The last shreds of defiance fell away from Willey. He knew there was no hope. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a fat, brown envelope and gave it to the policeman.
The second policeman returned at that moment. He nodded briefly to his superior, and a feeling of relief flooded through Dingle’s tense body. His statement had been confirmed.
The man who had been doing all the questioning was smiling at Dingle.
‘Perhaps, Mr Hardbottom, you will accompany us to the Central Police Station to make a statement. We shan’t keep you long.’
Dingle cursed silently. ‘It’s rather inconvenient,’ he said. ‘You see, I have a car ordered. It will be here in a few minutes. I am going on a tour of your beauty spots.’
The policeman looked thoughtful.
‘Would you be willing to call at the station afterwards?’
‘Of course.’
‘May I see your passport?’
Dingle pulled the passport from his breast pocket and handed it over. The policeman studied it, then took a notebook from his own pocket and began to write in it. He tore the sheet of paper out of the book and gave it to Dingle
‘There’s a receipt, Mr Hardbottom. I’ll keep your passport until you call in to see me. You’ll see my name on the receipt; Inspector Tserkov.’
‘I feel rather naked without my passport,’ said Dingle doubtfully.
Tserkov smiled. ‘It’s not for long though, is it? If you are required by anyone to produce it, tell them to ring me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Come along then, Mr Willey,’ the inspector continued. ‘We’ll be on our way … Oh! Do you know where the Central Police Station is, Mr Hardbottom?’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘It’s not far; in Petrovka Street. Just cross Gorky Street, go past the Council of Ministers and Trade Union House, cross Pushkinskaya Street into Sverdlova Place, and then turn left into Petrovka Street.’
‘I’ll find it.’
Willey looked at Dingle. ‘Will you at least tell the British Embassy about me?’
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Tserkov, before Dingle could reply. ‘We shall be informing them ourselves.’ He touched Willey’s arm. ‘Come along.’
Dingle watched them go, the Englishman walking between Tserkov and the other policeman, who hadn’t said a word throughout the whole proceedings.
He felt no pity for Willey; he was still annoyed with the man for trying to involve him in his absurd affair. He could have jeopardized Dingle’s own important operation. Amateurs had no place in this sort of work; and Willey was the worst kind of amateur.
The silly little man, Dingle thought, deserved all that was coming to him.
The commissionaire signalled from the doorway.
‘Your car is here, Mr Hardbottom.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be right out. I must go up for my coat first.’
*
The little Moskvich four-seater was a new car to Dingle; he drove very carefully, skirting Manezhnaya Place at a sedate forty kilometres an hour. By the time he had driven between the History Museum and the Kremlin into Red Square he was no longer grinding the gears. He came back up the far side of the square, in front of the GUM store, and saw Nadia immediately. She was standing on the corner, and waved when she saw him turn right in October 25th Street and stop. The girl ran across the pavement, opened the door and slipped in beside him.
‘Which way?’ he asked, slipping the car into gear.
‘Straight on. Bear right at the monument, into Kirov Street. Then go straight along until I tell you.’
‘Okay. Is everything all right with you?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very punctual Mr Dingle …’
‘Jim.’
‘Jim … you arrived on the stroke of ten.’
‘I nearly didn’t make it at all,’ he said.
‘Oh? Why was that?’
‘I was almost carted off to the police station, but I promised I’d drop in and see them this afternoon.’
Dingle glanced across and saw her pale face and the frightened question in her eyes.
‘Don’t worry. It’s all right.’ He laughed, and went on to explain what had happened.
‘Who were the policemen?’ she asked.
‘The main one was an Inspector Tserkov.’
‘Tserkov? He’s the police liaison man with the KGB. Be careful when you see him. He’s no fool.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘Slow down here,’ said Nadia. ‘We want to turn right now on to Chemogryazskaya Street.’
She waited until Dingle had negotiated the turn, and then continued: ‘This is the inner ring road. Follow it all the way to Dobryninskaya Square, then go left into Lyusinovskaya Street.’
‘Seems a long way round,’ he commented.
‘Yes but it’s an easier route. I didn’t want to confuse you.’
They drove on in companionable silence until they hit the Varshavskoye Highway. Then they headed southeast, through Kolomenskoya, and bridged the broad sweep of the Moscow by-pass, which marked the boundary of Greater Moscow, on the Kashirskoye Highway.
They were out into the forest and park belt now, and the girl chattered gaily, pointing with obvious pride to the impressive scenery. Dingle wondered why a person who so obviously loved her country should want to work for the British.
He put the question to her. She was silent for a few seconds, and then she replied stiffly: ‘If you are implying that I’m a traitor to my country, I can assure you that I am not. I am doing this for the people of Russia. People like Alex and I believe that we can bring freedom to our countrymen, as you in the West know it, only by undermining the oppressive power of the State and Party.’
‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ Dingle said. ‘It was a silly question to ask.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, laughing again. ‘Don’t forget that several of your compatriots — quite highly-placed ones too — have defected to Russia. I don’t think of them as traitors to their country. They’ve just followed a dream — but I often wonder if they wake up, when it’s too late, to find they’re living in a nightmare.’
