The Defector (17 page)

“It’s Ivan,” she said.

“I identify it. It’s my husband.” She turned away and burst into tears.

“You are quite sure?” Volkov asked her. She nodded, weeping without restraint.

“You can go home, then,” he said kindly.

“Don’t speak of this to anyone.”

“No, no, Comrade General.”

“We will meet at the funeral,” he said. The security officers guided Fedya Sasanova to the door. Volkov turned and walked away, his junior officer at his heels like an attentive dog; the cover was flung over the dead body, and it was returned to refrigeration. The bright light went out. The door was locked. Back in her apartment, Fedya Sasanova calmed her quivering nerves with a cup of hot tea laced with a little vodka. She sat by herself at the kitchen table and cried, while she sipped the tea. Finally, exhausted by strain and emotion, and lulled by the vodka and the brandy, she fell asleep at the table, Antonyii Volkov leaned across his desk. He thrust the open file towards his junior officer.

“Read that,” he said.

“Fifth line down. Then tell me how long the Sasanovs have been married.” Tatischev read the few lines and paused.

“Twenty-three years,” he said.

“Right. Though he wasn’t a Jew, Sasanov had been circumcised The genitals on that body were in bad condition, one testicle gone, the other partly gone. But even I could see the man hadn’t been circumcised. Whatever mistake a woman might make over her husband’s body, she wouldn’t mistake that. She was lying.”

“Yes,” Tatischev said.

“Of course. Why, General? Why would she identify a strange body?”

“Because she knows he didn’t commit suicide,” Volkov answered.

“She knew he had defected. She identified him to put us off the trail; and to make life easier for herself.”

“What should be done about it?”

“We’ll arrest her,” Volkov said.

“After the funeral. You can see to that. Perhaps I hoped to find her genuinely innocent…” He shrugged.

“If she’d rejected that body, I would have rehabilitated her and the daughter, cleared them of any responsibility for what that swine has done. But now…” He shrugged again.

“So we have an interesting situation. The British say Sasanov is dead, and give us that lump of offal to prove it. His wife says the same, and our agent in England says he was burned to death in a fire.” He paused, liking Tatischev as an audience.

“Brigadier White has given us a body to bury, and we’ve accepted it, because we know in fact that Sasanov is really dead; it ties up the ends and leaves no propaganda for the West. It’s all very neat and a good example of Intelligence Services working together unofficially. That is how it seems, eh?”

“I don’t see why the British should save us embarrassment,” Tatischev ventured.

“Nor do I,” Volkov murmured.

“The only reason they would give us an advantage is because they have gained one for themselves. Whatever happened in the fire, Sasanov is still alive. But for now, we must play out the charade.

“We will go to the funeral and it will be widely reported. The grieving widow and daughter will be photographed. And we will wait for our Centre agent’s next report from England.” Charley had come back from the hairdresser when she found the message her daily help had scribbled on the telephone pad.

“Mr. Spencer-Barr phoned. Please ring him at this number.” Charley read the message and frowned. He had not contacted her since their dinner at the Connaught. She had forgotten about him and life was running at its usual pace of invitations and parties. There had been something that disturbed her momentarily, and she remembered it now, reminded of it by seeing his name. The political columns of the newspapers didn’t interest her; she was bored by international affairs; they were always depressing and full of violence. She ignored them, concentrating on the pleasant items and the gossip columns where she had often been featured herself. It was a photograph on the front page that had caught her attention. Then she read the story.

“Missing Soviet delegate’s body found’. She skipped through the details and looked again at the photograph of the man whose body had been washed up on the Sussex coast. It was not a good photograph, obviously blown up from a group picture, but there was a familiarity about it that intrigued her. It had a vague resemblance to the Pole her sister had brought home for the weekend. Slavs did tend to look alike, after all; she turned the page and started reading something else. But the likeness worried her. She turned back and studied it again. Just something about the set of the eyes. she’d spent a lot of time that weekend looking at Davina’s friend. More to observe her effect upon him than to memorize his face, but the impression had stayed. Missing Soviet delegate. Sitting under the hair drier she had felt a funny little cold chill. It was nonsense, of course. The man had been dead for months according to the story. And Slavs would look even more alike in a bad photograph. She had put it out of her mind, and lost herself in a long article on spring fashions in Harpers and Queen. With Spencer-Barr’s message in her hand, she thought of it again. He had taken her out and spent most of the evening talking about her sister and the Polish boyfriend. Now, when she supposed he had gone to America, he had suddenly rung her up again. He had been very interested in their relationship. Charley remembered him saying Dav-ina had got a job he wanted, and how an affair with a Pole would count against her. She lifted the phone and pushed the buttons; an operator answered, “Ministry of Defence. Can I help you?” Charley asked to speak to Mr. Spencer-Barr. His voice was curt, intimidating.

