The Defector (30 page)

“What about the people who are taking over our West German passports?” Davina asked.

“Don’t worry about them,” the woman said.

“Even if they were caught, they know nothing about you. I’m the only one who does. If I don’t get the signal that they’ve reached the West by this evening, I shall disappear for a few weeks until it’s safe, or we know what’s happened. But don’t worry. We’ve done this run dozens of times and it’s always worked. Let’s go now. ” She followed them out into the narrow corridor, and she was Fussy Frieda again, chattering and bustling into the lift and out past the caretaker. She paused, hanging onto Davina’s arm.

“We’ve had such a lovely visit,” she said.

“And now they’re taking me to the Briimmerhaus for coffee and cakes such good chocolate cake they have there…” Her voice faded as they walked away down the street. There was a small queue at the stop sign; before they joined it, Frieda whispered, “Good luck,” and then she separated from them. It was very warm, and the men wore open-necked shirts, the women dowdy cotton dresses. Nobody spoke. When the blue and white bus came to a halt, everyone filed on board and took their places. Frieda found a place in the front; she didn’t look at Harrington and Davina. She got off three stops later, and the last they saw of her was a bent figure, hurrying along the road with her head down as if she were walking against a wind. Schonefeld Airport was a well-designed, compact terminal, a status symbol for the East Germans, and constructed with imagination and a kind of stark elegance. It contrasted with the general air of drab functionalism that characterized the rebuilt city. Harrington looked at his watch; like Davina’s clothes and accessories everything was German-made.

“Our next rendezvous is in the self-service cafeteria on the first floor of External Flights Terminal 2,” he said.

“We’ve got a bit of time in hand; I’d like something to eat, wouldn’t you?” Davina shook her head.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“There’s such a dreadful atmosphere in this place. Why do we have to go to the cafeteria? Are we meeting someone else?”

“Not exactly.” For a second the old impudent grin appeared.

“We came into East Berlin on a day pass; we’re going to the Crimea for a holiday. We need luggage, my dear Gertrude. Christ, what a name to give you I’ll never remember it. Helga wasn’t too bad.”

“I kept thinking of Helga the Hyena,” she said, and she giggled nervously.

“I don’t dare to laugh over here-it might be considered a crime. Everyone looks so dour and miserable.”

“Life in the workers’ paradise is no joke,” he said.

“I just wish some of our cosy intellectual fellow-travellers could be sent here for a year without an exit permit. They might see corrupt old democracy in a new light… Here we are.” The cafeteria was at the top of a moving staircase. It was full of people queuing at the self-service counters. Harrington took a tray;

he chose a liverwurst sandwich, apple torte and two cups of coffee. He paused after he had paid at the check-out; it was a tiny hesitation while he got his bearings. Then as Davina followed, he headed towards a table three in from the centre aisle. There was a man sitting there reading the Ostdeutsches Gazette. Peter set down the tray and slid in beside the man, who lowered his newspaper a few inches and glowered at being disturbed.

Davina took her coffee; she sipped it in silence while he ate. Announcements came over the loudspeakers. Flights were called to Warsaw, Cracow, Bucharest. Harrington finished the apple torte, and pushed his plate away.

“That was good,” he said.

“I’m looking forward to this holiday, Gertrude. But you mustn’t let me eat too much.” She pulled herself together and said quickly, “No, of course not. You don’t want to put on weight again. I’ve got to be careful too.”

“They say the Russian food is very rich.” He leaned towards her.

“It’s the bathing and the beaches I like. And doing nothing for a bit.”

“We’re very lucky,” she said.

“A holiday like this really sets you up for the winter. What time is our flight?”

“Soon,” he answered.

“It’ll be called soon.”

“Excuse me.” The man sitting next to him folded his paper and got up. Harrington left his seat and stood aside to let him pass. The man pushed his way out. Harrington sat down again.

“What a pig,” Davina said.

“Did you see him glaring at you while we were talking about the holiday? When do we get the luggage?”

“It’s under the table,” he said softly.

