Traitor's Gait

by Geoffrey Osborne

  ‘Your flight is booked a week from tomorrow. If we haven’t heard from Glyn by the day before, it will be cancelled; two other flights have been booked — and hotel reservations made — at four-day intervals after that. In different names, of course.’

  The Director glared at Jones.

  ‘But do your damnedest to get it all set up within the week. You will have help, naturally, from our resident agents …’

  As the big man’s voice droned on, the vulgar noises from Jones’s inside increased in volume and in frequency. After three hours, the two agents had been thoroughly briefed, all their questions had been answered — and Jones had crippling indigestion.

  ‘You’ll leave tomorrow night then, Glyn,’ the Director said finally. ‘I shan’t see you again before you go. Don’t forget to collect all the documents from the stores on your way out. They’re all ready for you.’

  He paused and looked searchingly at the Welshman for a few moments.

  ‘You know exactly what you have to do?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve no doubts about being able to carry it through?’

  The Welshman looked surprised at the question.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you Jim? You’re quite happy about … everything?’

  Dingle knew what his chief was really asking: did he think Jones’s nerves would stand up to this job?

  He looked at his friend’s pale, tense face; listened to his tormented tummy.

  ‘Quite happy, sir,’ he said.

  *

  ‘Do you fancy going for a bite to eat?’ asked Dingle.

  ‘No thanks, I’m not hungry; it’s this bloody indigestion,’ said Jones gloomily plucking a parking ticket from the windscreen of his car and stuffing it in his top pocket. ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘I don’t want to take you out of your way.’

  ‘No trouble. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘You can drop me somewhere near the Haymarket.’

  The two men got into the car, and Jones pulled out into the traffic.

  ‘Did you run into any trouble in Leningrad?’

  ‘No trouble,’ replied the Welshman. ‘We had a prospect all lined up. It was just a question of making contact with him and briefing him. It’s up to him now to build up his own group. I was only there five days.’

  ‘Oh. Well we’ve just got to get this next job buttoned up, and then the Director tells me you’re due for a rest. Probably give you a spell as duty officer in the office.’

  ‘I could do with it,’ said Jones feelingly.

  His companion glanced at him sharply.

  ‘Feeling the strain?’

  Jones didn’t reply.

  ‘What about coming out tonight? I know a couple of girls who would be readily available.’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve got too much to do,’ said Jones shortly. ‘And I can find my own girl.’

  ‘Gillian? You’re not getting too serious about her are you?’ Dingle laughed. ‘You’ll be saying next that you want to get married.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ the other flared. ‘Why the hell shouldn’t I want to get married?’

  ‘Well … in our position, the job and all that …’ Dingle was embarrassed.

  ‘I’m fully aware of our position. So you can stop bloody panicking. I haven’t asked her to marry me. But that doesn’t mean to say I wouldn’t like to. Believe me, boyo, if I could be sure that the other side would never catch me, if I could be certain of returning safely from every job, I bloody well would ask her!’

  ‘All right, all right; keep your shirt on. Your love life’s none of my business anyway.’

  They drove in angry silence after that, until Jones stopped near the top of the Haymarket.

  ‘This do you?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Er … good luck for tomorrow. I’ll be joining you in a week or so, then, all going well.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’

  Dingle opened the door reluctantly. He was angry, and puzzled. He had never seen Jones in such a surly mood before. He didn’t like leaving him like this.

  ‘Is there anything you want me to do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘No … yes.’ Jones snatched the parking ticket out of his top pocket and pushed it into Dingle’s hand. ‘You can take care of that. I shan’t have time — and you can afford it.’

  The Welshman drove off leaving Dingle standing on the pavement, staring after him, a worried expression on his face.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jones found a parking space near a telephone kiosk. A woman was using the phone and he waited impatiently for ten minutes until she had finished. Then he stepped inside the stuffy little box, which still reeked of the woman’s cheap perfume, and dialled a number.

