The Defector (33 page)

“What makes him think we’d let you go?” Kidson asked. Sasanov hesitated.

“I think he is planning an exchange,” he said slowly.

“Something to make you send me back. And he is able to do this because he has an agent here the same agent who planned the fire-bomb attack, the agent who knows Irina can get word to me about what is happening to her. That agent will have told him we are planning to take Irina out of Russia. How much he has told Volkov depends upon who he is. And where he is.” He looked at Kidson.

“That’s why I must find him. Otherwise Volkov will win. “

“Do you remember Davina Graham’s sister?” Kidson asked him.

“Yes,” Sasanov frowned.

“I remember her. Why?”

“Because she may have just come up with something,” Kidson said.

“Her father went to see the Chief; he was worried about Davina. The sister had been home and told him someone was asking her questions about Davina, and about you. Or rather the Polish diplomat you were supposed to be. The Chief thinks it would be a good idea if you saw Mrs. Ransom and questioned her yourself, since you’ve taken on to find the Mole. Have you made any progress with those files? “

“I’ve got some questions,” Sasanov said.

“New questions;

the files don’t have an answer. When can I see the sister? Why not tonight? There isn’t any time to be slow and British,” he said roughly.

“My daughter and three of your agents are in Russia sitting in Volkov’s hand, like mice in a trap.”

“I’ll call London,” Kidson said.

“I can drive up with you. She can’t come here.” The flat in Portman Place was on the first floor. Charley opened the door to Kidson, and for a moment she didn’t recognize Sasanov because he was wearing a hat. When he stepped into the hall and took it off, she gasped out loud.

“Oh, good lord it’s you!”

“Good evening,” he said. Kidson took her gently by the arm.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you your sister’s friend was coming with me,” he said gently.

“I’ll explain everything.” Charley was going out to dinner; the call from Brigadier White’s office had been friendly but firm. Her father had been to see him, and he too was rather worried about Davina. He hadn’t said in what respect. He was sure she’d be able to answer a few questions if he sent someone round after six-thirty. So nice to talk to her it was ages since they’d met; she must lunch with him one day if she was free. The call ended, and she had hardly said anything but, yes, of course. She had got dressed early, and decided that really there was nothing to be nervous about, and it might be amusing to meet someone from the Ministry of Defence. Floating black chiffon, and her ex-husband’s present of a pearl-and-diamond choker gave her an Edwardian look. Kidson gazed at her with admiration. She offered the two men drinks, moving gracefully between them and the drinks trolley, and settled herself on the sofa with a provocative smile at Kidson. She was determined not to show that she was nervous. The Pole looked grim and rather ill-humoured, as if her attempts to be polite were wasting time. And oh, he did look so like the photograph of that dead Russian.

“Mrs. Ransom,” Kidson started off.

“Would you tell us about this friend of yours who kept asking questions about your sister? Mr. Spencer-Barr, wasn’t it?” She nodded.

“Yes, I thought it was very odd. I told my father about it.” She turned towards Sasanov as he spoke to her.

“Tell me when you first met this man,” he said.

“Try to remember everything he said, and you said. Can you do that?”

“I think so,” she said.

“I’ve got a very good memory. It was the same evening I left Marchwood, that weekend when you were there. ” Sasanov listened. After a time he asked her questions.

“Why did you think he was interested in your sister and me?”

“I didn’t know,” she said.

“It seemed so funny at first. I kept feeling he didn’t really like me or want to take me out. That’s what made me notice it, I suppose. Every time he asked some question, either about Davy or else you and Davy.”

“What sort of question? What did he ask about her?”

“Had I seen her lately; was she still in the Defence Ministry… He mentioned that she’d been given a job in preference to him. He seemed very annoyed about it. He tied this in with you, and tried to find out if you and she were having an affair. I said I didn’t know. I thought he might try and get Davy into trouble.”

“And what did he ask about me?” Sasanov said.

“Had I met you again. I said no. I told him I hardly ever saw my sister. I even told him why because of my first marriage; she probably told you about that.” Kidson saw the dislike on his face when he nodded and said “Yes, she told me. What did you think he was trying to find out from you?” Charley hesitated. Sasanov prompted her.

“About where Vina was, if she wasn’t in Defence? Pid he want to know if we were living in the same place? Did he ever try to find out an address anything like that?”

“No.” She shook her head. The light gleamed in the piled-up silky red hair.