“Spencer-Barr.” When she gave her name, the tone changed. He sounded friendly and enthusiastic.

“Oh, how nice of you to ring back. I’ve tried to get you several times in the last week, but no success.”

“You liar,” Charley said to herself.

“If the daily’s not in I have an answering service.”

“I got your message,” she said.

“I was surprised, I was sure you’d gone to the States.”

“No, not yet,” he said.

“Is there any chance you’d be free to come to dinner tonight? I’ve got an old friend come in from Germany and I thought I’d get a party together for him. He’s very nice, great fun.”

“I’m not free, actually,” Charley said.

“I’m going to the theatre.” He sounded disappointed.

“What a shame. I’d told him all about you and he was getting very excited. Look, we’re having dinner fairly late and then going on to the Regency Club. Why don’t you join us there?”

“I could, I suppose.” She hesitated. The idea of the nice German who was great fun tempted her.

“Can I leave it open?”

“Yes, of course, but do try, won’t you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“It rather depends on how late the theatre party breaks up. If it’s early, I’ll come on to the Regency. Goodbye.” She went into her bedroom, looked at herself in the glass and was pleased with the way they had set her hair. It looked casual and abundant, its colour gleaming like new-minted copper. The Regency Club was full of Arabs; she never went there. It was the kind of invitation she wouldn’t have considered accepting, except that he had made the German sound intriguing. She shrugged. A particularly faithful admirer was taking her out that night, with another couple. She had rather lost interest in him; he was so abjectly in love with her that the affair had lost excitement. She might go to the Regency if there was nothing more amusing in prospect. Elizabeth Cole sipped her hot tea and looked at her watch. Her contact was late; she had been waiting nearly twenty minutes and twice prevented a stranger from sitting at her table. When the young man came up, she shook her head and said in passable Russian, “I’m sorry, that is my friend’s place. She’s just coming.” The man said very quietly in French, “She is not coming. She sent me instead.” He sat down in the empty chair and put his tea in front of him. Elizabeth Cole sat completely still and said nothing. Her plain, cheerful face became a sullen mask. Her nerves had given a frantic jump, as if an electric shock had passed through her. Then she froze. The young man gave the lecturer’s name.

“She is back at the University,” he said.

“She can’t meet you any more. I have made contact with Irina Sasanova. My name is Alexei Poliakov.” For a moment Elizabeth stared at him; her expression was surprisingly grim for such a pleasant type of girl.

“All right,” she said at last.

“Tell me about it.”

“You can trust me,” he insisted.

“I spoke to her after class. She believes her father is dead and that the body they flew home is his. I tried to convince her, but she won’t believe me. How can I prove it to her?” Elizabeth hesitated. She asked about the woman lecturer to gain time.

“Has she been fully rehabilitated?”

“Yes,” Poliakov nodded.

“She has written a denunciation of Bokov. It will be published next week. It broke her heart,” he added.

“She spent a whole night crying, without sleep.”

“How do you know so much? Personal details. Were you with her?” He looked into the English girl’s flinty grey eyes and said simply, “After Bokov’s arrest, she stayed with me. But I’m not suspected. They believe I influenced her against the dissidents.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said. She couldn’t fault him, and her instincts believed him genuine. She decided to take the chance.

“I have something which will convince Irina and her mother,” she said.

“But you are taking a very great risk. I have to warn you of that.”

“I understand,” he said quietly, “I am quite ready.” He repeated the Russian girl’s remark.

“Sasanov tried to help Belezky; we must help his family. I know it’s dangerous, and I’ll be careful.”

“It’s dangerous because you have to trust the wife and the daughter,” she said.

“If either of them gives you away, it’ll be the end of every one of you.” Including the foundation of my little network, she thought. She drew a brown envelope from her bag and passed it to him under the table.

“This is from Sasanov,” she murmured.

“It will prove that he’s alive. Give it to Irina after the funeral. She must think he’s dead until then. Can you keep it safe?” The envelope went into his jacket pocket.

“I can promise you, nobody will find it. I have a class with her student group on Wednesday, the 26th. That’s a week after the funeral takes place.”

“That’ll be time enough,” Elizabeth said.

“You’re quite certain she’s really sympathetic? For God’s sake, make sure before you hand this over.”

“I know she is,” he said.

“She is a New Russian at heart. I know it.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said, gathering her bag and the shopping from Gum, “I hope you’re right. For all our sakes. Meet me here this time next week. I’ll go first.” She walked out of the cafe without a glance at him. He finished his tea, lit a cigarette and read the newspaper for the next twenty minutes. A middle-aged woman shared his table, and they exchanged a few words before he too left the cafe.

“I am going mad shut up in this place!” Sasanov said it with his back turned to Davina.

