The Defector (20 page)

“Guts is hardly the word for it,” he said sombrely.

“He’s one of the worst since Schelepin. Go on.”

“Apparently he said her mother was being rehabilitated because of some lie she was supposed to have told; he played the kindly uncle to the girl and told her she was in good odour and didn’t have to worry. The daughter told her contact that the real reason for the arrest was because her mother had lied about the body they buried, and Volkov had caught her out. She’d given the mother the message, and by some really lucky chance, she’d destroyed it the night before she was arrested. Daughter is certain mother won’t say anything, and anyway she doesn’t know who passed the message to daughter. The point is, daughter wants to go over and join father. ” The man was puffing on a cigarette, concentrating.

“We’ll get that down on tape, and then think it through when we’ve re-run it.

I’ll set the machine. Start again and put in every detail you can think of Elizabeth told the story a second time, without his interruptions, and then they sat and listened to the play back. There was a coffee machine in the corner, a facility copied from the Americans, and they both drank a cup. Elizabeth watched him making squiggles on a pad; she had worked with him for a long time, and this apparent trifling meant that he was thinking very hard indeed. He looked up at her at last, and the pen was set aside.

“We’ve got to get the daughter out,” he said.

“And not just because the father wants her. Ifvolkov decides to do an in-depth investigation of that poor woman she’ll implicate the daughter and if they pick her up that’s the end of your network, Lizzie; they’ll smoke them out of the University like rats. It’s just possible that going to see Volkov threw him off the scent; he may genuinely think the daughter’s innocent. If that’s the case, we’ll have time to set it up for her. But we won’t know that till we find out what they’ve done with the mother. There’s no such thing as rehabilitation, that’s balls. It’s either the Gulag or the labour camps. When was she arrested? “

“Last Thursday morning,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s eight days ago,” he said.

“If she’s still in the Lubyanka by the end of the week, it means they’re investigating her. And she won’t hold out for long. I’ll try and get our contact inside to make inquiries. The first thing to do is get this through to London. Lizzie, you make a full report and I’ll send you on the London flight with the Queen’s Messenger tomorrow morning. You can brief the Brigadier on the situation at first hand. “

“Thanks,” she said.

“I’d like a trip home.”

“You can have forty-eight hours,” he said.

“I’ll get the route organized for the daughter this end. We’ve got to get her out as quickly as possible. I’ll have some papers to give you, too.” He left her alone in the room, where she ran the tape once again and began to type out a special report for James White. After that she erased the tape, gathered her papers and went off to pack for the flight back to London. Sasanov lay awake and watched the dawn break in the patch of sky visible from the bedroom window. Like the other rooms, it looked out onto a wall, but from his vantage point in the bed he could see the sky at the top. He had slept early, Davina beside him, and woken as he did every night, at the hour when man’s mortality is lowest. His watch showed 4 a. m. ; he hardly needed to look at it to know that it was the same time as the other nights. He didn’t try to sleep; he moved away from her, and stretched his arms above his head and stared into the darkness waiting for the dawn. There was no answer from his wife; he didn’t ask for news, because he had come to the conclusion that there wasn’t any. The Brigadier couldn’t withhold a refusal indefinitely and he would know by Davina if she was hiding anything from him. There just wasn’t an answer, and he knew what that meant. They wouldn’t come. He was dead and buried for them both, and they wanted to be left in peace. He thought of his wife, Fedya, and the memory was so fresh she could have been beside him instead of the English woman who loved him. He remembered that brief honeymoon spent in the magic Crimean springtime. They were both very young, and in spite of their enlightened upbringing, there was an old-fashioned quality to their courtship and the wedding in the Wedding Palace. They had slept together before, but the real consummation of their love took place in the sweet-scented grass under a glorious sunrise. He had realized afterwards that this subconscious memory had selected the postcard of the dramatic sunrise over the pagan temple on Salisbury Plain. He had been in love with her for a long time; his love for her remained when their passion had lost its freshness. She had been his friend, his mother, the recipient of his most secret thoughts. Living and working in a world of suspicion and deceit, his private life was a complete contrast. And from that contrast he derived an independence of mind which welcomed friends like Jacob Belezky; within his family circle, freedom of thought and expression was a cherished thing. Fedya had a simplicity which shamed him, if he brought his professional standards home. His daughter was his companion and his pride;