“He left it for us. There’s the flight being called now.” She listened to the metallic voice: “Aeroflot flight 4270 to Moscow is boarding at Gate No. 5. Passengers will proceed to Gate No. 5 immediately they have checked in their luggage.” From Moscow they would catch the shuttle to Simferopol in the Crimea. Harrington stretched under the table; he hauled out one suitcase and then a smaller one. Both had name-tags tied to the handles. Herr Heinz Fleischer, Frau Gertrude Fleischer.

“You take the small one,” he told her.

“This is an egalitarian society. Women carry their own bags.” They went down the moving stairs and across the wide expanse of the ground floor with its checkins and ticket-offices. Harrington slowed as they neared the Aeroflot checkin.

“I’m scared,” Davina whispered to him.

“Don’t worry, the nasty bit is getting through to the plane. We’ll be all right. Stick close to me and say nothing.” There was a long walk to Gate No. 5. She had to hurry to keep up with him, and it made her breathless by the time they arrived and joined the line of passengers waiting to go through to the departure area. Two uniformed officials examined the passports and visas; they took a long time, reading the documents and referring back to the passports. The second man fixed each traveller with a cold, aggressive stare. Davina felt her legs trembling; the sense of breathlessness increased.

“Oh God,” she said to herself, ‘they’ll know there’s something wrong just by looking at me. if they see my hands shaking. “

“Gertrude,” Harrington snapped at her over his shoulder, ‘get your passport and visa ready. Come on, it’ll be our turn next. Here, give them to me. ” She stood a little behind him, wondering if the panic inside her was visible on her face. Harrington was like a rock; brusque with her, subservient to the officials it was a performance to admire for subtlety. A petty bureaucrat, assistant manager in the local Vehicle Licensing Office in a suburb of the city. He bullied his wife and toadied to the authorities. His passport and visa were examined; it seemed to Davina that they spent longer over their papers than on those who had gone in front of them. She was beckoned forward, and there was no Peter Harrington to hide behind. The official studied her passport, glanced up at her, turned back to the visa and to the passport again. Trail Fleischer? “

“Yes,” she said. Her throat was so dry that her voice sounded harsh. The official didn’t speak; he stared at her. She didn’t know that this charade was part of the system of keeping the citizen in a state of apprehension, even though he was doing something perfectly legal. The passport and documents were stamped, and handed back to her. Harrington took them immediately and stuffed them into his pocket.

“Come on,” he said impatiently; and they were through. All that remained was the personal search. Hand-luggage was sped through an X-ray machine. Davina saw her expensive maroon leather bag vanish into the X-ray, and reappear on the other side. Nobody else had such a smart piece of personal luggage as that distinctive bag. It stood out among the plastic purses and shabby holdalls; even the briefcases carried by travelling businessmen were of inferior quality.

“I should never have brought that,” she thought suddenly.

“It stands out a mile.”

“Through here,” someone directed her, and she walked through the metal-detector screen, and a uniformed woman security guard gave her a body search. Harrington was in front of her, waiting. She joined him, and he dropped down into a seat.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

“You were great. Here’s your bag.” She took the handbag from him, and placed it under her chair.

“I’ve never been so frightened in my life,” she said.

“When they started looking at the papers I shook like a leaf.”

“That’s just part of the technique,” he said.

“I should have warned you. They like people to be scared. I must say Langham Place does a nice bit of forging.”

“I saw people looking at my bag,” she said.

“I shouldn’t have brought it. Nobody else had anything from the West.”

“Stop worrying,” he whispered.

“You’re just imagining it. People bring in luxuries when they cross over.”

“Can’t I leave it behind? There’s nothing in it but makeup and paper tissues “Now that would draw attention to us, wouldn’t it? ” he said.

“No woman in her right mind forgets a hundred-and twenty-quid bag. Stop fussing, will you?” He sounded genuinely impatient.

“I’m sorry,” Davina said.

“I’m just nervous, that’s all.” Fifteen minutes later they were aboard the Ilyushin jetliner, buckled into their seat-belts, embarked on a twelve-hour flight, and an overnight stop at three in the morning. The big plane began to taxi out into position at the edge of the runway; Peter Harrington gripped her hand.

“Relax now,” he said gently.