“And every day the same thing no news!” He turned and faced her; his look was sour and suspicious. She had come to know it well since they were shut up in the safe flat.

“I don’t believe my wife has had any message from me,” he said.

“It is three weeks now, and nothing. What are you keeping back, Vina? Has something happened to them? Or didn’t that postcard ever reach her?”

“I’ve told you,” she said, ‘again and again, it’s being delivered and we’re waiting for news. And for God’s sake stop accusing me of deceiving you! I’m not going to put up with it. “

“Yes you are,” he said.

“You will nurse me along until the moment your Brigadier White says you can leave.”

“And by nursing you along,” she said angrily, ‘do you mean sleeping with you?

His temper flared, glad of an excuse to release the tension pent up inside. He took a step towards her, white with anger.

“That too,” he said.

“That’s part of the service!” She had never struck a man in her life; she had never lost control of herself, even when Richard left her. She slapped Sansanov as hard as she could across the face. For a moment they stared at each other in furious confrontation. She saw his hand clench and then drop back to his side. She turned her back on him and went out of the room. He didn’t move; he heard the front door slam and slowly went to the curtained window and looked out. There was nothing to see, but a blank wall. The apartment faced the inner well of the block. They couldn’t see or be seen. He dropped the net and rubbed the side of his face. The blow had hurt him. He lit a cigarette and threw himself back into one of the common little armchairs with a force that broke a spring. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to anger and despair. The abyss of melancholy beckoned him; sorrow and fatality were as much a part ofsasanov as of every Russian, heritage of a long history where life offered little beyond birth, suffering and then death. His spirit faltered, wavered at the edge, and then drew back. He had sunk to the depths after Belezky’s death; he had climbed back to the living world because he had made up his mind to leave his country and to fight Belezky’s cause. But he wasn’t fighting anything. He opened his eyes sharply and sat up; the cigarette was crushed in his fingers and flung into a waste-bin. It had a garish red rose painted on it; Sasanov hated it as if it embodied the alien sentimentality of the alien British. Nobody else would paint a flower on something they used for rubbish. He stared at it with loathing. No, he wasn’t fighting; he had played the bargaining game with all the skill of his professional training; he had made his demands and had them accepted. It had seemed to be going so smoothly; he should have been forewarned that life just did not treat people in that sunny way. The fire at Halldale had been the awakening. The attempt to murder him had failed only because he had insisted on spending time in the motel. He owed his life to sleeping with Davina Graham. But now the element of time was all-important. Important so that his wife and daughter shouldn’t accept the bogus corpse as his and plan their lives without him. Important that he should get to work with the British Intelligence Service, and by so doing discover which among them was working for the Russians. He couldn’t protect himself from attack while he remained entombed in the dingy flat, taking a little exercise in the darkness, shadowed by security men; waiting, waiting. He cursed out loud in Russian, as if he were challenging the Fates, the British and his own Service all together. He was becoming paranoid, suspecting everyone, even the woman who was now in love with him. He wished he hadn’t insulted her. He cursed himself for that. Behind the anger in her face, he had seen pain, and he hated himself for hurting her. But she couldn’t give him what he needed, the sense of deep identification known only between Russians. If he loved her, it was a separate thing. His wife’s face was what he wanted to see; to touch her cheeks with his finger, to bury his head in her breasts and hold her close to him. To see his daughter smile, to take her hand and walk out in the clean fresh air with her. He had lost his roots and the sickness in him was growing stronger than his resolve to right the dreadful injustice done to his friend and others suffering in the name of human freedom. There had been moments, and as he sat alone in the cramped sitting-room, this became another, when he almost welcomed the idea of going back, of being tried and punished and joining Belezky in that way, rather than struggle out his life among strangers. He got up, found another cigarette and lit it. His hand, normally steady, trembled like a drunkard’s. He threw the shaking match away and lit another. He couldn’t get out now, even if he wanted to. He was hemmed in against the menace from his own side. He was helpless, defenceless against doubt and anguish, dependent upon the one woman for news, for comfort, for hope itself. When he heard her come in, he sprang up and burst into the hallway. He pulled her into his arms, and while he mumbled his apologies and tried to kiss her, she realized that he was crying. James White’s second-in-command had been a history don at the university where the Brigadier’s son was an undergraduate. His name then was Grant Mitchell; his family were staunch Scots Presbyterians and he appeared to be a typically staid product of his background. His friendship with the Whites’ son Philip had brought him into their family circle, and James White detected something unusual about the young man. Five years later he appeared unexpectedly at the Whites’ house in Kent. James White had listened quietly to the anguished story of Grant’s struggle against homosexuality and seduction by one of his own students. His lover had tried to blackmail him. White’s attention riveted on him. What kind of blackmail, he inquired gently. There was a look of defiance on Mitchell’s face.