The Defector (32 page)

“Sleep with her if you can.” He called Spencer-Barr a crude name under his breath. Then with an effort he composed himself, wiped his damp face once again, and walked out into public view. There were a few people in the section; two were occupying the assistant, who didn’t look up or see him. A man came up to him suddenly, and when the man barred his way, Poliakov thought for a second that he was going to have a heart attack. But the man only asked where the French textbooks were situated. The tutor said he didn’t know, and hurried on to the street door. It was some time before he stopped shaking and feeling out of breath. When Spencer-Barr returned to the Embassy he went to the code room in the basement of the main building on Naberezhnaia Morisa Toreza. The principal coding officer was the only person beside the Head of Chancery and the regular Intelligence officer in the trade department who knew what Jeremy’s real function was. He sat down and composed a long telex to the Brigadier in London, which the coding officer put into code and transmitted. Then he went back upstairs to his desk. There was a reception at the Indian Embassy that evening; he was looking forward to it. He enjoyed the social side of embassy life, because it provided scraps of gossip and information which could be useful one day. He was already popular with the senior diplomats and their wives. He was always charming, attentive to the women and deferential to the men. And he usually positioned himself near to the Russians. Nobody had any idea that he was fluent in the language. The Tsarist Summer Palace at Livadia had been turned into a health centre, specializing in cardiology; the magnificent Great Livadia Palace was the venue for the Yalta conference, and had been opened as a museum devoted to the Conference, and an art gallery for contemporary Soviet painters and sculptors. It was Davina’s suggestion that they should go and see it. Harrington agreed, but without enthusiasm.

“I’m not mad on sightseeing,” he said.

“And one museum devoted to the cultural achievements of the great Soviet Socialist Revolution should do me for a lifetime. But we’ll go if you’d like to see it.”

“The architecture is marvelous,” she said.

“And we don’t have to spend much time inside. I really want to see the gardens.” The facade of the Palace was breathtakingly beautiful, snow-white in the hot sunshine, framed in magnificent pine trees and spectacular gardens. They went into the Yalta Conference museum, and wandered round the exhibits;

neither felt any enthusiasm for the art gallery.

“Well, at least we’ve seen where the West lost the war after beating the Germans,” Davina said.

“I wonder how many millions died or became slaves as a result of the decisions made here.

Harrington said, “There’s no such thing as a fair treaty any more than there’s a just war… Come on, let’s go outside you said you wanted to see the gardens.”

“So I do,” she retorted.

“I find this place oppressive;

everywhere you turn you’re having their opinions forced on you. All those superlatives the Great Patriotic War the Glorious Revolutionary Struggle. and I thought all the palaces were stripped and torn down in the Revolution.

“Some of them were,” Harrington agreed.

“But the summer palaces escaped the mobs. They like to show Livadia because they can point out how the royals lived in opulence while the people starved. It makes good propaganda. They’ve got all the jewels and the Faberge treasures in the Kremlin. One thing I’d like to see is good old Catherine the Great’s little pornographic room. But they don’t show that to the public.”

“Come on,” she said.

“Let’s wander round. The gardens are gorgeous, aren’t they? Look at that avenue of palms, and that staircase leading onto the terrace. Did you read the book, Nicholas and Alexandra’ ‘ ” I thought you were thinking of it,” he said.

“Brings them to life, walking round here and seeing where they lived. She was mad about mauve, wasn’t she symptom of a depressive personality.”

“I wonder whether the Tsar would’ve survived if he’d married someone else,” she said.

“You can’t help feeling sorry for her, but she really ruined him.” Harrington took her arm, and they began to walk up the marble staircase to the upper terrace.

“History is determined by trends; personalities have far less impact than we think. Nicholas was a weakling and Alexandra was a strong-willed neurotic. They were perfect for the time and the trend, as it happened, but they weren’t responsible for it and the Revolution was part of the world wide upheaval of the time. Nothing could have prevented” You sound like Karl Marx,” Davina said.

