Legacy (33 page)

‘Now, airports are good places for snatches if he needs to be snatched,’ said Hookey. ‘We control the environment, can direct who is where and when and so on, but SV are very
pushed and it means widening the circle of knowledge. Anyway, your new arrangements, your Operation Com promise, somewhat supersede this. As I recall, the original arrangement was that you would
appear either at the airport or at some other convenient spot shortly before. Could that reasonably include dinner in the Swan at Southwold, where the delegation is staying?’

Charles agreed it could; what was important, under both plans, was that he showed himself. He felt it important for the future, too; what in arms reduction talks might be called a confidence
building measure.

‘Good. Just as well you agreed because the Swan is a busy place and I got Maureen to book you in under your alias. So long as you’re happy to do it on your own, with no SV to help
out. Well, not quite on your own. Rebecca’s booked in too, under alias. A couple look much more natural, even if you are in separate rooms’ – he raised his eyebrows again –
‘and you’ll need someone to handle the emergency comms just in case he signals he wants out. Phone is okay most of the time, of course, but it’s bound to go through the hotel
switchboard and if we have to act we’ll be on to you throughout the night. Rebecca is trained on the Dogsbody emergency comms system and will bring a set with her. She’ll have an office
car and she’s Legacy indoctrinated, as you know. Good girl, Rebecca. More useful on something like this than half a dozen Hugos. Just as well your course is on leave. She should put in for
promotion. Try and persuade her. Meanwhile, your friend will have his missus with him, won’t he? Interesting to see how they get on. Nice place, Southwold. You’ll like it.’

Hookey sat back, clasping his hands across his chest. ‘Bit early for a pink gin. Must stick to the not-before-noon rule or we’ll all go the way of empire. No, but this Southwold
excursion is intriguing. Most unlike Soviet delegations to make last-minute changes. Indecision is a national characteristic, flexibility isn’t. Papers are full of this anti-nuclear demo at
the Sizewell nuclear power station this weekend. Not a million miles from where you’re staying. You know they’re targeting nuclear sites, all these long-haired weirdos and earnest
useful idiots. Useful to their Soviet paymasters, that is, though to be fair to them they’ve no idea they’re in receipt of CPSU funds channelled by our KGB friends. Perfectly sincere,
well-meaning people, most of ’em. Understand their point of view. Just wrong, that’s all. It may be professional paranoia but I can’t help wondering whether there’s a link
with the delegation’s last-minute proximity. I wonder if they’re planning some little drama, by way of a publicity stunt?’ He slapped his thighs and stood. ‘Anyway,
can’t sit here gossiping all day. The bureaucratic process demands one’s corporeal presence, if not one’s soul. And you’ll be looking for a new job, eh?’ He laughed.
‘Bloody lucky if you find one that’s as much fun as what you’re about to do.’

On the drive up to Southwold they passed indications of the scale of the forthcoming demonstration: road signs, a coach plastered with stickers, police patrols. The town itself, however, was
small and relatively isolated, up the coast and well to the north of Sizewell. It evoked for Charles memories of family holidays in the 1950s though the 1930s might have been more appropriate.
There were rows of terraced cottages built for fishermen and the workers at Adnams brewery, the town’s only industries. Grander eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses, many facing the sea
across large open grass spaces, testified to periodic influxes of wealth. There was a small hospital, a school, enough shops for living, enough pubs for comfort and two bookshops. The dominant
buildings were the Perpendicular wool church, the brewery and the red and white lighthouse. The Swan hotel offered modest grandeur and was comfortable, spacious, friendly and a little shabby, in an
acceptably lived-in way. They had single rooms at the back.

‘The best are the doubles at the front,’ said Rebecca. ‘I looked in. You look straight down the high street to the sea.’

‘It’s only about a hundred yards from us at the back, anyway.’

‘I know but you can’t see it.’

‘D’you want to move, then?’

‘They’re taken. Maureen told me.’

‘Perhaps they’ll knock some walls down for you.’

‘They’ll need a new floor if I drop this thing.’

Dogsbody was concealed in an overnight travelling bag with a shoulder-strap. It was heavy. Meant to be slung over the shoulder as for a carefree weekend, it was dangerous to walk rapidly with
it. Setting it up needed a sturdy table and privacy. Charles lowered it to the floor of the wardrobe in Rebecca’s room, where she put her other bag on top of it.

