The Defector (28 page)

“But it’s better to clear the matter up. I shall telephone Davina this evening;

I should have done it ages ago, it’s very remiss of me to neglect her. And you can ring James in Kent, dear. ” Captain Graham saw the firm, but gentle smile and knew that there was no point in arguing.

“That’s a good idea. Now Charley and I are going to play backgammon.

I’ll get the board set up. ” There was silence after that, except for the rattle of the dice, and a muttered damn, half-laughing, from the Captain as his daughter won the first game. Mrs. Graham watched them tolerantly as she sewed. Needlework and gardening were her two passions, and she embroidered exquisitely. She was glad to see them together; she noticed how beautiful her daughter was in profile, and how young still, pushing the shining red hair away with one hand and teasing her father for being a bad loser. And she thought, as she often did in private, that there was something sad about her favourite child, so gifted with all the feminine graces, so envied by her own sex. Sad because the deeper values of fidelity and unselfishness had eluded her; she believed that love was all that mattered, without understanding that it meant to give as much as to receive. Her thoughts turned to her other child, the self-contained, resentful elder daughter, resolutely plain and on the shelf, a reproach to her parents and her sister. Undemonstrative as a child, she had been difficult to love. She had been a silent, brooding adolescent who made adults uncomfortable. She had grown into the sensible daughter, nicknamed Davy, until such time as the boy was born; but still the nickname stuck. It was inconceivable to connect Davina with something secretive. Ridiculous to imagine that there was any connection between her and the death of a Russian trade delegate. Or the vague mystery of James White’s true function in the Ministry. She didn’t try to dismiss the fear that had begun to grow while she listened to Charley and looked at the photograph of a man who had been alive and in her house when he was said to have died months before. She didn’t dismiss anything, because the last time she had felt this sense of darkening premonition was just before they received the news of their son’s death.

“You’ll be glad to hear that our operative in Moscow is in position and Miss. Graham and her companion are on their way.” The Brigadier had taken Sasanov into the conference room ahead of the others. They had lunched together with Grant, and the conversation stayed on the most superficial level. They talked about the weather, the Brigadier’s game of golf over the weekend; Sasanov listened to an explanation of the game without hiding his boredom. He ate in silence, his expression stony, resisting efforts to draw him out in the game of social niceties the two Englishmen were playing. When he was alone with the Russian, James White made his announcement immediately. Sasanov’s head came up and he tensed; he reminded the Brigadier of a big, powerful animal that had scented danger.

“What about my daughter? And my wife?”

“Your daughter is well, and is continuing her studies at university,” the Brigadier said.

“There is no further news of your wife. We’re still trying to make contact.”

“They will send Fedya to the Gulag,” Sasanov said. He began to pace up and down.

“She won’t live long in those conditions. My wife is a townswoman. They’ll kill her slowly, with hard labour and, too little food. And the cold. ” He faced James White.

“You don’t know what that word means in this little country. It’s a cold that freezes the brain, that wakes you in the night in agony. It is a form of torture that never stops. Hunger and weakness and always that bitter cold eating into the body like a hungry animal. My wife will die,” he said.

“We will get her exchanged,” James White said.

“First, we want to bring your daughter over. And that seems very hopeful.” Sasanov swung on him.

“You have no one to exchange for my wife!” he shouted.

“You haven’t an agent of enough importance. The ones you have in prison here are all expendable. We wouldn’t offer anything to have them back!”

“Why don’t we sit down,” James White said.

“We have a few minutes in hand before the session starts. Calm yourself, Colonel. I’ve been thinking hard about this question of exchange and your wife. You’re right, of course. We haven’t got a Lonsdale or a Kroger. And the Americans certainly won’t give us one of their bargaining-counters to help release her. We’ve been insisting on keeping you to ourselves, you know. That was part of our bargain: you stay here.”

“But you are sharing my information,” Sasanov protested.

“Yes, sharing, but there’s no cooperation in debriefing you. The Americans don’t like that. But I keep my word, Colonel.” Sasanov hunched forward, his head lowered; the animal simile recurred to James White.

“Vina is out there too,” Sasanov said.

“And there is one of our agents in place here.”

“What makes you think that?” The question was asked almost casually.

“Because I’m hot a fool,” Sasanov snarled at him.

“I know how my own organization works; I’ve known there was a KGB penetration since the fire at Halldale. And you haven’t found him, have you?”

“Not yet,” the Brigadier admitted.

“But we will.”

“How?” Sasanov demanded.

“Months of investigating, taking statements, cross-examining the suspects, letting them go again, waiting for absolute proof-I know your methods, Brigadier, and they won’t do for this! By the time you are ready to charge the spy he’ll have made his escape, like Philby and the others. That’s why you must let me look for him.” He took a cigarette out of the box on the table and then put it back in disgust.