“He just asked general things; I felt he was trying to establish something he could use against her. He said she wasn’t supposed to have a relationship with a man in this job she’d been given.” She turned to Kidson.

“That’s what really worried me. I felt he might hurt Davy’s career in some way.” Sasanov said casually, “You told him I was a Pole, didn’t you, the first time you met?” He saw a little colour creep into her face.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, actually I think that was what made him interested. I couldn’t give him any details because I didn’t know any, except that your name was Pavel.”

“And he seemed happy to accept that?” Sasanov asked.

“You were happy to accept it, weren’t you?”

“Of course.” She looked startled.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“No reason at all,” he said. He signalled to Kidson, who stood up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ransom; it’s very kind of you to see us, and you’ve been very helpful. I hope we haven’t kept you late for your dinner party.” She gave him her hand, and her angelic smile.

“Not at all. I hope I’ve been useful.” Then she took him completely by surprise. She glanced at Sasanov.

“Pavel, would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Kidson alone for a moment?”

“No, I’ll wait in the hall.” Sasanov went out. Charley let go of Kidson’s hand and the smile disappeared.

“He is Russian, Isn’t he? The one who was supposed to be found drowned -I thought I recognized him from the newspapers. What is Davina mixed up in?” Kidson didn’t know it, but there was a strong look of her mother in the set of Charley’s lovely jaw.

“Mrs. Ransom,” he said quietly, “I can’t answer either of those questions I’m sorry.”

“Davina and I haven’t ever been close friends,” she said.

“But she is my sister. And I hurt her very badly once. She’s not just a secretary, is she? She’s doing something dangerous, I can feel it. Where is she, Mr. Kidson? I have a right to know.” Kidson made a quick decision. Charlotte Ransom was not a fool or she wouldn’t have seen through Spencer Barr Or recognized Sasanov. The one thing she must do was keep silent now.

“She’s in Russia,” he said. He saw her turn ghost-white.

“One word of this, one whisper about Pavel or your sister, and she could be in very great danger indeed. I know we can rely on you, Mrs. Ransom. Not a word. Not even to your family. “

“I promise you,” she said. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

Kidson had a wish to take her in his arms and comfort her that really shocked him.

“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her,” she said. The tears were blinked back and the stubborn look returned.

“Don’t worry; nobody will hear anything from me. Will you let me know when she comes back?”

“I will,” Kidson said, and he meant it.

“Goodbye. And thank you.” He joined Sasanov in the hall and they let themselves out. They went down in the lift, Sasanov pulling the hat down to shade his face. They crossed the thickly carpeted foyer, passed the doorman in his cubicle, and slipped into the back of the waiting car. As it sped up through the park towards Marylebone, Kidson said to Sasanov, “It doesn’t look good for Spencer-Barr, does it?”

“What does your Chief think?” the Russian asked him.

“He was shaken rigid,” came the answer.

“And what do you think?” Sasanov continued.

“I’d rather not commit myself till I have heard Spencer Barr explanation,” he said after a pause.

“There must be an explanation.”

“I’m sure there is,” Sasanov said.

“But he isn’t here to give it. He’s in Russia, heading a rescue mission for my daughter. Can’t this driver go any faster?”

“Not till we’re on the motorway. We’ll be back in just over an hour.”

“I want to get back to those files,” Sasanov muttered.

“There’s something I’ve missed. The answer to one of my questions… No, wait a minute. Where is that place, Jules’ Bar?” Kidson stared at him.

“In Jermyn Street. Why?”

“Tell the man to go there,” Sasanov said.

“Now!” Spencer-Barr got an answer from London by late in the afternoon. He was called into the decoding room, where the principal coding-officer gave him the unscrambled message.

“Your communication received and being given urgent attention. Date for Daughter’s rendezvous advanced to 25th. Departure the same day. Contact Daniel and advise. Final arrangements to follow.” Jeremy gave the message back; it was marked with the prefix MSD -meaning most secret, destroy. It went into the shredder.

“Thanks,” he said to the clerk and walked out. He went upstairs to his own small office and sent the secretary out for a cup of tea. He sat rather still when he was alone; then he picked up a pencil and began to tap it. The tapping went on until the girl came back with the tea. She had provided some biscuits as well. She thought Spencer Barr terribly attractive, and she paid him little attentions to find favour. He hadn’t asked her out since his first sightseeing tour of Moscow, and she was disappointed. He smiled at her.

