The Defector (19 page)

“Little mother,” she whispered, using the old-fashioned endearment.

“I love you; we have each other. We’ll be all right. ” At five o’clock in the morning, in the dead hour before dawn, Fedya Sasanova was woken by the terrified caretaker of the apartment block. Two men loomed in the bedroom door behind her. She got up and dressed, and crammed a few clothes into a plastic bag. Irina woke as they were leaving; still half asleep, she opened her door and saw the figures in the tiny lighted passage. She had one glimpse of her mother’s white face before she was hustled out and the entrance door was slammed. The dividing walls between the little flats were thin, and their neighbours heard Irina screaming. Nobody came to comfort her. Jeremy Spencer-Barr’s suitcases were all packed and labelled; he had letters of introduction and his accredited papers for his new post at the UN. Everything was ready, and his girlfriend Mary had arranged to drive him to the airport. He came up to Humphrey Grant’s office, expecting a final briefing. He felt confident and eager, and he was determined to impress Grant. He considered him the most important member of the Department after the Brigadier himself. Unlike his colleagues, he didn’t call him SGI behind his back; or indulge in infantile jokes, like drawing a guillotine in the margin of one of his memos that was Peter Harrington’s level. Grant looked up when he came in, and gave his bleak smile for a moment. Spencer-Barr sat down and waited. Grant shuffled papers. Then he put them in a neat pile and said, “I expect you’re all packed and ready for New York?” Yes, “Jeremy said eagerly.

“I’m off tomorrow.”

“Well,” Grant remarked, “I’m sorry about this, but we’ve decided not to send you.” Spencer-Barr stared at him. He was so taken aback that he groped for words.

“Not going? But why? Why not?”

“Because the Brigadier has another job for you,” Grant said.

“We’re sending someone else out to New York.”

“Harrington is he going back?” There was an angry flush under the young man’s eyes, like blotches.

“No,” Grant said.

“He’s not going anywhere at the moment. Someone from the Washington Embassy is going to be transferred to the UN. We think you can be more useful here.” He looked at the man on the other side of the desk, and noted the signs of anger and bewilderment becoming charged with suspicion.

“One thing I must know, sir. Is this a demotion? Have I done anything wrong?”

“On the contrary,” Grant said smoothly, ‘what we have in mind for you is much more important than playing along two Iron Curtain contacts. Harrington always thought they were more important than they really were. I can assure you, this change of plan is no reflection on you. Quite the contrary,” he repeated.

“Thank God for that!” Spencer-Barr said. He had regained control.

“When will I know what my new job will be?”

“In a week or two,” Grant said.

“When the details are worked out. In the meantime I suggest you spend the interim at the language centre. Brush up your Russian. ” He didn’t give Spencer-Barr time to ask more questions. He stood up and said briefly, “That’s it then. If you’ve run into any expenses through this US trip being cancelled, list them and send them in. I’ll see that you’re reimbursed.”

“Thank you,” Spencer-Barr said. He turned and went out of the office. He paused in the corridor for a moment.

“Russian,” he said under his breath.

“This is something big.. ” Then he walked on, his step quickening. He hurried down the stairs to his own section, and saw with a flash of irritation that the figure coming up was Peter Harrington. For a second or two they stared at each other, nakedly hostile; and then Harrington grinned his impudent, infuriating grin, and said, “Not gone yet, old man?

“No,” Spencer-Barr said. Harrington stopped and it was impossible to get past him without pushing him aside. He noticed that the older man looked less dishevelled than usual and had lost weight.

“What’s the delay?” Harrington asked.

“I thought you’d gone already. Someone keeping the seat warm for you, are they? “

“I’m not going after all,” Jeremy said.

“The plan’s been changed.” He took a step downward but Harrington didn’t move.

“Who’s the replacement then? Don’t tell me those stupid buggers upstairs are just leaving my contacts” Not at all,” Spencer-Barr snapped.

“Someone from Washington is going to New York. I must go, I’m in a hurry.” Harrington stood aside.

