The Defector (38 page)

“Even with all the documentation. There wouldn’t be time before the alarm went off… It must be the sea.” He turned back to Davina.

“Across the sea to Turkey and then by air to England. Courtesy of NATO. That must be it. Why haven’t they told us the route?” He turned back to the window, pulling on the cigarette until the tip glowed crimson.

“Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“Does it matter?” Davina asked him.

“You seem worried by the idea.. if you’re right, surely it’s safer than trying to get her out overland?” She watched him, frowning; his body was stiff with tension, angled against the window-frame and the tiny beacon of cigarette-end was trembling in an unsteady hand.

“They’d never get her out overland.” . Her mind was trained to pick up nuances; eight months of living with Sasanov had honed her instincts razor-sharp. Surely, we’d never get her out. But he’d said ‘they’ as if he were talking about the opposition. She had a quickening of alarm. It was only a slip of the tongue; not to be taken seriously. He’d started to drink in the last few days; that worried her more. It showed that the strain was telling on him. And he had to be sober and alert for what was coming. If he was right and their escape was planned by sea. She went to the window and joined him. There was no sign of the ship; the port itself was invisible from their balcony. To her surprise he dropped his arm round her shoulders and pulled her close to him.

“I’m getting old for this sort of thing,” he said.

“You’re a brave girl, Davy; you wouldn’t care to give an old yellowbelly a bit of home comfort, would you?” Davina pulled his arm away.

“No,” she said.

“I wouldn’t. Don’t start that again, Peter?”

“Why not?” he demanded.

“I’m not that bloody unattractive, am I? I’ve slept in the same bed with you for ten days, and I’ve been a very good boy. You can’t deny that.”

“I’m not denying it,” she said quietly.

“But I’m not in love with you, and I’m not going to bed with you. So why don’t we just get some sleep?” He threw his cigarette through the open window; the butt end made a tiny bright arc as it fell.

“Would you believe me,” he said slowly, ‘if I said I was in love with you? Would that make any difference? ” His hair was on end; in the garish electric light he looked tired and dispirited. He paused by the dressing-table and picked the warm butt of her cigarette out of the ashtray. He looked at it and dropped it on the floor. Davina came over to him;

she hooked her hand through his arm.

“You’re not in love with me,” she said gently.

“I’m just here, that’s all. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours to go. Let’s hope you’re right, and that ship is going to get us away. Why don’t you go back to sleep for a couple of hours? It’s nearly five now.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I’m going to go out for a walk,” she answered.

“You don’t have to,” he mumbled.

“I’ll behave myself-promise.” On an impulse of pity, she bent down and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“I know that,” she said.