They talked on about conditions in Britain and Russia until, thirteen miles and thirty minutes after leaving Moscow, they reached Leninskiye.
‘We’re nearly there now,’ said Nadia. ‘Turn left just before the bridge.’
Dingle swung off the main highway and followed a road parallel to the Pakhra River until, after about two miles, they reached woodland. The river still ran close to the right-hand side of the road, while the trees rose steeply on the left.
‘There’s a narrow road into the woods after about a mile,’ said the girl. ‘That’s the way into the research station.’
‘We’ll park the car just past the turn-off and walk through the woods,’ said Dingle. ‘It will look more natural. If we drive up the road, we might attract attention.’
The girl nodded.
Dingle found a suitable spot and pulled over to the right, off the road. They got out of the car and stood for a while, looking at the view. There was no traffic about and there were no other people in sight; it was the wrong time of the year for tourists. The wind blew cold from the river. Dingle shivered and pulled up his collar.
‘Come on,’ he said.
They turned, crossed the road and entered the wood, walking quickly to keep warm. They made no noise; the thick carpet of pine needles deadened all sound.
After ten minutes, they reached the wire of the research station’s outer perimeter fence.
‘Which way?’ Dingle whispered.
‘Left. Watch for the telephone wires overhead.’
They moved on, following the fence and glancing up every now and then. Five minutes later they saw the telephone wires about twenty feet above.
‘Three sets of lines,’ said Dingle. ‘According to A
lex there are two hot lines — one to KGB headquarters and the other to GRU. The third line is an ordinary open one. We’d have to allow ourselves time to tap them to find out which is which.’
He began to walk away from the fence, following the telephone wires, until he came to a pole. The wires ran down the pole and disappeared underground.
‘This is handy,’ commented the Englishman. ‘It will save any climbing. You’re sure no patrols come out this far to check up?’
‘Alex says not.’
‘I hope he’s right. How far is the service road to the research centre.’
‘Quite close; only about a hundred metres,’ replied Nadia.
‘We’ll have a look at it. Let’s go back to the fence first though, and pace out the distance from this pole. Then we’ll pace the distance along the fence to the road. Don’t forget we’ll be looking for this spot in the dark tomorrow; it will be too risky to show a light.’
They moved back towards the fence, each counting silently. Then they turned left and started the second count. Soon they reached the narrow road.
The fence went right to the edge of the road, and began again on the other side. There was no gate across the road, but it was bridged by a large notice which read:
NO UNAUTHORISED PERSON BEYOND THIS POINT: MINISTRY OF DEFENCE PROPERTY.
Dingle looked carefully in all directions. There was still nobody about. He stepped on to the road and began to walk back in the direction of the main highway. The girl followed without speaking.
After fifty yards, he stopped and pointed.
‘We could get the car into the trees just here, out of sight. There’s plenty of brush wood to camouflage it.’
‘It sounds as though you’ve decided that the operation is on,’ said Nadia.
‘I have. You can tell Alex when we get back. I’ve got to go to the police station, and then I’m meeting Glyn. I’ll come over to the flat with him afterwards.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ she said, smiling.
They walked back to the car.
Chapter Eight
The interview with Tserkov went smoothly. Dingle signed a statement relating the conversation he had in the hotel restaurant with William Willey.
‘Will there be a trial?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the inspector replied. ‘But it won’t take place for at least two months.’
Dingle looked anxious, a typical elderly provincial schoolmaster, whose main concern was to maintain his image of dry respectability; whose aim in life was to avoid trouble until it was time to retire on a comfortable pension, image intact.
‘I shan’t be required to attend, I hope? You see, it’s very awkward for me. I have to be back at school in a fortnight, and I wouldn’t be able to get leave of absence. I only took this holiday to brush up on my Russian — I teach the language, you know — and I don’t want to be mixed up in anything political. It might lead to difficulties with my headmaster and, perhaps, the parents of some of my pupils. Oh dear, I wish I’d never met this wretched Mr Willey.’
Tserkov laughed.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Hardbottom. You won’t be needed at the trial. We have more than enough evidence to convict Mr Willey. Your statement will just be part of it, if we even bother to use it.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Dingle, sycophantic to the end. ‘I’d like to thank you for your courteous and considerate treatment throughout this unhappy affair. Of course, I’d be more than grateful if you could keep my name out of it altogether, since I was, after all, involved through no fault of my own.’
Again Tserkov laughed.
‘I’ll see what I can do for you Mr Hardbottom, although it’s purely a KGB matter now and more or less out of my hands. I suggest you try to forget all about it and enjoy the rest of your holiday.’
‘You mean I’m free to go now?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Er … my passport?’
The inspector opened a drawer in his desk, took out the thin blue book and handed it to Dingle.
*
It was only five o’clock when the British agent left the Central Police Station. He would be early for his appointment with Jones, but he could have a drink while he waited.
