The Defector (18 page)

“He threatened to expose me unless I agreed to pass information to the Russians. He knows I want to go into the Foreign Office.” White had put an arm round his shoulders.

“I can’t help being what I am, but I’m not a bloody traitor. White listened to the words and nodded. He sent Mitchell to bed with a stiff whisky and soda and told him he had nothing to worry about. He had come to exactly the right person. Grant Mitchell didn’t go into the Foreign Office. He completed his term at university, and then unaccountably failed the Foreign Office exam. By this time the Brigadier had been given a number of names and details of a literary group operating in south London which was another recruiting centre for left-wing sympathizers. Grant Mitchell then went to America where all trace of him was lost. He returned under a false name, with a passport and documents prepared by the Brigadier’s Department, and went to work for him at St. James’s Place. His name was no longer Grant Mitchell; he had been Humphrey Grant for many years. He was a cold, forbidding man, completely cerebral. Since his emotional life had put him at risk, he had discarded it. He lived for his work, for the excitement and the challenge of Intelligence at the top level. He was known in the Department as the Sea-Green Incorruptible, and the nickname was apt. The Brigadier was aware of it, as he was aware of everything that happened among his subordinates, and thought the reference to Robespierre very acute. For the past two months Grant had been in Saudi Arabia, negotiating secretly with representatives of the United Arab Emirates. The results had not been satisfactory. James White was glad to have him back he was the man to head the team working with Sasanov. He had spent the best part of a week reading the file on Sasanov, going through Davina Graham’s reports, studying the findings of the pathologists and arson experts on the Halldale Manor fire. By the weekend, he had prepared a summary for the Brigadier, and they studied it together in his office.

“In your opinion, then the informer was not at Halldale?” Grant shook his head.

“No. The staff there were checked and counter-checked. They were all long-standing, reliable Department men. None of them had money which couldn’t be accounted for, or pressing family problems, or any evidence to suggest they could have been working for the Russians. And all were killed in the fire. We’ve got to look elsewhere. “

“I was afraid of that,” the Brigadier said. He sighed.

“It looks as if we’ve got another one tucked in here somewhere. Christ, I wish we had the death penalty for this sort of thing!”

“Not with our present Home Secretary,” Grant said drily.

“He’d send the bastard to a psychiatric clinic to find out just what pressures made him become a traitor and charge it to the taxpayer. We’ll have to find this one and deal with him ourselves, this time.”

“Oh, we’ll find him,” the Brigadier said.

“Or her,” Grant amended. White looked up quickly.

“You’re not suggesting Miss. Graham?”

“No, I’m not suggesting anyone,” he said.

“But I’d like to look into her as closely as we’ve looked into those poor devils who got burned to death. What’s the harm, if she’s got nothing to hide?”

“No harm at all,” the Brigadier said. “

“Do you propose to talk to her? “

“At some point, yes. I’ll do a little preliminary digging first. And I ought to make contact with Sasanov. He seems very anxious to start serious work with us. We ought to take advantage as quickly as possible.”

“He’s reached the same conclusion as we have,” James White said.

“He knows we’ve got a Mole, and he won’t have a chance of fading out of sight himself until we’ve caught him. It’ll be easier when we’ve had a reaction from his family. It’s a month since we sent his message, and there’s been no definite answer. Miss. Graham says he’s building up a considerable head of steam, being shut up in the flat and getting no news.” Grant pursed his lips, and tapped them with the end of his pencil.

“I suggest we make immediate contact with Swallow and stress the urgency. People are apt to take their time over these things when they’re in their own sphere of operations. Shall I organize that?”

“Yes,” the Brigadier decided.

“Send it through today. We must have an answer, otherwise we just might find Sasanov has decided to say nothing at all until we’ve discovered our double agent. And that could take even more time.”