“Or Henry Ford,” Peter retorted. “History is bunk.” That’s what he said. And Marx said pretty much the same. History is bunk the way we’re taught it, because the personalities feature far too much. The Romanovs are a good example. We learn all about the Tsar and Rasputin, when the real reason for the Revolution was an irresistible economic and sociological change. “

She stopped and stared at him in mock surprise. “Good Lord, don’t tell me I’ve found something you take seriously? You’re quite a student of dialectics. No wonder you get visas for a holiday in the Crimea!” He grinned at her.

“Now, Gertrude, let me remind you of something else Henry Ford said, about his customers and the Model T. ” They can have any colour they like so long as it’s black. ” I wonder whether it was humour or just pure cynicism. But it proves my point. People are the sands on the shore;

history is the wave that moves them, not the other way about. Now that’s a fine view over the sea, isn’t it? Just think of that family taking their tea out here and looking at that, never thinking for one second in their lives that they’d all be dead in a basement room before the decade was over. “

“Don’t,” she shuddered.

“What a horrible thought.”

“No more horrible than the poor devils freezing to death in Siberia while the Tsar was sunning himself out here,” he said.

“The point is, the Tsar’s gone but there are still people in the Gulag. So nothing very much has changed in some people’s condition. Maybe they’re just born unlucky.”

“You’re very morbid,” she accused him.

“I’ve never seen you like this. Ever since we got here you’ve been drawing parallels about how rotten human nature is, and how nothing changes no matter what we do. What’s the matter with you? ” He walked on down the terrace; groups of holiday makers were climbing up the stairs and clustering round the marble balustrading, looking out to the breathtaking view over the Black Sea. Children called to each other and tried to climb up. Harrington paused in a quiet place;

behind them the tall windows which opened out to the terrace flashed fire in the hot sun. There was a rich scent of roses from the beds below them.

“What is it?” she said again.

“Are you worried about something?” He nodded, looking out to sea.

“I don’t like Russia,” he said.

“I get the feeling something’s going to go wrong. I know it isn’t; it’s just the country. It broods over you. Don’t you find that? It’s so bloody enormous.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” she answered quietly.

“I’d like to see so much more of it. I think this is a paradise the climate, the scenery, the plant life. I don’t feel anything sinister about it at all.” He looked at her.

“No, I suppose not,” he said.

“But you didn’t find anything sinister about Sasanov either. Maybe Russia would suit you. Let’s go back to the hotel and see if there’s been any message for us.”

“All right, but it’s too early. We won’t hear anything till next week.”

“I wish they’d hurry up,” Peter Harrington said.

“I’ll be really glad to get out of here.” They walked out of the grounds and back along the beach road to the Intourist hotel where they were staying. Neither of them spoke on the way. Kidson was absent for the morning meeting. Grant made his apologies, and the session with Sasanov began. That morning he concentrated upon Soviet plans to turn the Saudi-Arabian king off his throne and to neutralize the rest of the family, except for a distant cousin with sufficient royal blood to put himself forward as a candidate. The attack on the Grand Mosque was to be carried out by specially trained guerrillas composed of Shiite Moslems, Saudis, who would front for the fanatics of the Fedayeen and the Palestinians, all Moscow-trained and armed with the latest weapons, including small-calibre rockets. The murder of Sheik Yamani was to take place just before the uprising. Under the guise of a Moslem rebellion, the royal family would be taken and killed, and the puppet prince put on the throne. The Prince had long been suborned by Russian promises of power in return for his support. His father had been a prince of the blood royal, but his mother was a Jordanian Hashemite;

her son was plagued by tribal as well as family jealousy, seeing himself passed over in the king’s favour for others of no higher rank. He was, as Sasanov described him, a weak, vindictive man, paranoid in his suspicions, obsessed with a false sense of grievance. His hatred of the pro-Western Yamani had been a factor in making him a Russian sympathizer. Arthur Warburton from the Foreign Office was completely absorbed; the Soviet expert Franks only took his eyes off the Russian in order to make quick notes. The steno typer hands flew over the keyboard, and the big room was silent except for the deep voice of Sasanov. He was sweating as he talked, and at intervals he pulled at the open neck of his shirt as if it were buttoned and restricting him. He had power and authority, and he had captured them all the hardened diplomats and experts, the steely Longman from Defence. Only Grant remained aloof, clinically detached, observing and making silent conclusions. He wondered what would happen when Kidson came back. Kidson returned in mid-afternoon. He had driven down from London and he was hot after the journey; he went into Grant’s room first.