“I can’t smoke those things. Vina always got me Russian cigarettes.”

“Kidson should have done the same,” the Brigadier said.

“How do you mean… look for him?” He didn’t sound very interested. He swung his foot in its highly polished leather shoe and gazed at it for a moment or two before looking at Sasanov.

“Show me what you’ve got,” the Russian said.

“Let me analyse it. I haven’t got time to waste, Brigadier. That agent could mean my wife’s release. Think of the danger to Vina and the others! Let me work with your investigators and find him.”

“I’m afraid we can’t interrupt the debriefing,” White said.

“I couldn’t justify it. “

“I can interrupt it,” Sasanov said flatly.

“I can stop talking!”

“If you do,” White answered pleasantly, “I shall cancel the rescue operation and recall my people from Russia. Never try to blackmail me, Colonel. It makes me very obstinate.”

“You don’t have to interrupt the sessions with Grant and his experts,” Sasanov countered.

“Just let me have the in formation your investigators have got on file. I can go through it myself, alone. It is to your advantage, as much as mine.

I want my wife released; you have a team in Russia and a Soviet agent loose.

I will know better than anyone how to look for him.” The Brigadier examined his shoe again. After a pause he said, “Very well. We’d be glad of your assistance. So long as you maintain your present level of information with Grant and his people And here they are. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Shall we take our places?” He glanced at the half-dozen men and smiled in his genial way, as if he were about to chair a routine board meeting in a company that was making a satisfactory profit. He saw Kidson go up to Sasanov and say something which made the Russian nod in agreement. They disposed themselves around the big mahogany table. Grant, the supreme professional co-ordinator; Kid-son the psychologist; a Soviet foreign affairs expert called Franks; Holmes from the Department of Trade; Longman from the Ministry of Defence, with his assistant; and finally the representative of the Foreign Office, Arthur Warburton, a former Moscow diplomat with a long record of service within the Eastern bloc. There was a steno typer who recorded every word spoken. Grant cleared his throat in his pedantic way, and tapped a pencil on the tabletop, exactly like a schoolmaster calling his class to attention. The Brigadier could see quite clearly how his brilliant assistant annoyed his colleagues.

“We can recap on yesterday’s session,” he said.

“By reference to the transcripts. Everyone has one? Good. Study them, and then perhaps Longman would like to begin.”

White watched Sasanov. He didn’t consult the papers in front of him. They had been translated into Russian to make it easier for him to read and digest them at speed. He was closed to the room and everyone in it, if his expression was an indication. The rather square face was set, the eyes hidden by half-lowered lids, the jaw clenched. He wanted to root out the KGB operative. It had occurred to White from the start that he hadn’t once suggested that the man they were looking for was a homebred traitor. He heard Longman from the Ministry of Defence open the session. He was a brisk man in his middle forties, a naval captain seconded to the highly secret section of the Ministry that operated with SIS.

“If the internal coups you disclosed to us yesterday are successful inside the WE countries on the Gulf, that will open the Strait of Hormuz to Soviet naval domination,” he said. Sasanov answered slowly in his very good English. Dav-ina Graham had achieved that, apart from anything else.

“The coups are timed to start within six weeks of each other,” he said.

“Beginning with the palace revolution in Dubai. After the ruler’s assassination, power will be seized by the minister.” The Brigadier had read the transcripts the night before. The plan outlined by the Russian was simple, yet terribly cunning in its conception. The ruler of Dubai was a stern but beloved autocrat, a devout Moslem who lived a comparatively spartan life in comparison with his sons and his principal advisers. His death would be the result of travelling by helicopter with one of his younger sons, a Prince Mohammed, who liked to pilot his father. The Prince was known to be as wild as a hawk, restless and power-seeking, secretly resentful of his older brothers. The plan to sabotage the helicopter would allow the Minister to accuse the elder sons of bringing about their father and brother’s death, to arrest them and take power himself. He would have the support of the Army, who regarded themselves as bound in loyalty to the dead Prince Mohammed. Western observers would see no peril in the Minister’s assumption of power; he had never been suspected of Soviet leanings. In fact his liking for luxury and Western ways was known to be catered for by Britain and the United States. The death of the Sheik of Kuwait would be caused by | poison, administered by a woman in his harem. The woman was a plant, provided by the PLO. She had been chosen for her remarkable beauty and skill as a dancer; she had already pleased the Sheik and was taken with him when he travelled. His heir was already under the domination of a favourite with Soviet connections. The Sultan of Oman would be brought down by an internal revolution;

the military dictatorship would be fronted by extremist Moslems. The fall of Saudi Arabia would happen automatically from within. The preparations for a rising against the king and the royal family had been in train for the past four years. It would begin with a second assault upon the Grand Mosque in Mecca. By the time the United States and the West had interpreted what was happening, the whole bloc to the Persian Gulf and the Strait of Hormuz would be invested with Soviet sympathizers, and the seas open to the Red Fleet.