  A woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Gillian? Don’t wait up for me tonight. I expect to be very late. And tomorrow night I’ve got to go away again. The company are sending me abroad to fix up another export order.’

  ‘Oh.’ He could hear the disappointment in her voice. ‘What time …?’

  ‘I can’t stop now. ’Bye.’

  He replaced the receiver quickly, then picked it up again and dialled another number. The bell at the other end burr-burred and Jones caught sight of his pale face in the tiny mirror in front of him; he saw the beads of sweat that had suddenly appeared on his brow. His hand holding the receiver, was clammy.

  ‘This is the Russian Embassy.’

  ‘I want to speak to Mr Tabolsk, your KGB man.’

  ‘We have no …’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap. This is urgent. Get him!’

  There was a silence, and then another voice came on the line.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Is your phone scrambled?’

  There was a click.

  ‘This line is secure.’

  ‘My name is Glyn Jones, of the SS(O)S. I want to see you urgently. I have some important information for you …’

  Chapter Three

  Part of Dingle’s stock-in-trade was a sensitive, built-in warning system. It had been working overtime in the departure lounge at Heathrow; the uncomfortable prickling sensation in the back of his neck told him he was being watched. Half-an-hour later he was almost sure that the person watching him was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with yellow hair and an expressionless face.

  When he boarded the Ilyushin jet, he was quite sure; the young man was already there, seated near the gangway at the rear of the plane.

  The British agent hated flying. He had survived a crash in a service aircraft years ago. Since that time, if he had to travel by air, he preferred to sit at the back of the aircraft.

  He hesitated. There was only one vacant seat at the rear — next to the man with the yellow hair. Dingle grinned to himself and started towards it. But he never made it.

  Politely, but firmly, the Russian stewardess ushered him to the front of the cabin. His protests and explanations fell on deaf ears. He had been allocated a gangway seat at the front, the girl told him quietly, and in that seat he would sit.

  The Englishman glared angrily at her. Slim, dark-haired, she would have been pretty but for the shapeless, dowdy Siberian blue uniform, her lack of make-up — and her frozen expression. Obviously, she wouldn’t take Niet for an answer. Dingle shrugged resignedly and sat. The girl’s icy gaze melted momentarily into a faint, frosty smile, then she turned abruptly to deal with the remaining passengers.

  He twisted round to watch her as she strode purposefully up the aisle towards the knot of people still standing uncertainly near the door. But she ignored them and stopped by Yellow Hair; and it was obvious that she was annoyed.

  Dingle watched, amused, while she ordered a small, round-faced man out of the seat which Dingle had wanted. The little man had sneaked into it while her back was turned. No
w he was blinking owlishly through heavy-framed glasses and stammering profuse apologies as the girl ushered him sternly down the gangway.

  ‘This is where you sit,’ she told him in a tone that brooked no argument, indicating the place beside Dingle. The little man didn’t rate even the frosty smile; the girl was walking back to settle the other travellers before he had even sat down.

  Dingle’s nerves were tingling as he studied his new companion. Was this accident, or design? The little man had been sitting, briefly, next to Yellow Hair. Were they connected? Had they exchanged messages?

  ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

  The SS(O)S man smiled, but made no reply as the questions chased each other through his mind.

  Had this man been put beside him for any reason? And why should Yellow Hair be watching him anyway? His disguise was adequate (during the last week Dingle had dyed his hair iron grey, his cheeks were padded, contact lenses had changed his eyes from blue to brown, and he had developed a pronounced stoop). He felt confident that no KGB man would spot him — unless they were expecting him. Were they? Did they know he would be travelling as …?

  ‘My name’s Willey.’ The little man interrupted his thoughts. ‘William Willey.’

  Dingle smiled. ‘Hardbottom.’

  Willey stared doubtfully through his large lenses.

  ‘Er … eh?’

  ‘James Hardbottom. That’s my name,’ said Dingle.