clever, uncomplicated, a happy girl with a good future. He had lived within a charmed domestic circle, and his love for Jacob was as deep as the love for his wife and child. Fedya’s strength had helped him make the decision to defect; he turned and gazed at the sleeping woman by his side. They had little in common, except a basic integrity of spirit. Fedya had commonsense and intelligence but she was a mature woman who had never suffered inhibitions. Davina Graham’s brilliant intuitive mind was part of a personality that had not fully developed. In her mid-thirties she was still growing up; her love for him was a mixture of submission and protectiveness, with outbursts of independence when she felt too exposed. And the child still lurked in the background, finger in mouth, uncertain of itself. He needed impetus to start on his new life, the quiet encouragement of his wife, with her understanding of him and his innermost feelings. Her silence gave him more comfort than the dialectical arguments of an intellectual like Davina. Davina could never convince him that he was right in working against his homeland, because she was not a part of it. She would never understand what he had given up, because she was not a Russian. She had thrust off the bedclothes and he covered her against the early-morning cold in the bedroom. For the past week they had gone to bed and slept. He hadn’t felt like making love to her, and she had been sensitive enough not to approach him. She looked unhappy, when she thought herself unobserved. She did her best to interest him and to hold out hope of good news from his family. But her own confidence was sinking, and it was her suggestion, not his, that she should slip out of the flat, and be driven by one of their security men to see the Brigadier. She was going that morning; he regarded the loneliness ahead of him with dull despair. The abyss was at his feet again, and he felt tempted to give up and let himself fall into it. She moved, and reached out a hand to touch him. At the same time she woke up.

“Ivan? Are you awake?”

“Yes, it’s very early. Go to sleep.”

“What’s the matter?” He could see her eyes wide and searching, the look of anxiety on her face.

“Nothing. I’ll sleep in a minute.”

“No, you won’t,” she said.

“You’ve been doing this every night. Waking up at four and just lying there.” She reached up and switched on the garish bedside light. She looked pale and un rested

“I’m going to make some coffee,” she said. She got up, and shivered.

“It’s cold they don’t put the central-heating on till six. I’ll turn on the electric fire.” She went out to the tiny kitchen, and began to make the strong French coffee that he liked. The room grew warmer and lighter; when he sat upright he lost the little square of rosy sky and closed his eyes against the drab brick wall. She came back and poured him a cup of coffee, climbed into bed in her dressing-gown and sat sipping her own. They didn’t speak. She glanced at him quickly, not to be seen doing so, and noticed how heavy and lifeless his face seemed in repose. Russian melancholy, she thought, suddenly furious with him; bloody Slav gloom and doom. It’s so real I could almost pluck it out of the air. And then her anger melted, leaving the miserable ache of unhappiness that was becoming the predominant feeling in her life. He’s wretched because he’s losing hope, and it doesn’t matter what I’ve done, I can’t make up to him for them. And I don’t want to make up for them, unless by some awful chance they can’t or won’t come to him. I don’t want to possess this unhappy man. I want to make him happy; I want to give him back something because of all he’s given me. probably without even knowing it, she thought. Just by wanting me and teaching me what loving a man really means.

“Ivan,” she said.

“Listen to me, please. I know you’re depressed; I know you don’t think anything is going to come of my seeing the Brigadier except a lot of promises to gain more time. Isn’t that true? ” He turned and looked at her, and he nodded. She had this way of directness, of seeing into his thoughts and speaking them for him.

“Yes, that’s very much what I feel. You are doing it to try and help, but there’s nothing you can do. They are not coming to me… I know it.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said.

“I think they’ve had your message and by this time there must have been an answer. I’m going there today to find out what it is. And I’m going to tell you, even if it’s bad news. I can’t stand by and let this drag on and on. I promised you we’d bring them over if they were willing to come. You trusted me, and I’m not going to let you down.” He put his arm round her and pulled her close.

“You’re going to fight for me,” he said.

“Don’t fight too hard, Vina, or they’ll think you’ve got involved with me, and we’ll be separated. I know how these things work.”

“So do I,” she said.

“I won’t play it like that, don’t worry. But I’m going to make them tell me what’s happened. Will you try and be a bit more cheerful… just till I get back?” He kissed her instead of answering; he felt no desire, only tenderness because she was showing how much she was on his side. That was her way of loving him; to fight for him with her own people, to turn to him with such a hungry response that his dulled senses woke and, as the morning lightened into full day, once again they made love. Humphrey Grant went to Heathrow to meet the BA flight in from Moscow. He met Elizabeth Cole and the Queen’s Messenger, and escorted them to London. The report from the Embassy was handed over in the car. They drove straight to the office where the night security man let them in, and sped up in the lift to Grant’s office. He sat down with Elizabeth and went through the report with her.