‘Presumably security branch would say you’re supposed to have it with you at all times,’ he said.

‘If security branch want to provide a pack mule, they can. Anyway, who takes a travelling bag into dinner? Especially one that would shatter all the glasses if you dropped it on the dining
room floor.’

After taking tea in the horizontal armchairs of the bow-windowed drawing room, they wandered through the town and along the sea-front. It was quiet, with no road near the beach, a row of
well-anchored huts, grey featureless sea and no amusements to encourage trippers. To the south wind-blown dunes sheltered marshy flats dotted by horses and cattle. Beyond was the narrow harbour
mouth and the rigging of fishing vessels. Beyond that, on the blurred bulge of the coast, was the grey mass of Sizewell. The Russian delegation was due at about six.

‘Could Southwold be a Legacy site?’ mused Charles. ‘Hookey suspects something. But why should they want one here?’

She leant against the rails. ‘Only if they didn’t need to service it from the embassy. It’s way outside the travel limit. They’d need agents to do it. Or visiting
delegations.’ She looked at the town lighthouse which, in the fading light, had begun its leisurely flashing. ‘George Orwell lived here. Well, his parents did, he was here some of the
time. He lost his virginity to the gym mistress at the girls’ school we passed on the way in.’

‘Hookey was brought up here, he told me. Didn’t mention his virginity, though. I wonder where they did it? Hard to be private in a place like this.’

She nodded at the marshy flats. ‘Down there, according to the book I read. Shrouded in a cloud of mosquitoes, I expect.’

‘How long till the meeting?’

‘Thirty-five minutes.’

They wandered back along the promenade. ‘What happens to you after the course finishes?’ Charles asked.

‘I’ve been offered New York. No one’s supposed to know, so don’t spread it around.’ She looked seawards. ‘I’m trying to make up my mind about it.
I’d like New York. It’s also nice to be offered it so soon after my last posting.’

‘Something to keep you here, though?’

‘You’re not giving up on that, are you?’

‘Worried about your future, that’s all.’

The high windows of the church caught and intensified the last of the daylight. There was no one visible when they arrived, twenty minutes before it was due to be locked. Rebecca remained by the
open door, reading a pamphlet and watching the approach. Charles walked slowly through the limewashed luminosity towards the hourglass pulpit, his steel-tipped heels ringing with sedate purpose on
the stone. Michael, the area Special Branch officer, was examining the carving on the choir stalls. He was a ruddy-faced, cheerful man who looked and sounded like a farmer.

‘The hotel manager is an old friend, very helpful,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve done him a favour or two over the years. Krychkov is in 26, Rhykov along the corridor in 27.
This key will do both. Keep it till they’re gone, then put it in an envelope addressed to the manager and leave it at the desk. Don’t give it to him personally. Ring me if there’s
anything else I can do but only on the direct line. It takes a while to get out here, remember.’

They walked in step up the north aisle, beneath the heavenly host. ‘Not often we’re honoured by Russian visitors,’ Michael said. ‘Interested in just these two, are
you?’

‘Yes, pair of villains. We want to see what they’re up to here.’

‘Well, my weekend’s already gone for a burton thanks to this Sizewell business. I have to mark the register on the usual suspects, professional agitators on a day away from the
mines. Could do the list now. I might be out of touch for some time but otherwise any distraction would be very welcome.’

‘I’ll see if we can do anything.’

Michael looked across at Rebecca. ‘Your service usually seems to do a pretty good line in distractions, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

At dinner that night they had a table near the door. The Russians – the six delegates, Viktor and his wife, Tanya, and an embassy driver – occupied two tables by the windows. Tanya
was a short, dark-haired woman with a round, kindly face, who said nothing. Viktor wore his suit which, compared now with those of the delegates, looked relatively well-cut and sophisticated. The
other men were all short, stocky and uneasy, either trussed in their suits or lost in them. Necks were evidently unfashionable in Soviet society, heads apparently hammered directly into shoulders
or screwed in through nuts disguised as shirt collars. Krychkov, the oldest present, had a grizzled peasant’s face that, in another life, might have been kindly. As it was, he looked dour and
suspicious. Rhykov was younger, smoother and more rounded, as though the awkward bits had been sanded off. He, too, looked wary of his surroundings, but more interested.