“I won’t sleep now anyway, and the fresh air will be nice. I’ll see you at breakfast.” She gathered her clothes, hesitated for a moment and then said! “I’ll change in the bathroom. You turn off the light and go to sleep. ” She let herself out of the room. Harrington didn’t get back into the bed. His heart was jumping and he found it difficult to breathe. He switched off the bedside light and stationed himself by the balcony. He could see down to the street below. Her figure came into view, turning right to walk along the road that led to the sea-shore. She didn’t look up at the hotel. He stayed still, watching her until the bend in the road hid her. He stepped back into the room, tripped over the little ledge, and swore. He was still unsteady on his feet. He switched the light on and went to the table. His lighter and cigarettes lay there, with a crumpled ten rouble note and a few loose coins. And his pocket book was beside them. The butt in the ashtray had been warm; that meant she had taken a cigarette, used his lighter. What else had she touched while he was asleep? It was the German-made wallet that had been given him by the department. It didn’t have a secret compartment as his own did. He kept it in his back pocket, buttoned in securely during the day and hid it in his drawer at night under his clothes. But not last night. Last night he had got drunk, and forgotten his routine. He had fallen into bed and snored like a hog, while the pocket book lay on the table for anyone to find. If she had turned curious, or suspicious. He tried to still his trembling hands as he opened it and fumbled with the inner compartment. It was still there. Relief changed to panic, and because he was so frightened he became drunkenly furious with Davina. She might have seen it. She might have discovered what he really was. That kiss would be the touch of Judas, just to quieten him. He called her a bitch out loud, while the alcohol set his nerves into a frantic jangle and played havoc with his reasoning. He’d asked her to sleep with him because he was lonely and not sober, because he needed warmth and comfort in the guise of sex. She wouldn’t have him. Either because she didn’t want him, or because she had been spying, prying. He held the pocket book in sweating hands. One side of him liked her, found her attractive, had bought her a wildly expensive present in a sentimental moment when he could forget what he was going to do to her at the end. And then the idea came to him, and the sheer cunning delighted him. It seemed a piece of brilliant ingenuity. And irony too. It would serve her right for rejecting him. Serve her right for being on the other side. He found nail scissors and a needle already threaded in her little sewing-kit in her drawer. The threaded needle was a bonus; he couldn’t have got the bloody thing into focus to do it himself. He spent five minutes with the scissors and another five with the needle, concentrating fiercely. Then he put everything back in her drawer. He went along the passage to the bathroom and washed his head and face in cold water to sober himself up. It was almost five-thirty when he came down in his shirt and trousers and stockinged feet to the foyer of the hotel below. The desk where the telephone was kept was in semidarkness, although it was dawn outside. Harrington switched on the light and picked up the receiver. The ring was transmitted to the receptionist’s room on the ground floor; she woke at once and aroused her husband. They came across the hall together, converging in menace on the man sitting in her seat with the telephone in his hand. The husband rushed towards him.

“What are you doing? Put that down how dare you sneak in here!” Harrington said a few rapid words to him in Russian. The man turned to his wife; she clutched his arm in fright. For a moment they both stared at him. Then they stammered apologies and hurried back to their room. The operator answered.

“Moscow,” Harrington said. Then he gave the number. The operator recognized the first three digits of the special code. She connected him at once. All telephone calls prefixed by the digits 669 were transmitted immediately to the KGB offices on Dzerzinsky Street. The night-duty operators on the switchboard put the calls through to the duty officer in each section; Harrington’s call at 5. 30 in the morning went to Volkov’s Internal Security section, and was relayed by the duty officer onto tape. By 8. 30 on the Saturday morning, Volkov’s principal deputy was in the office and the tape was played over for him. The message was coded. The first two words indicated it was top priority and the next pair that it was intended for Antonyii Volkov. The deputy was the young officer Tatischev, who had accompanied his chief to the mortuary when Fedya Sasanova identified the body sent from Britain. He could not decode the message without Volkov’s special key, which was kept locked up in Volkov’s private office security-box. This box could only be opened by two keys used in unison; one was in the office and the other was kept by Volkov himself. Tatischev put through a call to his superior’s dacha. He was used to the secretive way in which the Comrade General worked; he had served him for seven years and had learned not to ask questions. There was nothing he could do about the message from Livadia, in spite of its top-priority urgent prefix, except trace Antonyii Volkov. By twenty minutes to nine, he learned from the caretaker that the Comrade General had not come down to Zhukova as usual on Friday night. He might arrive that morning. Tatischev put a call through to his apartment. It rang for some time; Volkov’s driver Yuri did duty as batman and servant. He should have answered the telephone. Tatischev swore to himself. No answer from the apartment. That probably meant that they were already on their way to Zhukova. He booked a second call into the dacha in an hour’s time, and settled down to some desk work. In the hostel in Yalta, Irina and Alexei slept in each other’s arms;

she had been silent on the flight, numbed with the shock of what had happened. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Volkov’s body and the spreading bloodstains on the bed. Poliakov seemed to know instinctively how to comfort her. He held her hand firmly, ordered vodka from the hostess, and whispered to her to bear up. They were going on a holiday; she must appear cheerful. You never knew who might be on the plane and watching. She had always been the stronger in moments of crisis; now he was in command. The one and only act of violence in his life had given him stature. He had found the courage to save the situation when everything went wrong; killing Volkov had paid for Irina’s misery, and thrown the Englishman’s contempt back in his face. He was a man in the real sense;