“We’d better run this through the copying-machine,” he said.

“Make two copies. I’ll have the original filed.” He didn’t offer Elizabeth a drink, or apologize for keeping her in the office after the long Moscow flight. She knew Humphrey Grant from her early stint spent in the London office, and she wasn’t at all surprised by his lack of consideration. She was too involved in the business to think about being tired or wanting dinner. She came back with the two copies.

“What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Grant said.

“Certainly not make a decision in a hurry.”

“We must get the girl out,” Elizabeth said. He glanced up at her, disapproving of her vehemence.

“That’s up to the Chief. You’d better be here by nine in the morning. He’ll want to see you. “

“Right,” she said.

“I’ll get back and sort myself out.” She yawned, and Grant noticed how very tired she looked.

“I’ll get a taxi and drop you off,” he said. She showed her surprise.

“Oh, that’s very nice of you. Thanks.” They sat in silence till the taxi picked up in Victoria Street turned into the Cromwell Road where she was booked into a tourist hotel.

“You’ve done a good job,” he said suddenly.

“We mustn’t lose your network.”

“No,” she said.

“Does that mean you’ll back me up tomorrow?”

“I won’t make any promises,” he answered. She got out, pulled her small hand-case with her, said, “Thanks for the lift,” and shut the door. Grant gave the driver his private address in Chelsea, and the cab drove away. His service flat was small and impersonal; there were no photographs, few personal belongings to give it identity with the man who had lived in it for nearly five years. He switched on the TV to the late news programme, and settled down with a glass of beer. He didn’t feel hungry, and he never ate unless he felt like it. There was an interview with a well known left-wing MP who talked earnestly about the injustices of capitalist society. Grant knew the formula by heart; he had heard the same reasons put forward in his university days, the same appeal to idealism which had attracted so many men of real compassion into a political system of tyranny on a gigantic scale. He thought of the wife of Ivan Sasanov, dragged into the dark, her memory a diminishing cry like a light vanishing into a tunnel, until even the pinpoint went out. There was no justice for her, or for the millions like her. Soviet power was built on the dead. Blood and tears were its lubricants. He leaned forward and angrily switched off. Elizabeth Cole was a good operative. A steady type, not given to exaggeration.

“We must get the girl out.” But it wasn’t so easy; it took time to make the careful arrangements that had been used before. And they might not have any time at all. Not if the mother was still in the Lubyanka being interrogated. In-depth was the departmental euphemism for horrid pain and mind-destroying drugs. They wouldn’t know the answer to that question until their man in the Embassy had his reply from their contact inside the prison itself. That couldn’t be hurried either. Intelligence work had taught Humphrey Grant superhuman patience and a steely capacity for taking risks when necessary. He knew that the Russian defector’s’minder’ was coming to the office in the morning, requesting an urgent interview. He had been making his own inquiries about her since the slaughter at Halldale Manor. Some interesting facts had been turned up. Tomorrow might be a good time to face her with them, if she attempted to be awkward. He washed up his glass and dried it; everything in the kitchen was tidy and the tray was ready for his coffee and wheat meal biscuits in the morning. He went into his spartan room, undressed and settled in-to bed with a book. He read detective stories for relaxation. Davina Graham travelled in a London taxi from Shepherds Bush to the office in St. James’s Place, at the back of Queen Anne Street. It was a London taxi, except that it never drove round the streets or accepted an ordinary fare. Its driver dressed like a London cabbie, but he carried a gun. He was a crack shot with small-arms and an expert in self-defence. He was one of a small fleet of a dozen special transports, used for making pick-ups or taking high-security passengers for short distances. In the back, Davina looked at herself in her compact mirror. Now she carried the tools of female vanity in what used to be a handbag filled with practical things like a notebook and spare biros. She had reverted to the severe hairstyle that Sasanov disliked; she was pale and tired, but the reflection was carefully made-up, with dark mascara that flattered her large eyes. She didn’t realize how different she looked until she walked into White’s office and saw the quick appraisal that he gave her. Grant’s look was longer; they had never liked each other. She was too aloof and competitive, and he was coldly sarcastic if they disagreed. None of this surface discord worried the Brigadier, who believed it was better to divide a little in order to rule over his divergent, clever pack of individualists. He shook hands with her warmly.