‘You can always tell Russians abroad,’ said Rebecca. ‘Not just their looks and their clothes but their uncertainty at table. They watch for someone to take a lead, even what to
choose. Not used to choice, I suppose.’

‘Our friend is like that. Each time we’ve eaten he’s had what I’ve had. Like me with Hookey.’

‘But how much more sophisticated he looks in comparison. That’s a thing about KGB officers posted abroad. They’re more western, better off, more experienced, they’ve seen
more. It makes it more difficult for them when they go back, spouting the party line and not believing it.’

‘That’s what he said, more or less.’

Viktor was not only more at ease than the others but evidently at pains to keep a fairly desultory conversation going, in which he was not much helped by his wife. ‘You can see why he went
elsewhere,’ said Rebecca. ‘Was she attractive?’

‘Not really, no. Well, presentable and, by comparison, yes, I suppose so.’

‘You never –’

‘No.’

‘– asked him much about his wife.’

‘Perhaps I should’ve.’

Viktor had his back three-quarters to them. He had almost certainly not seen them. There was a reasonable chance he would on the way out, or that it should be fairly easy to arrange in the
drawing room over coffee. The signal required eye contact. Charles and Rebecca had to linger over dinner.

‘Not sure you should leave it until afterwards,’ she said. ‘They might not have coffee, might go straight up to their rooms. And we can’t guarantee he’ll look at us
on the way out. I think we should take an interest in the pictures.’

There were large, rather sonorous portraits at the far end of the room. They detoured past them when they had finished their meal, pausing before each. ‘There is something of granny in
her,’ said Rebecca quite loudly, standing before a heavily jowelled, unhappy looking lady in pink. ‘She always said we were descended but no one’s ever checked.’

‘Wrong side of the blanket, knowing your family,’ said Charles.

‘At least mine had blankets.’ She turned to face the portrait on the far side, looking straight across the Russian tables. ‘There’s a resemblance there, too, you
see.’

The Russians looked at her. None paid any attention to him except Viktor, who sat facing them. Charles, his hand in his pocket ready, took out his handkerchief and briefly wiped his nose.
‘I’m not sure that’s the same artist.’

‘Same family, I bet.’ Rebecca stepped adroitly round the tables without waiting for him, her skirt swinging, her eyes on the painting and the Russians’ eyes still mainly on
her. Charles followed. As he passed Viktor took out his handkerchief and dabbed his lips. OK to go ahead? Charles had signalled. Go ahead, Viktor had replied.

‘Told you,’ said Rebecca. ‘They’re sisters.’

‘Time for coffee.’ Charles moved off.

Rebecca faced the picture for a moment longer, then turned, glanced directly at Rhykov, smiled slightly, raised her eyebrows as if to suggest helplessness, and followed Charles. Rhykov’s
surprise became a mute, embarrassed appeal as he looked at his colleagues to see who had seen. Their expressions were suddenly guarded, awkward. Krychkov stared from him to Rebecca, his features
furrowed almost into a parody of suspicious disapproval. Viktor began talking to Krychkov, as if he alone were oblivious. Rhykov looked at his plate and toyed with his food.

They did not take coffee in the drawing room but had it sent upstairs to an elegant and deserted reception room on the first floor. ‘D’you think it was enough?’ asked
Charles.

‘I was more worried about overdoing it, making it too obvious. I felt awkward about it, to be honest. Not sure we should go ahead with part two.’ She looked tense.

‘I’m sure you did it brilliantly. Viktor says you have to lay it on with a JCB as far as Krychkov is concerned. Most hints are too subtle.’

‘You’re the case officer.’

Twice Charles went downstairs to reception, from where he could see through glass doors into the drawing room. The first time the Russians were not there but the second time they were. The room
was crowded, with most seats taken. He went in and crossed to the newspaper table, in Viktor’s line of sight. From the corner of his eye he saw Viktor take out his handkerchief and dab his
lips again. He returned to Rebecca. ‘He says go ahead with part two.’

She took off her jacket, took a scent bottle from her handbag and applied it liberally to her wrists and neck, lifting her dark hair out of the way. ‘I’m going to smell like a
brothel. Are you sure this is really necessary?’