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Authors: Evelyn Anthony

Tags: #Fiction, #Espionage, #Mystery & Detective, #General

The Defector (42 page)

BOOK: The Defector
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from Spencer-Barr’s admissions and the evasive answers of the Southern gentleman from Langley, details of the disaster had been pieced together. There was no means of warning Davina Graham and the two young Russians that they were joined up with a KGB agent; no time to obtain a pass to the Crimea and send someone out. It was already 25 July and the cruise ship Alexander Nevsky would be docked in the port and waiting to take on its passengers. The NATO submarine would have set out from Turkey and be on its way to the rendezvous point in the Black Sea. The machinery had been started on its complicated programme; he and his Chief and Grant could only sit helplessly in the English countryside, while Harrington drew the net around his victims. Kidson was not a man of fierce emotions; he was opposed to extremes in any form; he prided himself on not hating anyone. But he hated Peter Harrington enough to kill him. Not just for the failure his Service would suffer; that was the least of his reasons for wanting a fellow human dead. But for the waste ofsasanov, whom he had grown to respect and like, and for the two young people fleeing tyranny. And for the woman who. had amazed them all by showing her capacity for loving and inspiring love. All of them would be destroyed in their different ways, their sacrifices wasted. He closed his eyes, the migraine making him feel nauseated. He had spent all night with Grant searching for a way to warn Davina Graham. A call from Moscow to her personally would alert Harrington at once; all calls were monitored, especially those to foreigners and there were no agents within a hundred-mile radius of the holiday resort. She was as effectively isolated from the outside world as if she were marooned at sea. They had driven themselves to despair during the night, and found no solution. It was vital to keep Sasanov in ignorance that their plans had gone wrong. He had been puzzled by the disappearance of the American observer; the gentleman had been flown home with the Brigadier’s personal protest to the Director in Washington, and there would be no replacement at this stage. And ahead, thought Kidson, feeling his aching forehead, was the task he dreaded most, and no one else but he could do it. Telling Sasanov that they had lost them all. The NATO submarine surfaced at 5 a. m. that Saturday morning; its scanners reported clear skies above. Within two hours the hull sections of the yacht had been assembled, the mast fixed into place and the small but powerful motor secured astern. The SAS captain and his crew were in shorts and sweat-shirts; they looked very bronzed and fit. Automatic weapons and grenades were stowed away in the bottom of the boat in a wicker picnic-basket. They launched her from the side of the sub; the sea was calm but a fresh breeze was blowing south-south-west. The young captain’s name was Fergus MacKie; he was twenty-seven and his last tour of duty had been undercover in the bandit territory of Armagh on the Ulster border. He grinned briefly at the sub’s commander.

“Thank you sir, all ready to set off. We’ll rendezvous with you at 22:00 hours. If anything goes wrong we’ll send the prearranged signal; otherwise give us an hour’s grace.”

“Fine.” The naval commander saluted him.

“We’ll be waiting for you. Good luck. ” MacKie turned to his crew.

“Cast off,” he said.

“Start motor and get out of here before she submerges.” The yacht swung to starboard and skimmed some hundred yards away from the long dark body of the submarine.

“Stop the motor,” MacKie said.

“Hoist sails. There she goes!” The submarine slid under the surface, and her wake spread fan wise from where she had been. The yacht bobbed up and down on it. MacKie’s lance-corporal was another Scot, Bob Ferrie, a small, terrier-like man. He said to his officer, “Makes ye feel like a motherless child, sir, seem’ her go like that. “

“How would you know?” MacKie grinned at him.

“You never had a mother. Come on, let’s get her set on course. From now on we sail; we’ve got plenty of time and the wind’s just right. “

“Lovely day for a sail, sir,” the third of his men called out.

“Certainly is,” was the reply.

“Let’s make the most of it. Run up the Polish flag.” The Alexander Nevsky was one of the smaller ships of the Moldiva line;

she carried a crew of eighty and accommodated up to two hundred passengers. She plied the coast route round the Black Sea ports, from Tibesk in the north round to Yalta, and from there she stopped at the picturesque seaside resorts of Bukim, Talinin, Sebastopol. She was a well-equipped vessel, with cheerful decor and pleasant bars; there was an organizer for deck games and the inevitable Intourist guides for the excursions ashore. The trip round to Sebastopol included a dance and dinner for those passengers who planned to visit Sebastopol in the morning tour. The ship stayed overnight and returned to Yalta the following day. Peter Harrington went to the bar on the sun-deck; he ordered a Stolnychaya vodka the lethal Russian 90 proof and a dish of pickled cucumbers and onions.