“And time,” Grant said quietly, ‘is something we haven’t got. I learned that from the Saudis, if nothing else. ” He gathered his file and walked out of the office. By noon, a coded message was on its way to the Embassy in Moscow, for the commercial attache who was the head of Intelligence. Elizabeth Cole, code-named “Swallow’, received her instructions from him in a memo which she immediately put through the shredder. She set out for the cafe at tea time. A message for Poliakov was phoned through to the University. Books he had ordered were waiting for him in Moscow’s biggest bookshop on Red Square. If he collected them at four, they’d be packed up to take away. He said thank you, yes, he’d come at that time. He was already waiting for Elizabeth Cole in the cafe when she arrived. Irina Sansanova watched her mother drinking tea; since the funeral she had seemed less nervous, more calm in herself. The funeral had been an ugly occasion, a quick cremation with no relatives except themselves, and two officials flanking the sombre figure of General Antonyii Volkov. The group were photographed, which surprised Irina and her mother; Fedya Sasanova cried through the ceremony, while Irina stayed unmoved, supporting her mother. To the eyes of Volkov, there was more relief than sorrow in the widow’s tears. The white-faced daughter showed real human agony. She at least believed that the dead man was her father. He shook hands with them afterwards, and they were driven home in an official car. Inside the flat, Irina broke down, and wept bitterly until she went to bed and fell asleep. A week later, after the sociology class, her lecturer asked her to stay behind and go over her notes with him.

“I must talk to you,” he said.

“About your father.” She had looked down, tears filling her eyes.

“Please don’t. He was buried last week.” She shrugged.

“It’s all over now.” Poliakov had laid a hand on her shoulder. She blushed at the contact.

He said quietly, “Your father is alive. I have something which proves that body belonged to someone else.” She stared at him, eyes wide with amazement.

“Take this and give it to your mother.” She put the envelope in her pocket. The risk he had taken appalled her. So did the extent of his involvement with what was certainly treason. It was one thing to theorize and talk about her views on sociology and whether she would forgive her father if by chance he ever came back. Dangerous enough to merit a harsh punishment. But delivering that envelope could mean his death. Receiving it and passing it to her mother carried the same penalty for her. Her colour faded, leaving her very pale indeed. She closed her hand round the shape in her pocket.

“What is it?” she spoke in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Poliakov said.

“I only know it will prove your father is alive. Give it to your mother and if she has anything to say, write this in your next essay.

“Lenin was the high priest in the religion of the Proletariat.” Can you remember that? ” She repeated the phrase.

“It’s meaningless enough to have me question you about it,” he said.

“If there is no message, then write,” Lenin was the champion of the Proletariat. ” Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she murmured. Poliakov had done something which sprang from two causes; one was sympathy for her dilemma and the other was because he had rightly interpreted her blushes. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. He saw by the look in her eyes that he had sealed the pact of mutual silence.

“Destroy it afterwards, whatever it is. Leave no trace.” She nodded and hurried out of the lecture room.

A fellow student, one of the few girls who spoke kindly to her these days, smiled and said, “I think he’s in love with you, Irina; he pays more attention to you than anyone else.” She laughed out loud at Irina’s crimson cheeks, and went her way. That had been three days ago, and still Irina had not given the envelope to her mother. She had opened it, and seen the incomprehensible picture of a sunrise and a circle of big stones, and had recognized instantly her father’s writing on the back. And read the message: “The sun rose once for us, Fedya. Join me and it will rise for us again. Your husband, Ivan, who loves you.” She hadn’t done what Poliakov told her; she hadn’t given it to her mother and she hadn’t destroyed it. She kept it in its envelope, hidden in her brassiere, and it was instinct that made her delay until that afternoon when they were drinking tea. There was something unnatural about her mother, as if the funeral had pacified her fears. She slept better and seemed more cheerful in a guarded way. She made Irina uneasy. Mother? ” Fedya looked up at her.

“Yes, dearest?”

“Are you still unhappy over what happened to Father?”

“But of course! Why do you ask such a strange question? Do you think I’ve stopped missing him when only a week ago we stood by his body?” When Irina didn’t answer, she added, “I can’t weep for ever. And you have your life to live. Maybe now the authorities will realize we did nothing wrong. He didn’t defect, he had a breakdown and killed himself. We can’t be blamed for that.”

“Then in a way you’re glad he’s dead,” her daughter said in a flat voice.

