Traitor's Gait

by Geoffrey Osborne

  Dingle was reassured by the sight of Alex Stakan, and embarrassed by his bear-like welcoming embrace. He towered above Dingle, a giant of a man, his broad frame in proportion with his height. The dark, serious intellectual’s face looked oddly out of place on top of that huge body — until he laughed; and he laughed often, a deep, joyous throaty roar. Then, head back, black eyes twinkling he resembled a tough, carefree Corsican bandit straight from the pages of fiction. Strangely, it was when he laughed that Dingle fancied he could detect a hint of cruelty in his expression. But the British agent liked him instinctively. He felt that Stakan would be a good man to have fighting on his side. He would be a very bad man to have as an enemy.

  The Russian was laughing now as he released Dingle and turned to introduce his two companions:

  Yuri Minin was a stockily built man, dark-haired and, like Stakan, in his mid-thirties. In contrast to Stakan, he seldom laughed, although he smiled shyly as he shook hands with the Englishman. He seemed to be nervous; Dingle thought this was probably because his flat was being used as the headquarters for a risky operation.

  The girl, Nadia Rublyov, was younger than the two men — Dingle guessed she was about twenty-five — and she was very beautiful. Deep blue eyes gazed out from a perfect oval face; a face that was expertly made up and framed by sleek blonde hair which was definitely not the colour nature had intended. Her figure was superb, lithe and athletic, yet nicely rounded with a hint of softness in the right places. By Russian standards, she was expensively dressed in a close-fitting, plain grey woollen dress, which was brightened by a piece of green chiffon knotted loosely at her throat. An amethyst brooch matched small earrings. Seamless nylon stockings emphasised the graceful curves of her slim legs. Black, high-heeled shoes completed her outfit, which Dingle guessed had come from a foreign exchange shop.

  Dingle had an uneasy feeling of doubt; surely it would be unwise to use such a conspicuously beautiful woman on an operation like this? She would attract attention to them all. But the doubt was swept to a corner of his mind and his pulses quickened as he took her cool hands in his and she smiled up at him. It was a friendly smile, but Dingle knew it would never lead to a richer relationship, no matter how much he might desire it. He had never believed in mixing pleasure with business. Apart from that, he had already noted how the girl’s eyes constantly followed Stakan. She was obviously in love with the big Russian.

  Stakan was bellowing with laughter again.

  ‘You like my little Nadia, eh? You think she looks English?’

  ‘I was just thinking that, possibly, she looks too English, too noticeable for any secret work.’

  ‘Ah, good! You see Mr Dingle … may I call you James …?’

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘You see, Jim, that is the idea. Nadia will look English — so she could be your daughter! And tomorrow you can hire a car and she can show you the outside of the space laboratory …’

  ‘I thought Glyn was going to show me round there.’

  ‘Yes; but then today I got this idea. I think it would be better if Nadia went with you. You would look like an English tourist with his daughter — and if you wanted to stop the car and take a little walk, what would look more natural than a father enjoying the view and fresh air with his daughter? But if two men got out of the car and started wandering around, they would — what is it you English say? — stick out like sore thumbs.’

  Reluctantly, Dingle was forced to see the logic of this.

  ‘Good, good!’ Stakan was laughing again. ‘That’s settled. Now let us sit round the table while I explain my plan to you. I’m hoping it will satisfy you. Of course, if you don’t like it, we shall have to think of something else.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Bring the map, Nadia.’

  While the men drew up chairs and sat down, Nadia pulled out a sideboard drawer, knelt down and untaped a piece of paper which had been secured to the drawer’s underside. She stood up, carefully unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table in front of Dingle.

  The neat sketch map showed the research station to be situated in the middle of dense woodland, about a mile from the bank of a river. A clearing, roughly circular in shape, had been hacked out to accommodate it. There was only one entrance, from a narrow track branching off a road which ran alongside the river.

  Facing the entrance, in a semi-circle, were three main buildings. The largest, in the middle, was the laboratory block; to the left, flats housed the scientists and their families, while the guards’ living quarters were on the right. The duty guardroom and office was placed just inside the gate. Just past this guardroom, the road split into three. The main artery led straight ahead to laboratories, while the left and right forks served the civilian and military quarters.

  ‘Pretty good map, eh?’ said Stakan.

  Dingle nodded. ‘How did you manage it?’

  ‘I have a contact inside; a maintenance worker.’

  ‘Good. Can he help us?’

  ‘I don’t think it will be necessary to involve him any further. He’s quite an old man, an electrician. He services all the electrical equipment there, and so has access to all the buildings. He’s already given me all the information we want.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dingle. ‘Has he been able to give you details of the security arrangements?’

  ‘Everything we need to know,’ replied Stakan.

  He leaned over and traced a circle on the map with his forefinger.

  ‘The outer perimeter fence runs right round the area through the trees … here. It’s not guarded; it’s just there to discourage people who might be taking a walk through the woods.

  ‘The main inner fence which circles the station, is a very different proposition. It’s a double fence, in fact; barbed wire and very high. Between the two barbed wire fences, there’s another one … electrified.’

  ‘Electrified, eh? Can your … excuse the pun … contact help there?’