  ‘Oh! Ah! Ha ha!’ The little man started to laugh. ‘It’s just as well these seats are …’ His voice trailed away as he caught the cold look in Dingle’s eye. ‘Er … I mean I thought you were referring to the seats being hard,’ he finished lamely, embarrassed.

  ‘I see,’ said Dingle coolly. ‘I thought for a moment you were going to make a joke about my name.’

  ‘No, no! Dear me no! My dear chap …’

  ‘Because if you were, I should like to make it quite clear at the start that I grew tired of such jokes when I was a schoolboy — and that’s a long time ago.’

  ‘Believe me, my dear fellow …’

  ‘After all,’ Dingle went on relentlessly, ‘none of us is immune. We can’t help our names, can we?’

  ‘No, no. Of course not.’

  ‘And yet people will make jokes about them. Human nature, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’ The little man was wilting under Dingle’s onslaught of words.

  ‘Which is why you must forgive me for thinking what I did when you introduced yourself.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘It was funny really,’ Dingle smiled fleetingly. ‘I’d been watching the way you sneaked into that rear seat while the stewardess’s back was turned and I thought to myself that you’d have to be much more wily to outwit her. And then, when you introduced yourself as William Willey, I immediately thought’ … the fleeting smile came and went again … ‘Wily Willie!’

  ‘Well really!’

  Willey turned away huffily and looked out of the window. It was dark outside, and Dingle could see his travelling companion’s face reflected in the glass. It was a picture of outraged indignation.

  The British agent grinned to himself. That should keep him quiet, he thought. He wondered about Willey.

  Was he the ineffectual fool he appeared to be? Or was he …?

  The plane had taxied to the departure point; now the engines were being run up and the stewardess was checking that her passengers had their safety belts fastened. Then the plane was rolling forward, faster and faster.

  ‘We’re off,’ Willey announced, cutting into Dingle’s thoughts. He turned to face the British agent.

  ‘Look here, Hardbottom, let’s bury the hatchet, eh? If we’re to be fellow travellers we might as well be friendly. No sense in starting off on the wrong foot.’

  Willey thrust out his right hand sideways, in front of Dingle. The SS(O)S man sighed inwardly and shook hands. He had been wrong; the little man didn’t intend to be shut up.

  ‘Have you been to Russia before?’

  ‘No, never,’ lied Dingle.

  ‘I have; several times,’ said Willey smugly.

  ‘Oh? Business?’

  ‘Dear me, no!’

  ‘You must like the country then?’

  ‘No I don’t, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Then why go there?’

  The little man leaned sideways and lowered his voice conspiratorially; his face was screwed up into an earnest, sincere expression, so that Dingle was reminded of a political party leader giving a television talk.

  ‘For the people of Russia; for the sake of international understanding. It’s only by mixing with other peoples that you can understand them. Since the Russians are not allowed to visit other countries, it’s up to us to go to them. I try to tell them what life is like in the West — and I try to show them, by example, that we ordinary people in Britain really feel for the ordinary people in Russia. I know they desire peace; I try to show them that we desire it, too.’

  ‘I’ll bet they’re pleased to see you,’ said Dingle drily. ‘I suppose you speak Russian?’

  ‘Oh no! Just the odd word — like vodka — but you’ll find you can get by quite well with English. A lot of Russians speak it. But if you’re worried about the language, I’ll show you around Moscow, if you like?’

  ‘That’s all right, thanks,’ said Dingle hastily. ‘I speak Russian quite fluently.’

  ‘Oh.’ Willey was deflated.

  ‘I teach it at our local comprehensive school,’ Dingle explained. ‘That’s why I’m taking this holiday; to brush it up a bit.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And now you must excuse me. I must go and spend a kopeck.’ The SS(O)S man stood up and walked towards the rear of the plane. Several pairs of eyes watched his progress with interest. It was a change from staring at the backs of the seats in front of them. Only Yellow Hair was careful not to look at him. The young man’s flat, grey eyes were probing the impenetrable blackness outside the window.