a brave man who had taken decisions and saved them both. He felt exhilarated and bold. And Irina was content to be protected. Content to be loved by him and to face the future with him. They had spent a passionate night and promised each other a lifetime of love. She had no dreams; it seemed when she woke that there had never been a Volkov, only the new, confident Alexei Poliakov, who had turned out to be a hero. They caught the first bus to Livadia. It was a glorious hot morning;

the sun hung in a brilliant sky, round and glistening like a golden coin, the lush plants and palm-trees made them feel as if they had left Russia for some tropical paradise. They walked away from the terminal, hand in hand, with their cases, and passers-by winked at them, thinking they must be on honeymoon. Davina had walked for a long time, long enough to see the dawn flush on the horizon and the splendour of the sunrise. There was not another human being on the beaches or the streets. She could have been the only person in the world. She had always liked solitude; sometimes she wondered whether it was because she had no choice. She had been a lonely child, always wandering off by herself. Until she met Sasanov she had never lived in close proximity to anyone. Night and day, weeks turning into months, getting closer and closer to him, and incredibly she had never once been bored. She walked along the silvery beaches by the edge of the sea, and felt as if there was a mysterious communication between them, fostered by the country he loved so much. He would never see Russia again but the loneliness of the exile would be bearable with his daughter beside him and the hope of his wife’s exchange. Hope was the lubricant of life. She had to hope that they would escape, that Harrington’s hunch about the ship was right, and she had seen their rescuer sailing across the silver moon-path on the sea that morning. What would her own life be, when she got back? She couldn’t run away from the reality of loving Ivan Sasanov. It had to be faced, and once accepted, she would come to terms. Loneliness again; a special kind, as if a hole had been punched through and her heart had fallen out;

the hunger that kept her awake at night. They were the price for what she was doing, and that price had been agreed before she went.

“You must understand that you can never see him again.. James White, with his quiet ultimatum;

the steely face of Grant.

“You’ve made a fool of yourself and it can’t go on.” And her own acceptance “I know that. I know it’s finished as far as we’re concerned. All I ask is that you’ll let me go out and bring his daughter back.” The bargain had been struck and there was no going back. She had signed the document. She had her work; not a major career, her affair with Sasanov had finished that. But enough to interest her and give her independence. And she had the memory of those eight months and the moment when he turned to her in the garden at Marchwood and said, “I don’t want your sister.” She didn’t mean to cry; the salt breeze dried the tears and her cheeks felt stiff. She’d slept badly and her nerves were tightening in anticipation of the day. Even Harrington was tense, drinking heavily. He had changed since they left England. Not just when he was playing the part of Heinz Fleischer and doing it superbly. But when they were alone, the easy banter had a hollow ring to it; temper lurked under the surface. He had seemed upset by the cruise ship, as if in some way its appearance had cheated him. They’ll never get her out overland. She stopped suddenly, whilst a wave sneaked up and ran over her feet. They it was such an odd word to use about himself and her. There was a prick in her mind, like a tiny thorn embedded under the skin. She dismissed it and went on walking till it was time to go back to the hotel and meet him for breakfast. As she turned to go through the door, a young man stepped aside to let her go first. He had a girl with him;

she had blonde hair and was attractive in a simple way. They both carried cases.

“Thank you,” Davina said in Russian. She had picked up a few basic words. He nodded to her and smiled. She went through ahead of them; Irina and Alexei Poliakov followed. They went to the reception desk.

“Excuse me,” the young man spoke to the woman at the desk. She looked up and said sharply, “This hotel is not for Russians. You ought to know that.”

“I do,” he said quickly.

“But we are looking for a Herr Fleischer -please, it’s important. Is he here now?” She remembered the phone call and the sharp exchange from the East German. Even though any contact with Western tourists was forbidden, and discouraged even among Eastern bloc communists, she dared not turn the couple away.