“No, no, how could I be glad!” Fedya protested.

“I loved him dearly, you know that you know how much he suffered after Belezky died.” Instinctively she spoke very quietly.

“But the way it’s turned out is better for us. Better for you.”

“You identified his body,” Irina said.

“Tell me the truth, mother. Was it really him?” Fedya hesitated; her daughter looked tense, odd. Why all the sudden questions, and that final, terribly dangerous question? A wild suspicion flashed into her mind. Children had been set to spy upon their parents before now. Then reason prevailed and she shuddered at what fear could do to the deepest relationship. God forgive her for thinking such a thing of her own child, even for a moment.

“No, darling,” she said gently.

“It wasn’t your father. But Volkov thinks it is. The disappearance is explained you saw the pictures in Pravda and the reports. We’ll be safe now, just so long as we forget all about it. We must think of him as dead too.” Slowly Irina took the envelope out of her dress and placed it on the table.

“I knew you were hiding something,” she said.

“You could have trusted me, Mother. Read what’s inside that. Then tell me if we can think of him as dead.” Fedya covered her mouth with one hand, as a cry of surprise escaped her. She had looked at the written side of the card first; she turned it over quickly and then back, reading the few words again.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

“My God it’s from him.”

“How can you be sure?” Irina asked her.

“It could be forged, it could be a trick. I don’t think it is, but we dare not risk anything.”

“It’s from your father,” Fedya Sasanova said.

“No one could send that message except him. Nobody but I would understand it…” The sun rose once for us. ” He sent this.”

“What does it mean?”

“When we were married,” her mother said, ‘we went to the Crimea for a week. We had a room in a holiday chalet, deep in the country. It was spring and the flowers were like a carpet. He took me for a walk very early one morning before the sun rose. We made love among the flowers, and the rising sun touched us, like in that postcard. ” She put her head down and began to cry.

“What does he mean, join me? Oh, God, how I miss him!” She looked up suddenly, and fear distorted her face.

“Where did you get this? Who gave it to you?”

“Someone I trust,” her daughter said simply.

“They will send a message back for us. He wants you to go to him. I want to go too.” Her mother wiped the tears away. She picked up the postcard and then let it fall to the table.

“We can’t,” she said.

“We could never get out of Russia. It’s madness.” Irina leaned towards her.

“But why? He must know of a way or he wouldn’t suggest it. Mother, don’t you want to go to him?”

“Of course I’d go,” she mumbled.

“I lie awake thinking of him, longing to be with him. But I’d reconciled myself to life without him. I knew when I saw that body that he was safe in the West. And I was glad because I knew you’d have a chance again. Your career at University, graduating as teacher… We’ve been under a cloud for so long, and the strain has been so awful! When they came to take me to the mortuary to identify him, I thought I was going to be arrested I nearly died of fear. No, this isn’t possible. If we get involved in anything and it fails, we’ll go to the Gulag, or the mental hospitals. I might risk it myself, but never for you. ” She poured a glass of steaming tea from the samovar, and sipped it.

“My mind is made up,” she said.

“Put that card in the stove, Irina.”

“No, mother. Wait till the morning; think about it. I want to go; I don’t want to go on living here, frightened of every knock on the door. Make up your mind tomorrow.” Her mother moved slowly, as if she were very tired. She took the card from the table, and kissed it. Then she lifted the lid of the stove and dropped it inside.

“I have decided,” she said.

“Your father will understand. I have had a good life; I want to see you settled and safe, with a man of your own and a child. We won’t talk about it any more.” Irina didn’t answer; for a few moments while she argued with her mother, her courage had risen, minimizing the difficulties, ignoring the penalty for failure. Escape to the West seemed to answer the problems of loneliness and the drab fear that invested their lives. But when Fedya Sasanova dropped the postcard into the stove, Irina faced reality again. It was not possible. Nothing could be done. Her mother was right. She saw the sorrow on her face, realizing suddenly how her mother had aged in the last nine months. She sipped her tea and bowed her head like an old, exhausted woman. Irina came and put her arms around her.