He smiled to himself as he walked to the Metro station near the Children’s Theatre. Perhaps, he thought, he had done Wily Willie a bit of good after all.
He knew that, despite what Tserkov had said, the Russians would make capital of his signed statement. It would look good. The sworn evidence of a respectable English schoolmaster would, in the eyes of the world, point the finger of guilt at the prisoner, more than the testimony of all the Russian witnesses put together.
The statement would probably be produced by the prosecution as a highlight of the trial. It would be offered as irrefutable proof.
British correspondents in Moscow would file the story. Alert news editors would send reporters to interview this man whose evidence was damning a fellow countryman. And then it would all happen.
Dingle’s smile widened at the thought, as the train rattled up to the platform and he climbed aboard.
The reporters would discover that there was no such person as James Hardbottom, schoolmaster; the place of learning at which he was supposed to teach would never have heard of him. The people who lived in the house at which the mysterious Mr Hardbottom was supposed to lodge would ask newspaper editors to correct their earlier stories. They would point out that Mr Hardbottom did not, never had, and never would live at that address.
All of which would make the Russian’s case against Willey look pretty sick; for who, in the free world, would believe the rest of the evidence? The court would still convict, of course, but at least the sentence might be a comparatively light one; a palliative to public opinion.
Dingle hoped so. He didn’t like Willey, but he didn’t wish him any harm.
He glanced at his watch as he left the underground train at Kievskaya Station. Five-twenty. He would be more than half an hour early. He came out on to Dorogmilovskaya Street, walked past the Kiev Hotel, turned left into Mozhaisky Val and quickly found the beer hall Jones had mentioned.
He pushed open the door, looked in, and backed out again hurriedly. He was not early after all. Jones was already there — deep in conversation with another man. Neither had noticed Dingle.
Heavy drops of rain began to fall as Dingle ran across the road, sheltered in a doorway and watched the entrance to the beer hall.
Five minutes later, the man who had been speaking to Jones came out. He stood in the light briefly, looked up at the sky, turned up his collar and made a dash for Dorogmilovskaya Street. Dingle kept the man in view until he crossed over and disappeared into Kutozovsky Prospekt.
Dingle was quite sure now.
The man was Yellow Hair.
*
Jones looked up, surprised.
‘You’re early.’
‘I could say the same for you.’
‘Yes. Well, since you are here, you can get that drink I said I’d let you buy me.’
‘What’ll it be?’ asked Dingle.
‘A double whisky, boyo.’
‘What? At four bob a tot?’
He signalled a waitress.
‘Two beers please.’
Jones sighed: ‘It must have been an expensive car ride.’
‘Not bad, really. It worked out at just under three pounds. I had to pay forty-five roubles deposit though.’
‘You’ve got that back, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’ve got more than enough to buy me a whisky. Still, it’s too late now, here comes the beer.’ He paused while the waitress set the drinks down and Dingle paid her. Then he continued. ‘Well, is it on?’
‘Is what on?’
‘The job, of course.’
‘Yes. It’s on.’
‘Good. Tomorrow night?’
Dingle nodded, then said quickly:
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Friend?’
‘The chap you were talking to.’
‘What chap?’ Jones was studying his beer, avoiding Dingle’s eyes.
‘When I first came in here, you were deep in conversation with him. I dodged out again and waited until he had gone.’
‘Oh that chap! Why did you dodge out?’
Jones’s tone rang false to Dingle. He was playing it too dumb. But surely Jones wouldn’t …
‘Because he’s the man I told you about; the man I call Yellow Hair, for want of a better name; the man who followed me from London.’
The Welshman looked up, startled.
‘What! Are you sure?’
Was that surprise genuine, Dingle wondered, or was Jones putting on an act? ‘Christ! I must be getting jumpy,’ he thought to himself. ‘I’ll be suspecting my own grandmother next.’ But subconsciously he could hear the Director’s voice warning him: ‘I think Jones is ready to crack.’
Aloud he said: ‘Quite sure. What did he want?’
‘He was just a foreign exchange tout,’ replied Jones. ‘He was trying to buy pounds for roubles — at rates very favourable to me. I guessed he was trying to get English money so that he could buy goods in the foreign currency shops. Naturally, I refused to have anything to do with him.’
He frowned, thoughtfully.
‘Do you think the KGB are on to me, too? Perhaps Yellow Hair, as you call him, was trying to trap me into breaking the currency regulations. It would make a nice holding charge.’
It was a plausible explanation.
‘Did he follow you here?’ asked Dingle.
‘No. He was here when I arrived.’
‘Then how would he know you were coming here?’
Jones shrugged. ‘Unless it was just co-incidence that he picked on me. Perhaps he really was trying to get some English money for himself.’
Dingle was not convinced.
‘I don’t trust co-incidences,’ he said. ‘And other things have been happening today, too. I had to call at The Central Police Station to sign a statement.’
The Welshman’s jaw sagged.
‘A statement? What about?’
Dingle told him the story of Wily Willie. When he had finished, Jones said:
Traitor's Gait Page 5