“Have some,” he suggested to Davina and the young couple.

“Wonderful stuff-nearly blows your head off! It was Stalin’s secret weapon at the Yalta Conference.” He lowered his voice.

“He got that old idiot Roosevelt drunk on this and he got Poland and half Germany given to him on a plate…” He put his head back and laughed.

“Please,” Poliakov whispered to him, ‘don’t talk like that. ” He gave a nervous glance round them; nobody was sitting near, but the barman was looking at them. Harrington patted his knee.

“Don’t worry, my friend. Nobody can hear me. Sure you won’t have some?” Poliakov shook his head.

“I think we’ll go on deck,” he said. He took Irina’s arm and led her firmly away towards the door.

“He doesn’t approve of me,” Harrington remarked.

“Have a sip,” he said to Davina. She didn’t want to take the glass but he insisted. She barely touched the vodka. Using the glass after him disgusted her.

“Don’t you think you should be careful,” she said.

“That’s practically pure alcohol.”

“I’m only going to have one,” he said.

“Just to send the butterflies in my stomach to sleep. What’s happened to yours, Davy? You look like the village schoolmistress, all prim and pursed-up. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Getting drunk doesn’t suit you either,” she retorted.

“I’m going on deck too.”

“Wait a minute.” He reached out and caught her arm.

“What’s the matter with you? You’ve been snapping my head off every minuteI’m not going to get drunk! What sort of bloody fool do you think I am?” he whispered angrily. Davina pulled herself free of him.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“What sort of a bloody fool are you? You tell me.” She turned and walked away. She had to get away from him;

everything he did maddened and disgusted her, and it was showing. While he sat playing the fool, acting out his threadbare part for their benefit, she had longed to strike the glass of vodka out of his hand. He wasn’t going to get drunk; he was just fortifying himself for the moment when he betrayed them. She stood by the ship’s rail, looking down at the blue water crested with white foam as it rushed away from the sides. She took in a deep breath to steady herself. The sun was gloriously hot, and the clean sea breeze whipped at her hair. She mustn’t do this; she mustn’t show her feelings or he might suspect something. She had to go back to the bar and find him and stay at his side until they docked at Sebastopol. First she needed a final word with Irina.

“You know what you’ve got to do?” Irina nodded.

“Yes. We’ll do it. But we’re worried about leaving you.”

“You mustn’t think about it,” Davina said.

“I’ll come after you. But you must only use what I gave you if the worst happens. You understand that?”

“Yes,” Irina said.

“I want you to do something else, a favour,” Davina said quietly.

“If I don’t get to the yacht, when you see your father would you give him a message from me?”

“Of course,” the girl said. She looked unhappy.

“I don’t like to do this nor does Alexei…”

“Just tell your father I send him my love.” Irina Sasanova looked up sharply.

“I send him my love.” Ich habe ihm meine Lube geschickt: the words had only their literal meaning in German; they were not used in any other context. And she saw the truth in the other woman’s eyes, and the film of tears that made them brighter. Her love. suddenly she understood the deeper meaning of the risk that this woman was taking to make sure that she and Alexei got away. She laid her hand on Davina’s and said gently, “I will tell him… but you will escape too.”

“If I don’t see you again,” Davina murmured, ‘good luck. Say goodbye to your friend for me. And whatever you do, don’t hesitate and don’t look back for me. ” Then she turned and walked quickly away from them. With the back of her hand she wiped the tears that had slipped onto her cheeks, and squared her shoulders. She made her way back to the bar and to the table where Peter Harrington was sitting. He looked up and smiled at her. She smiled down at him.

“Had a breath of fresh air?” he asked.

“Not feeling so cross with me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I just get upset when you drink too much. Get me a glass of wine, will you? Then we might do a tour of the ship.” He looked genuinely pleased; she marvelled at his ability to deceive. He hurried to the bar and came back with a glass of chilled white Crimean wine. He reached out and took her hand. She did nothing when he squeezed it.