“We’re on our way.” The jet took power and began to speed along the black path outlined by brilliant landing-lights; it left the ground with a thrust of the engines and began a smooth climb into the darkness. Davina looked out of the window at the twinkling lights of the city as they grew smaller and finally vanished. Russia. the Russia Sasanov had talked about with a poet’s love, speaking of mankind’s need to identify with his native land. They were going to the Crimea; he had once described to her the incredible carpet of spring flowers there, stretching’ into infinity; the glittering waters of the Black Sea lapping the miles of beaches; the pine forests, the sub-tropical climate and wonderful plant life. The place where he had spent his honeymoon with Fedya. ‘. If I could show you Russia,” he had said to her, ‘you would understand. One day, maybe you will go there. Then you’ll think of me. ” She freed her hand from Harrington’s, and turned her head to look out of the little window at the blackness outside. When drinks were being ordered, he spoke to her twice before she heard him. Poliakov gazed at Irina Sasanova over his clasped hands;

they were drinking tea, and he was leaning’towards her, his elbows on the table. He had overheard remarks among the students; some were intended to be heard. Keeping her back after class was causing rumours. She was either a favourite or they were beginning a relationship between teacher and pupil which was forbidden at the University. He had left a note in her book asking her to meet him at a cafe near the big bookshop on Red Square. He thought she looked thinner and pale, with deep shadows under her eyes. She was wearing a pretty cotton dress, with a flowered print, and elegant high-heeled sandals. Such clothes were reserved for the elite who had access to the third floor of Gum. She hadn’t worn anything new like that since her father disappeared. He tried hard to be detached, to smother his fear that she had decided to betray him. The KGB car had called for her several times; once someone had glimpsed Volkov sitting in the rear as the door was opened and she got in beside him.

“If she doesn’t say anything, we’ll have to do something about her.” He remembered the cold-eyed Englishman’s words as he looked at Irina. She put her teacup down and said, “Why are you staring at me? Is there anything the matter?” He said the first thing that came to mind, and it happened to be true.

“I was thinking how pretty you are,” he said.

“But you don’t look well.” Her face flooded with colour; it was pale one moment, and bright pink the next.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly. She picked up her empty cup and put it down again.

“I’m glad you think I’m pretty. But you’re right, I don’t feel very well.” He filled her cup; she’s going to tell me, he said to himself. If she were a liar and a betrayer, she wouldn’t blush like that. or look at me in that way.

“What is the matter then?” he asked. There were no tears in her eyes; there was a dreadful vacancy in them, as if there was nothing left to suffer.

“They’ve sent my mother to the Kolyma camps.” He reached out and clasped her hand.

“Oh, my poor Irina - that’s terrible news!”

“She’ll never come back,” she said.

“It’s the worst place on earth. Nobody ever comes back. “

“How do you know this?” She was holding fast to his hand.

“Antonyii Volkov told me. I’ve been sleeping with him; I thought it might help her.” Poliakov was an emotional man. Irina saw the look on his face and her heart jumped and fluttered like a bird in her breast. Many times when she was in bed with Volkov, she tried to imagine that it was Poliakov holding her. But the fantasy didn’t last, because the young tutor would never have hurt her, and Volkov liked to inflict pain.

“Do you despise me, Comrade?”

“No,” he said violently.

“No. You did it for your mother. There’s no shame in that. He is the shame the scum of the earth!”

“He let me see my mother,” she went on.

“She was not too bad, a little thin, but otherwise they hadn’t hurt her. I really thought she might be allowed home after a short sentence. But she knew… She whispered to me,” I’ll never come back. ” That’s what she said. But I didn’t believe her. Volkov had hinted he could get her off after a few months in a correction centre. Then he came round that night and told me she was going to Kolyma the next day. I tell you something; he enjoyed it. I cried, I lost my head and got down on the floor to kneel and beg for her, and he was enjoying seeing me suffer. He wanted to go to bed with me when I was like that. And afterwards, when he’d had a sleep, he told me to make coffee and something to eat. I did it, Comrade Poliakov. I was like a dog that’s been beaten. I gave him the food and wondered why I didn’t take the bread-knife and stab him in the back. “

“Thank God you didn’t,” the tutor said.

“Thank God.”