  It was the grey eyes, Dingle decided, that made his face so expressionless. One would normally expect to see blue eyes under that yellow hair.

  He paused when he reached the door of the lavatory and looked back quickly. Yellow Hair was craning round the back of his chair, looking at him: hastily he withdrew his head, out of sight.

  Dingle grinned and went into the lavatory. He was doubly sure now. Yellow Hair was a KGB man; and he was there to watch Dingle.

  When he got back to his seat, the stewardess was serving the evening meal.

  ‘They do you proud,’ remarked Willey as he dispatched a handsome helping of smoked salmon, caviar and salad. ‘It’s worth flying in a Russian airliner just for the food.’

  Dingle agreed politely, declined a bowl of Bortsch soup from the stewardess and watched in admiration while Willey dealt with the soup in record time before tackling a large plateful of steak and vegetables. Even then the little man wasn’t beaten. He joined Dingle in coffee and biscuits and went on to wolf down two helpings of cream cake.

  ‘You appear to enjoy your meals,’ ventured Dingle, wondering to himself where Willey put it all. ‘I’m afraid the first course was enough for me. I suppose it’s the sedentary life we schoolmasters lead.’

  ‘Food is one of the main pleasures of life,’ Willey asserted. ‘I know several good restaurants in Moscow, which I could show you.’

  Dingle smiled vaguely, making a mental note that this was the second time the other man had offered to extend their acquaintanceship in the Russian capital. He changed the subject quickly, hoping to catch Willey off his guard.

  ‘It’s a pity the stewardess wouldn’t let you stay with your friend.’

  ‘Friend?’ Willey blinked through his glasses.

  ‘The fair-haired man at the back. You were sitting next to him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know him; I just think it’s safer at the back.’

  ‘I see. I wonder why she wouldn’
t let you stay there? It’s still vacant. I noticed, when I went to the lavatory, that it’s the only empty seat in the plane.’

  ‘Perhaps someone didn’t turn up,’ suggested Willey, closing the subject. ‘What hotel are you staying at, by the way?’

  ‘The National.’

  ‘That’s a bit of luck! So am I. We should see quite a bit of each other. We’d make a pretty good team in Moscow, you know, with my knowledge of the city and your knowledge of the language.’

  Dingle groaned to himself. He didn’t answer the implied invitation.

  ‘I’m tired and I must have a little nap. Wake me up when we’re going in to land.’

  The little man nodded. He looked disappointed; obviously he wanted to talk.

  Dingle leaned back and closed his eyes. He wanted to think. Was Wily Willie one of the other side? How the hell had the KGB got on to him? Had something gone wrong over the Director’s arrangements for the passport? Or had there been a slip-up at the Moscow end? Jones’s message had been clear and definite. But could Jones have been caught? If so, would he have talked? Dingle pushed the thought away — but he could not help remembering the Director’s doubts about Jones.

  He felt the familiar tingle in his spine. They would be in Moscow soon and there would be no more doubts. He would know … one way or the other.

  Chapter Four

  Dingle and Willey were the last passengers to leave the plane. Yellow Hair, striding along briskly, was already near the entrance to the international airport’s reception building.

  By the time the two Englishmen reached the door, the Russian had disappeared. But his absence did not make Dingle feel any easier; it only served to increase his alarm. Yellow Hair had cleared Customs very quickly, proof enough to the British agent that the man was carrying KGB identification. And Dingle still felt that he was being watched.

  A pretty Intourist girl approached.

  ‘Mr Hardbottom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will see you through the Customs.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  From the corner of his eye, he could see that another girl was taking care of Willey. Reluctantly, Dingle followed his guide to a Customs man who stood, unsmiling, behind his counter. Was this the end of the road? If the KGB were on to him, he could expect to be arrested now.