“And what are you going to do, join Personnel?” He laughed as Jeremy went past him with out answering. He watched Jeremy’s retreating figure as he hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

“You little turd,” he muttered. Then he continued on his own way up. He had been trying to contact Davina Graham but with out success; she hadn’t been in to the office for weeks. Her regular reports to White were no longer made in person and nobody knew where she was. A pall of uncertainty had settled over the existence of Sasanov and his’minder’. Harrington got no response from colleagues who might have seen her or been in contact. She had vanished immediately after the fire at Halldale Manor. He sat by himself in the evenings, holding on to his resolve not to drink, and wondered whether the vacuum left behind meant that she was dead. But if an operative were dead, then Personnel was always notified. Nothing had come through to him. He busied himself at his desk, writing up details on a list of files, his mind concentrating on other things. So Spencer-Barr was not going to New York. He hadn’t appeared to mind, so he must have been assigned to some thing else. And at short notice, too, because Peter Harrington knew exactly when his replacement was supposed to leave, and his remarks had been purely malicious, a feeble stab at a successful rival. And in spite of his string of languages and degrees Spencer-Barr was a bloody amateur at the game. Only a fool would have told him that a Washington diplomat was going to take the UN post. That was classified information; he wondered whether to make use of the information to damage Spencer-Barr, but he himself didn’t stand high enough in anyone’s opinion to warrant a hearing. He had followed Davina’s advice, denying himself the ease of a drink when he was tired and lonely, had cut out the carbohydrates and enrolled at a gymnasium where he worked out twice a week. She had held out a hope of reinstatement that night when they talked in Jules’ Bar. He had clung to the hope and done what she suggested. But nothing had happened; no call came to promote him out of the limbo of the Personnel Department. The ache for a big, warming Scotch was growing in him. At the end of the day he didn’t go to the local pub; he went straight home to the dull little flatlet in Earls Court, switched on the television and settled down to watch until close down He made himself a sandwich and some coffee; when the telephone rang, he jumped, and swore because the hot coffee slopped over and spilt on his leg. When he heard Davina’s voice he laughed out loud with relief.

“Christ, I thought you’d dropped through a hole how are you? Where have you been? Nobody knew where to contact you.”

“I’m fine,” her voice said.

“I haven’t been to the office, that’s all. But I’m glad to think I’ve been missed. How are you, Peter? ” He knew it was a genuine inquiry.

“I’m sober, and about six pounds lighter. I’ve been living a life of self-denial, and I’m not joking. No booze, no sex, and I go to a PT class twice a week. It’s driven me up the bloody wall, but I’ve kept my promise. When are you going to keep yours? And where the hell are you?”

“What exactly did I promise?” she said.

“To help me get going again,” he answered; and there was no levity this time.

“To make a fresh start.”

“I’m coming up to the office tomorrow,” she said.

“Let’s have lunch at the pub. I can’t wait to see the new Peter Harrington.”

“He can’t wait to see you,” he said.

“Come and rescue me from Personnel about twelve-thirty; okay?”

“Fine,” Davina said.

“Twelve-thirty.” She hung up and he put the receiver down. Coming up to the office. That meant she was somewhere in the country. He didn’t know who had started the rumours about Halldale Manor, but they crept from office to office and were murmured over drinks on the way home. And unlike most rumours, this one was spread by someone who hoped to pick up an answer to the question. He frowned, trying to remember where he had first heard it. The frown became deeper when he realized that it had originated from someone in Spencer-Barr’s office; a junior officer, still changing the typewriter ribbons and checking the carbon paper. All agog about the fire, and was it true that the nursing-home was part of the Department’s safe custody system. That was where Peter had first heard it, from a stooge in Spencer-Barr’s little circle, a side-kick who wouldn’t have known enough to put the question together. Harrington made himself more coffee, and sponged the stain off his trousers. Twelve-thirty tomorrow, he would see Davina Graham. The bright boys wouldn’t have counted on that. One of the students in the sociology class nudged her companion; they smirked as they saw Irina Sasanova stay behind with the young lecturer. The class emptied and the girl said to her friend, “There’s something going on there. She can’t stop gawking at him and going red.

I wonder if she’ll sleep with him? “

“Maybe she has already,” her companion giggled.

