. Abruptly I was carried right back to that awful house, for overhead there was an antenna identical to the one I had seen in Bracklesham Bay. They must be more common than I had realized.

We came to a full stop after a few more minutes, and, seeing nothing on the port side, I went across to the starboard. Off our bow stood the pilot boat, waiting for the pilot to be delivered from our ship. I saw the tender pull away with the pilot aboard, and immediately we were making headway again.

I knew I couldn't stay hidden for the whole voyage, and I was getting hungry, so I made my way down to the first-class dining room on C deck. I sat alone at a table for two and ordered a breakfast of Eggs Benedict and coffee.

The dining room was not too large, but very well appointed. If it hadn't been for the feeling of motion, one could have been in a fine restaurant in any major city. Elegant in wood, rose and gray leather, the room sparkled with mirrors and cut glass, reflecting the gleaming white tablecloths and sterling silver.

I was about half through my breakfast when I felt a presence nearby. I looked up to see Marijke. My heart began pounding and my face flushed as I struggled to my feet.

“Oh, hello. Won't you sit down?” I said, with little enthusiasm.

I held the chair for her then resumed my seat. We looked at each other. Strange looks, without smiles. Marijke spoke first.

“I wait for you, then I look for you, but I can't find you. Something is wrong, David. I see this in your eyes, in your face. If I do something… make you angry, don't you tell me about this?”

I'd stopped eating. My appetite was gone. I'd intended to say nothing
– just keep up the pretence and wait for revenge. Now I knew I couldn't carry it off. My love for her made it impossible, and as I looked at her I knew I loved her still. The hurt of the night before was tearing me apart. I was shaking.

“
Since you've asked me, I'll tell you, because I can't go on like this.” My voice was hushed and trembling, and I knew I was on the verge of tears. “Last night I came to your flat. It was nearly eleven o'clock. I needed you, I wanted to talk with you, so I took a chance that you might be home from your meeting. I heard voices and music, so I held back.” I was having a hard time continuing. There was a look of growing horror on her face.

“
As I stood there wondering what to do the wind caught your curtain and blew it aside. I wish to God I'd gone blind before I saw what I did.”

Tears were stinging my eyes. My hands were trembling. Marijke was looking down at the table. She was very still. I continued.

“What was it you said to me? 'You are the first man I give myself to from the heart.' Well, maybe so, but from what I saw last night that must be the only part left that hasn't had a cock in it. You must be quite a hit with the Red Army Chorus.”

My eyes were brimming with tears. I wanted to hurt her, and I had been vicious. Marijke had turned pale. With a sob she stood and ran from the dining room. I sat for some time, grateful that the waiter had discretely stayed away. After I had calmed down, I went back to my suite, locked the door, and lay on the bed, tears staining the pillow, grateful for the soothing motion of the ship on the swells.

*

Moscow
,
U
.
S
.
S
.
R
. –
the
same
day

There was a discreet knock at the door, then it was opened by a KGB major who walked smoothly into the office.

“
Comrade General, a cable from the ship.”

“
Read it.”

“
It says, 'We have sailed. Mission accomplished. Nalishkin.'”

Rastvorov's laughter echoed down the corridors.

*

Cherbourg
,
France
–
the
same
day

I must have slept. I checked my Rolex GMT-Master. It was four o'clock. Something was different. The deep-water surge had stopped. I got up to look outside. My suite was one of the few with windows, rather than portholes, so I had a good view.

I was surprised to see docks. Had we gone back to Southampton for some reason? It was far too soon to have reached any Mediterranean port. I splashed my face with water, reached for a jacket, and went out to the purser's office in the entrance hall. There was a man standing near the end of the gangplank, which was down to the dock. He didn't look Russian.

“Pardon me, but do you speak English?”

“
I 'ope to tell you, mate. What can I do for you?”

“
Answer a stupid question, I hope. Where the hell are we? I took a nap, thought we'd be somewhere on the high seas, and we're in port somewhere, and I don't know where.”

“
We're in Cherbourg, Mate. Last minute decision. They got permission to dock just as we left Southampton, so they decided to give our Soviet comrades a look at France for the day. They made some announcements, but some people missed 'em.”

I offered my hand.

“I'm David Baird.”

“
Right – the singer. I'm in the band, Mate. It's you we've got to thank for this cruise. They was going to give us two weeks off, like the rest of the crew, and then they offered us double to make the trip. We all thought it was great. Beats to and fro on the Atlantic run, I can tell you.”

“
When can we get together to run the tunes?”

“
'Ow about tomorrow morning at ten? We'll be underway by then. In the Empress room.”

“
That sounds fine. How long are we staying in Cherbourg?”

“
They said we'd sail about eight in the mo'nin’. Gives the comrades a night on the town, such as it is. I expect they'll get roaring drunk on that French wine, the 'ole bleedin' lot of 'em.”

“
Well, I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, what's your name?”

“
Hicks – Albert Hicks, I play the clarinet and sax so everybody calls me 'Benny' or 'Ben'.”

I debated what to do. I didn't expect to see much of Marijke. I'd effectively burned that bridge. Or she had. Or we both had. I didn't know anymore. I went up the ladderway and out on the boat deck. There was no one around
– probably all ashore. I walked to the stern and stood looking at the city of Cherbourg. On the deck below there was a large tarpaulin stretched out on a frame and lashed securely down. The boat deck didn't extend to the stern of the ship, but the one below us did. The tarp was where I would have expected a swimming pool to be, but on the North Atlantic run it wouldn't get much use. Perhaps it was under construction. Pity. Still, there was always the indoor pool. The harbor was full of odors, as all harbors are, and I caught a whiff of one which was familiar but which I couldn't place. Probably something from my childhood in Canada's Maritime Provinces.

I decided to go ashore. A walk would do me good, and I didn't want company. I went below to my stateroom, grabbed my passport, and headed for the gangplank. With very little formality from passport control, I obtained a small guide to Cherbourg and headed away from the trans-Atlantic terminal. It was a pleasant walk through the waterfront area. The cafe terraces were alive with the hustle and bustle of patrons, all eating and drinking to the entertainment of the water traffic.