“Biscuits? That’s very kind of you, Jane. What’s my social engagement this evening?” She looked up his desk diary.

“We’ve got a reception here,” she said.

“And there’s a supper and a recital at the French Embassy. You’re down for both. “

“Very hard on the liver, this sort of life,” he said. She giggled appreciatively. He had received a long letter from his girlfriend, Mary, in London. He hadn’t answered yet, and felt guilty. The letter was like Mary;

sensible, affectionate and undemanding. She mentioned that she was inquiring about an Intourist trip to Moscow in the autumn, as she would like to see him. She thought his appointment would last the usual two years. He looked at the secretary and thought of Mary. He did miss her. If he managed this affair successfully, he might still get to New York. or even Washington. Washington would suit him better. The 25th was only eight days away. London had certainly accelerated after his message. But there were no details yet. That was a bloody bore, he thought. They must have everything worked out to the last minute on an operation like this. Harrington and Davina Graham would be waiting at Livadia. The Daughter had to get a pass to leave Moscow. It was cutting it a bit fine. It was just as well he’d got the message before the reception tonight. He left his office early and went to his flat in the Embassy compound to shower and change. Poliakov had found the bus ticket in the book; the following day he met Spencer-Barr at the place agreed for an emergency rendezvous, the Science Exhibition on Stalin grad Avenue. It was a big, sprawling modern building with a series of small courts separating the different sections. Poliakov hurried to the atomic energy complex at three o’clock. He found Spencer-Barr gazing at a mock-up of molecules and the related atoms. It looked like a very complicated toy, all coloured balls and oblongs and delicate structures. Spencer-Barr didn’t turn his head.

“The Daughter’s to go to Livadia by the 25th and be ready to leave on the same day. No other details are available at the moment, but she must get a pass to Livadia. Contact her and impress on her she’s got to be in situ by that date. Meet me in the bookshop in two days and I’ll have further news for you.” Poliakov stared at their reflections in the glass case protecting the exhibit.

“That’s seven days,” he muttered.

“What happens if she can’t get there in time?”

“She won’t get away,” Spencer-Barr said flatly.

“She’s got to get the pass. What progress have you made with her?” The tutor reddened.

“I haven’t seen her,” he said shortly.

“I’ll tell her tomorrow.” He turned and walked away. Jeremy watched him in the glass until he left the room. Then he spent the next hour wandering round the exhibition. Science had been one of his best subjects. The postcard was in their pigeon-hole in the entrance-hall of the hotel. Davina saw it and pulled Harrington’s arm. He said quickly, “I’ve seen it. We’ll just get the key and take it casually.” The key to their room and the postcard were handed to them by the woman receptionist. She was less surly than the rest of the hotel staff; she spoke good German, and offered to arrange a coach tour, or an organized boat trip round the coast. Peter said they preferred to spend the time on the beach or wandering round the permitted areas of the resort. They had come in from swimming; Russians did not encourage scant bikinis, and walking round in mini-shorts or bra-tops was forbidden. There was an old-fashioned air about the beaches, with bathing-huts and seats along the promenades; it reminded Davina of childhood visits to Brighton and Have. Harrington looked brown and fit; she was inclined to burn unless she was careful; he had teased her because she was pink and freckled, and her hair had turned redder in the sunshine. He glanced at the postcard and then handed it to her.

“From your Aunt Frieda,” he said. Davina saw the receptionist watching them, while she pretended to sort some keys; she had certainly read the postcard. Davina turned it over and read the meaningless message written in Schrift.

“Hope you are having wonderful holiday. Trudi getting married on the 25th. We’re all busy preparing for the wedding. Do send a postcard. Love from everyone, Frieda.” They went up the stairs to their room on the second floor. It had a pleasant view over the sea-front. Harrington held out his hand for the card. She gave it to him. He sat on the bed and took a pocket diary out of his jacket. He opened it at the calendar page and began to write on the postcard above the lines of writing. It took him only five minutes, and then he gave it back to her. The decoded message read, “The Daughter will reach you on the 25th. You depart the same day. Further instructions will follow.” She nodded and he took it back; he lit the corner with his lighter and held it till it flamed and curled up. It burnt out in the ashtray, and Harrington washed the mess down the basin, scrubbing the burn-marks off the ashtray. Then he washed the basin itself, and ran the taps for some time to clear the pipe.