  ‘It won’t be necessary. Anyway, even with the electricity off, I think that fence would still be impossible. You see, apart from the guard room at the gate, there are three machine-gun towers here, here and here.’

  Stakan’s forefinger stabbed the map at points on each side and at the top of the circle.

  ‘Apart from that, the whole fence is floodlit at night, and in the event of a power failure, each machine-gun tower is equipped with a powerful, battery-operated searchlight.

  ‘The laboratory — which is where they are working on the space bomb — is floodlit, too, and there Eire two guards at the door. Two other guards patrol inside the fence at all times.’

  Dingle looked up from the map.

  ‘That sounds bloody secure,’ he said. ‘How the hell do we get in?’

  Stakan grinned. ‘There is just at the moment a weak link …’

  The grin faded and he added anxiously; ‘You did bring KGB and GRU identification papers with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many sets?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Ah, good.’ Stakan sighed with relief. ‘Five will be enough. I can arrange for everything else we need … and we can exploit the weak link.’

  ‘What is this weak link?’

  The Russian’s grin was back, bigger than ever.

  ‘The telephone. You see, the guard room also houses the switchboard for the whole station. All outgoing and incoming calls are monitored there. Naturally, when the place was built, the line was laid in a pipe and buried, out of sight; but recently they’ve had some trouble. There are several underground streams in the area which feed the river, and the line got flooded.

  ‘They’re putting it right now, but it’s a big job and it will probably take another fortnight to complete. In the meantime, the outside line to the switchboard has had to be fixed overhead. It doesn’t go underground until it reaches a point about fifty metres this side of the outer perimeter fence.’

  ‘In the trees?’ asked Dingle.

 
‘That’s right.’

  It was the Englishman’s turn to smile.

  ‘I think I’m ahead of you, Alex. But go on.’

  The big Russian talked on for another half an hour, explaining his plan in detail and answering all the questions Dingle and the three others put to him.

  ‘Well? What do you think?’ he asked when he had finished.

  Dingle was silent for a few moments. Then he smiled and said: ‘I must admit, Alex, it looks like a winner. I’ll let you know for sure when I’ve had a scout round tomorrow. I want to take a look at that wire.’

  ‘Good,’ said Stakan. ‘Nadia will take you there. Perhaps it would be easier if you hire a car yourself in the morning. You can pick Nadia up, and she will direct you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Dingle looked at the girl. ‘Where shall I pick you up?’

  ‘Oh … er … outside the GUM store at … say ten o’clock. Will that be all right?’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll see you then.’

  Stakan said: ‘If you decide to go ahead with my idea, when do you want to do it?’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ replied the Englishman. ‘The day after tomorrow, I’d say, as soon as it gets dark. Can you manage it for then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stakan. ‘But there’s just one thing. Those KGB papers, are any of them made out for a woman?’

  ‘No.’ Dingle hesitated. ‘Is it really necessary to use a woman — all due respect to you Nadia — on a risky job like this?’

  Stakan nodded. ‘Vital; I’ve already explained to you that the operators on each switchboard are women. But don’t worry, Nadia is always very calm in a crisis. Have you got the papers with you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll give you three sets now, and you can fix your own photographs to them.’

  ‘Good. And we’ll alter one of them for Nadia. We can substitute a woman’s name.’

  Dingle took an envelope from his pocket and began to sort out the contents. He handed three sets of identification papers to Stakan, and one to Jones.

  ‘There are yours, Glyn,’ he said. ‘Your photograph is already on them.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘If there’s nothing else to discuss, I’ll be off then,’ said Dingle, shaking hands with the three Russians. ‘See you in the morning, Nadia.’

  The girl smiled. ‘Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll walk part of the way back to your hotel with you,’ said Jones.

  *

  A chill wind was whistling down the street. Jones shivered and pulled up his coat collar.

  ‘I think this lot must be blowing straight in from Siberia,’ he complained. ‘I hope it doesn’t snow.’

  Dingle, huddled in his own overcoat, fell into step with the Welshman.

  ‘Well, I’ll admit I’m impressed by your Alex Stakan,’ he said. ‘His scheme seems sound enough.’

  ‘Good. When will you let me know if it’s on?’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night, after I’ve been out to the place; say about six o’clock. Where’s a good place to meet?’

  Jones thought for a moment, then said: ‘The beer hall in Mozhaisky Val, just off Kutuzovsky Prospekt, is a good place. It’s rather like an English pub and we should be able to talk quietly there. Have you got time for a swift half now?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Dingle. ‘I want to get straight back to the National now to see the Intourist people. I’ll have to start making arrangements to hire that car in the morning.’

  ‘Make sure they don’t insist on you taking a driver-guide.’

  ‘I’ll watch it,’ the Englishman assured him. ‘Hiring a car is going to make a hole in my bloody tourist’s allowance though. I don’t know why the Director insisted that I shouldn’t carry any extra money. He said it was in case I got caught with it and landed in trouble; the fact that I was carrying a few sets of forged KGB papers didn’t seem to worry him.’