“The result of this,” Sasanov went on, ‘will be a military confrontation with the United States. “

“In other words, a war,” Captain Longman interposed.

“A confrontation is not expected to develop into a war at that stage,” the Russian answered.

“Our experts believe that fighting between the forces of the United States and ours will be avoided. With a consequent loss of face for America. But that is going too far ahead. The subjugation by subversive violence of the oil kingdoms of the Gulf, that is what we have to study first.” Kidson was making notes with his pencil; they appeared to be notes but were actually line-drawings; odd shapes connected here and there with sharp angular lines. Occasionally he glanced up and watched Sasanov. He was on his feet, addressing the men seated round the table. In repose he was a dour man, with a sense of humour that was quick and unexpected. But here, surrounded by men of his own stamp, he projected considerable power. He spoke with fluency, answered and parried questions with authority. The drawings on Kidson’s pad grew blacker as he underlined some of them. The session was interrupted for cups of tea and dry army-issue biscuits, as Grant called them. Kidson and White left the room separately, ostensibly to go to the lavatory. They met in the washroom.

“I see what you mean,” the Brigadier said.

“He is certainly fluent. Every name, every date, is to hand. It is extraordinary. “

“And he’s dripping with sweat,” Kidson remarked slowly.

“Did you notice that? He’s tearing himself inside out, and I don’t know why.” He went to the basin and rinsed his hands.

“We’ll know soon enough,” the Brigadier said.

“He’s asked to join the hunt for the Mole. It’ll be very interesting to see if he finds him. He wants to get his wife released, he says. And he makes constant references to Miss. Graham. Perhaps that’s where the conflict lies. bear that in mind;

he’ll find our traitor for us. “

“And if he doesn’t?” Kidson asked him. The Brigadier turned the doorknob.

“We could lose those poor devils we sent to Russia,” he said. The village of Zhukova is on a bluff overlooking the Moscow River. Irina Sasanova had asked Volkov if she might go for a walk that afternoon while he had work to do. He had assured her she could go where she liked; he recommended a particular spot outside the village settlement, where he said she would have a fine view of the Central Russian plain. It was very hot, but a delightful breeze blew in from the river; it cooled her as she walked. It was not the route she and her parents used to take when they walked their dog on summer weekends. Sasanov liked the beaches bounding the slow-moving river; Irina couldn’t have borne to retrace their steps. Instead she paused on the high point, with the village to her left; and behind, the modern yellow-brick villas and traditional pine and clap board houses looking so tranquil enclosed in their neat gardens and screens of pines. Moscow was only twenty miles away, but it was easy to imagine oneself in the heart of the countryside. She sat down, pulling at strands of grass, weaving them between her fingers until they broke. Before her the Central plain undulated into the distance, suggesting an infinity of rolling land. The warm breeze stirred her hair; below her the sand beaches glittered in the sunshine, with figures dotted on them. Bathing and fishing were forbidden for the ordinary Russian citizens who crossed Ouspenskaya Bridge and trekked to the public beaches, because the river supplied the capital with its water. But on these, the beaches where the privileged owners of Party dachas picnicked and sunbathed, fishing was allowed by special licence, and swimming was permitted. In the larch and birch forests surrounding Zhukova village and its complexes of dachas, there were the remains of trenches dug in the last war for the final defence of Moscow against the German armies. They had never been used; the invaders had been held and driven back, like the French in 1812, and then annihilated in the ice and snow. It was the third weekend she had spent with Antonyii Volkov since the night she became his lover. As a reward, he had promised to let her see her mother. She hadn’t cried since that first night, and only then when he was fast asleep, and she could weep into her pillows. She drove back to Moscow in his official car. She went to classes at the University as usual, and when she came back to her apartment, the old de hurnqya was waiting for her by the lift, cringing and asking if there was anything the Comrade Sasanova wanted. She had already slipped in to tidy the apartment for her. Irina walked past her without answering. Volkov’s protection was having very early results. The next was the restoration of her right to shop at No. 2 Granovsky St. and to buy clothes on the third floor of Gum, reserved for the Party elite. She had dinner with Volkov during the week and the car was waiting for her after the final class at the University at the weekend. She had no communication with Poliakov until he took the sociology class the following week. Sitting on the hill, she clasped her knees and closed her eyes; she rocked herself slightly, like a child or a very old woman. It was Sunday, and the next evening Volkov had arranged for her to visit her mother. A single tear slipped down her cheek; she brushed it off and got up. It was time to go back to the dacha. He was taking her to the Bear again, and afterwards he would want to come back to Zhukova and make love.