“Her essays aren’t that good.” They followed the others away from the classroom, still giggling and speculating. Poliakov waited for Irina to come up on the rostrum. Her appearance had shocked him. She looked grey-faced, gaunt; he thought immediately that she had been ill. The essay was almost incomprehensible, as if she had filled up the pages without any thought of content. On the final page she had written in a strong hand, “Lenin was the high priest of the religion of the proletariat.” It made more sense than the rest of what she had written.

“Irina,” he said.

“Irina, you look ill. Tell me, is anything the matter?” Her eyes filled with tears and overflowed down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away or try to stop them.

“My mother was arrested last week,” she said in a low, trembling voice.

“They took her in the middle of the night.” It was Poliakov’s turn to freeze with horror.

“The message I gave you” She destroyed it,” Irina said.

“They found nothing. She won’t tell them anything because of me.”

“God help us,” he muttered.

“God help us all.”

“You needn’t be afraid,” the girl said.

“I found out why she was arrested. I went to Antonyii Volkov himself.” Poliakov stared at her.

“Volkov - you went to ask him about her?”

“He came to the funeral. My father worked under him for years. I went to his office and I wouldn’t go away. They threatened to arrest me, but I just sat outside the door, and in the end he let me come in. And he told me that my mother had been sent to a rehabilitation centre. Not the Gulag, he assured me about that. ” She gave a grimace of a smile, full of hatred at the memory.

“He was kind, patient, explaining to me that my mother had told a damaging lie about my father, which could have saved his life if the authorities had been warned in time. She had been selfish and disloyal and my father’s suicide was mostly her fault. She had to be re-educated to a sense of her duties as a Soviet citizen. Then of course she would be allowed home. I had nothing to fear, I was a good student, a faithful member of the Young Communists’ Party. My record was excellent. I must go on with my studies, and remember to call on him if I needed help in any way. “

“And was this true?” Poliakov questioned her. He didn’t believe that the unhappy Fedya Sasanova wouldn’t be forced to betray them.

“Not as he told it,” Irina answered.

“My mother did lie. She told me she identified that body, knowing it wasn’t my father. To protect us and make the authorities believe he was dead. They must have known she lied, and that’s why she was arrested. So I thanked Antonyii Volkov and went home to the empty apartment. I stayed inside for three days;

all the neighbours knew what had happened. Nobody dared to come near me. The caretaker came to tell me I must get out; I slammed the door in her face. And I wrote the essay for you, with the line you told me. “

“I am sorry, Irina Ivanovna, so very sorry for you… and for your mother.” He put his arm around her and she crept closer, clinging to him. She hid her face against his chest and sobbed for a few minutes. He held her, soothing her with words and stroking her hair. Rage engulfed him, driving out the initial terror of betrayal.

“My poor child,” he said, again and again, while he cursed the injustice, the iron-hearted tyranny of his country’s political system and the monsters it spawned.

“We’ll help you,” he promised.

“There are a number of us, we’ll take care of you.” She raised her head and looked up at him.

“Send a message back to my father. Tell him I want to come to him. If I have to stay here, I shall kill myself. Can you do that, Alexei -can you promise me to send that message?” He nodded, and said something that she had never heard before.

“I swear by the Holy Saints and the Mother of God,” Poliakov said.

“The message will be delivered.” Elizabeth Cole knocked at the senior attache’s door and poked her head round when he called out.

“The Head of Chancery wants to see you, sir.” He got up and left the room immediately, following Elizabeth. They didn’t speak till they got to the little room next door to the Head of Chancery’s main office. This room was clear of all possible electronic listening-devices. When the door was closed, Elizabeth wasted neither time nor words.

“I’ve just come back from seeing the daughter’s contact,” she said.

“The very worst has happened in one way; the mother’s been arrested.”

“Christ.” The attache, a seasoned and highly skilled Intelligence officer, interrupted her.

“I’ll say the very worst has happened! This’ll blow everything to pieces. Where did you meet him? “

“In the Kremlin Museum; that’s our emergency venue,” she said.

“Hold on, it may not be as bad as it looks. The daughter had been to see him; she told him the news about her mother, and if you can credit it, she had the guts to go and brazen it out with Volkov himself!”