“The Chief says I’ve got to tell him exactly what Spencer Barr sent in the telex. He says that Sasanov will know how to interpret it better than we will. Set a thief to catch a thief. That’s his view. I’m not looking forward to it. How did the morning session go?”

“Like all the others,” Grant answered.

“A mass of details, names, times, motives,
etc.
Political dynamite you should have seen Warburton’s face. You go and see Sasanov and break the news.

I cancelled the afternoon session anyway so there’s no need to hurry.

I’ll be here if you want me. ” It seemed to be at least five minutes before Sasanov spoke. Kidson had lit his pipe and was sitting on the sofa opposite him. He had given him the telex, and said briefly, “This came last night. We hate to do this to you, Ivan, but we’ve no chance of acting successfully without your help. Please read it.” Sasanov was normally healthy looking; he had tanned from walking in the bright sunshine. Now his face turned a dull grey; the eyes seemed to sink into his head and the cheeks drew it; he looked suddenly old. He put the decoded telex down. The change to anger was gradual as Kidson watched him, while he fiddled with his pipe and matches. He had never seen naked fury alter a man’s whole facial appearance. It shocked him.

“Antonyii Volkov and my daughter. He has my daughter and he’s raping her.”

“It doesn’t say,” Kidson began, but suddenly Sasanov bellowed at him.

“I know what Volkov likes! I know what he does to Irina!” He leapt from his chair, and beat his clenched fists against his forehead. It was a primeval gesture of rage-and agony.

“I will kill him,” he shouted again, “I will go back and I will tear the head off his body for this with these two hands!”

“Steady yourself,” Kidson said quietly.

“You can’t do that. You can only get at Volkov through us.” He didn’t think Sasanov had heard him. He had lapsed into Russian and some of it was difficult to understand because he was stumbling over the words.

“Fedya, Fedya…” ; he recognized the constant reference to Sasanov’s wife. He knocked out his pipe and got up. He put his arm round the Russian’s shoulder.

“Steady,” he said again.

“Calm yourself. We’ve got to save your daughter. You are the one person who can help us now. Sit down and I’ll get us both a drink.” Sasanov pushed him aside, but then he dropped into his chair and picked up the telex again. Kidson handed him a glass of brandy. He drank it straight down. He looked up at the Englishman.

“Kolyma is death,” he said in English.

“Volkov knows I will understand that. No more brandy, I have to think. I have to put myself into his mind and see what he is thinking.” He got up and moved round the room, from the door to the window;

pacing, pausing suddenly, and beginning his restless walking again. Kidson had a very small brandy himself.

“We must go back to the beginning,” Sasanov said.

“To my relationship with Belezky. My friendship with him was known; I made no secret of it. I tried to help him when he was arrested, but always by advising him to plead guilty and hope for mercy. That was known too. But he was Volkov’s prey, and Volkov wanted him destroyed. So he sent him to the psychiatric hospital and they killed him. His wife went to the Gulag. The others were arrested and punished in the same way. Volkov had broken the inner circle of Soviet dissent. He is an ambitious man; he loves cruelty and he loves power. His eyes are fixed upon the highest job of all, the Director of State Security. He wants to become the head of the KGB and take his place in the Politburo. His ambition is well-known, and the present Director is not a young man. He must retire next year. But the job has to be earned. Only a man of exceptional qualities can hope for the appointment. So Volkov needs to prove himself. First he has established that I defected and am being hidden in England. The attack on your safe house at Halldale proves that. But it failed and he knows that too. Then he finds an excuse to arrest my wife. Why? Not because she told the lie that was expected of her she identified the body as mine, and the Soviet Government gave it an official burial. Her arrest is part of Volkov’s plan to bring me back to Russia. So is sleeping with Irina. He knows how I will react to that. Everything he is doing is aimed at me, don’t you see that? “