“You know something? I hate getting on the wrong side of you. You’re a funny girl, Davy; I’m not surprised Ivan the Terrible fell for you. You may not realize it, but you’ve done a lot for me. You’ve made me feel I’m worth something still. That’s why it’s so important to me that we bring this off. I want to shine for you; you know that? “

“You want to get away with a whole skin and so do I,” she retorted, forcing herself to sound friendly.

“And those poor kids outside.”

“Where are they, by the way?” He asked it very casually.

“I saw them outside on deck,” she said.

“Wandering round holding hands.”

“Love’s young dream,” he said.

“She’s not bad-looking;

bit on the heavy side for me. I like them slim. If she had your figure, she’d be quite something. Tell me, is she anything like Ivan? “

“Not to look at,” Davina said.

“Just an expression sometimes.”

“And are you really never going to see him again?”

“I told you. No. I signed an undertaking.”

“I bet that was Grant’s idea,” he said sourly.

“Miserable fairy, that’s what he is. If you never see Ivan again, then you might possibly consider me as a second best… You don’t think I’m serious, do you?”

“No,” she said pleasantly, hating him and trying not to wrench her hand away.

“If I said yes, you’d run for your life. But I’m not going to, so don’t worry. Why don’t we go and explore the ship?”

“Good idea, why don’t you leave your bag with the barman instead of carrying it round here I’ll take it.” Harrington heaved himself up. She wondered whether he had drunk a second glass of vodka while she was out on deck. He didn’t seem quite steady. She let him take the Hermes handbag and give it to the man behind the bar. Then they went out on deck. The yacht was in sight of Sebastopol harbour; there had been a good steady wind and they had made faster time than expected. MacKie dropped anchor and furled the sail. He and his men unpacked food and drink and lay sun bathing and picnicking in good view of watchers from the shore. The boat bobbed on a steady swell, whipped by the wind. MacKie looked at his watch, and after twenty minutes Bob Ferrie reported a passenger ship to starboard, heading for the harbour. MacKie crouched in the scuppers and trained binoculars on her.

“It’s the cruise ship,” he said.

“Dead on time. Pull up anchor and make sail; we’ll tack about till she’s docked. Then we make for the port.” The captain of the Alexander Nevsky had received his radio instructions just before they docked. No passengers were to be allowed ashore; he was to follow any orders given by an accredited KGB officer who was among the passengers. He sent a message back acknowledging receipt of the signal, and gave his first officer orders to keep everyone on board. Passengers joining the ship at Sebastopol were to be admitted, but no one was to leave. The first officer went on deck to supervise the lowering of the gangway and to post a petty officer and two seamen, one of them armed, at the top. Harrington and Davina were standing on the upper deck; they watched the ship ease into position and dock. She had hooked her arm through his and was unaware of how tightly she was holding on. He stepped away from the rail. He smiled, and the tone of his voice was very casual.

“We’ll be off any minute now,” he said.

“They’re getting the gangway into position.” The loudspeaker announcement brayed out just as he finished speaking. She felt him go rigid.

“What is it? What are they saying?”

“Ssh, wait I can’t hear…” And then he said “Oh Christ,” and she saw the mask of apprehension cover his second’s exposure of relief.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“They’ve stopped passengers going ashore,” he said.

“Oh Christ, that’s really done it. We’d better get the other two and stick together. Listen, I’ll go and see what I can find out. It may be just till the people joining the ship have come aboard. We could still make the harbour in time. Go and find them; I’ll go to the bridge and see what the score is. ” Davina watched him hurry away. Not to the bridge but to the bar and to the handbag left there for safekeeping. Irina and Alexei were waiting round the bulkhead out of sight. She ran to find them. The gangway was fixed in position. The two seamen and the petty officer were grouped at the head, and a chain spanned the opening. She called to Irina, “Now quickly! Tell him for God’s sake not to seem hesitant. Hurry!” Then she went back to the rail, gripping it with hands that trembled. She hardly dared to watch what happened when Alexei Poliakov and Irina Sasanova went to the head of the gangway. Harrington rushed up to the barman.

“The lady’s handbag,” he demanded. The man shook his head. He resented the foreigner’s tone.

BOOK: The Defector
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