  Jones laughed. ‘I expect he’s just trying to cut down on expenses. After all, he’ll be retiring soon. If he can show Whitehall that he’s been running the department on a low budget, he probably figures it will earn him a knighthood. And don’t forget that we are a bit short of roubles.’

  ‘We’ve got George Blake to thank for that,’ said Dingle. ‘He’s the one who blew the MI6 watch-smuggling racket to the Russians. But to get back to the more immediate problem, can you let me have a few roubles towards the cost of this car?’

  ‘Oh, no, boyo! You see I’ve been over here longer than you, and I’m running a bit short of funds myself.’

  ‘Well, you owe me some money.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Jones.

  ‘I paid your parking fine in London.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but you paid that in pounds. If I repaid you in roubles, that would be an illegal currency transaction, wouldn’t it? The police here take a very dim view of that sort of thing, and I’m a very law-abiding citizen … Oh! This is where I turn off for my hotel, boyo. See you tomorrow at six, then. I’ll let you buy me a drink.’

  Jones waved his hand cheerily and walked off to the right.

  ‘You tight-fisted old basket,’ Dingle called after him, grinning.

  ‘I’m not; I’m just broke,’ the Welshman shouted back. ‘Ask your key lady to lend you some cash.’

  Dingle was still smiling when he reached the National. This was more like the old Jones, he thought. Things were looking up. With a bit of luck, they could pull the job off the day after tomorrow and get the hell out of it.

  Chapter Seven

  Dingle lingered in the hotel restaurant long after he had finished his breakfast. It was nine-thirty, and Intourist had promised to have a car waiting at the door for him by nine-fifty. He had told the commissionaire where to find him.

  His table was nicely placed at a window overlooking Manezhnaya Place, and he was enjoying the luxury of sitting in the warm, watching the slow tide of muffled humanity flow back and forth. People in Moscow never seemed to hurry.

  Across the other side of the square, near the Kremlin wall, he was amused to see a line of people waiting patiently and stamping their feet to keep warm. They were queuing for ice cream.

  Suddenly Dingle stiffened. He had spotted a familiar face in the crowd. It was Wily Willie; and he was behaving very strangely. He was alternately running a few steps and walking a few steps, his face crimson with the unaccustomed exercise. Every now and then, he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.

  Dingle soon saw why. Two men were coming up fast behind him, pushing aside anyone who got in their way.

  Willey turned towards the hotel entrance and went out of Dingle’s sight. He reappeared, heading for the stairs at a fair pace until, through the open door of the restaurant, he noticed Dingle, and changed direction abruptly.

  ‘Mr Hardbottom! You must help me!’

  Willey was gasping for breath, and beads of sweat were trickling down his forehead and along his nose; his eyes stared wildly through the lenses of his spectacles, which were beginning to steam up. He was a very frightened man.

  Dingle’s heart sank. He couldn’t afford to get mixed up in anything.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘The police are after me.’

  ‘Police? Why, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Well, I was supposed to pass some papers to a man this morning …’

  ‘Papers?’

  ‘Educational stuff …’

  ‘You mean propaganda?’

  ‘Well … yes, I suppose so … but this chap didn’t turn up. I waited for a while, and then two men — I’m sure they’re police — started moving towards me. I ran, but they followed me. For God’s sake, man! Help me!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘These papers. Take them and hide them, then they won’t be found on me. They’ll have no case against me.’

  Dingle’s voice was icy. ‘I shall do nothing of the sort. I am here on holiday and I have no i
ntention of becoming involved in any … er … nefarious activities.’

  Willey’s shoulders sagged. ‘But you can’t mean that,’ he said hopelessly. ‘You’re English, dammit!’

  ‘I do mean it; and in any case it’s too late. Your friends are already here.’

  Willey swung round to face the two thick-set men, identically dressed in bulky grey topcoats and grey wide-brimmed hats, who were striding purposefully across to the table.

  But it was Dingle to whom the first questions were addressed.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Hardbottom.’

  ‘Do you know this man, Willey?’

  ‘Slightly. We happened to travel here on the same plane.’

  ‘You are not friends?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was he saying to you just now?’

  Dingle took a deep breath and tried to avoid the reproachful look in Willey’s eyes.

  ‘He said the police were after him and he asked me to hide some papers for him.’

  ‘And your reply?’

  ‘I refused. I said I would not be a party to anything against a country in which I am a guest. I’m simply here on holiday.’

  The policeman looked at his companion and jerked his head towards the door. The other nodded and walked out quickly. Dingle guessed that he had gone to check this last statement. Each table in the restaurant was decorated with miniature national flags of the guests. The British agent was sure that the heavy base of the Union Jack on his own table concealed a microphone. His conversation with Willey would have been recorded; but of course the idiot would not have thought of that.

  The policeman was speaking again.

  ‘So Mr Willey still has the papers?’

  Dingle nodded, and the Russian addressed Willey for the first time.

  ‘Give them to me please.’

  Willey made a last desperate effort. ‘I’m a British citizen. You’ve no right …’

  The policeman interrupted smoothly: ‘We know all about you, Mr Willey. You were here last year, passing subversive literature. Now you are trying to do the same again.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You must think we are fools. The papers please.’ He held out his hand.