Shard Calls the Tune

by Philip McCutchan

  They ran for the car, half fearing to find it immobilised; but evidently the police hadn’t bothered with that and all was well. Shard drove out from the farm and onto the main road for Chop via Uzghorod. They had been late to bed, and now it was dawn. In the back of the Lada, concealed beneath a rug, were two of the automatic rifles from the Russian dead. That was a risk, but one Shard was prepared to take; Kolotechin’s clearance, if it still held good, should be enough to preclude a search. If it didn’t hold good any more, then they might have to shoot their way through and then rely on their speed to get themselves lost in the Hungarian wilds. Kolotechin was the unknown factor now: that visit by the Russian security police could well mean that Kolotechin’s defection was already known in Moscow. And if that was the case, then they were heading into a trap. It might be unwise now to stick to Kolotechin’s route; although, Shard reminded himself, this was unlikely to be known to anyone but themselves and Kolotechin, he had to base his calculations on the fact of the night’s shooting. Something had gone very wrong, so much was obvious.

  “I’m going to avoid Chop,” he said. “Get the map and find me another route into Hungary.”

  Hughes-Jones fumbled for the map. Perusing it, he said, “There’s a minor road leading off to the left … about five miles ahead.”

  “Where to?”

  “It seems to stop some way short of the frontier. But we can turn off again and make for Tyachev, on the Romanian frontier.”

  “Romania … how far?”

  “A hundred miles, perhaps. About that.”

  “And only around twenty to Chop, right?”

  “Yes,” Hughes-Jones said.

  Shard sweated: the decision must be made soon. More time on the road meant more time for traps to be laid in the official crossing points and one would be much like another so far as the check-out procedures were concerned. Kolotechin was still the unknown quantity; but in fact he represented even now the only straw available for clutching. Maybe his route should be kept to, with fingers crossed. Kolotechin’s safe-conduct out may not have been notified elsewhere; but even without him, their passports were in order. That was a point to bear in mind. He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel. Chop was the three-way frontier town between the Soviet Union, Hungary and Czechoslovakia, a busy place no doubt. The smaller ones would have more time for scrutiny — and search. Shard’s cerebrations were interrupted by Hughes-Jones drawing his attention to something he had just seen for himself: a big car coming down fast from ahead, probably from Uzghorod or Chop. And a moment later that car flashed its headlights, on and off, three times.

  “Signal to stop,” Shard said.

  “You will do so?” There was tension in the Welsh voice.

  “Yes. But stand by for a fast grab into the back.”

  “The rifle?”

  “Yes.” Shard was slowing now. As the big car came up, he was waved down. He stopped. With some ten yards between the vehicles, two men, uniformed and armed, got out of the Russian car and walked across, one to each window. Shard was questioned in Russian; Hughes-Jones did the answering for him, giving the cover story.

  “Idris Calland and John Rowlands, British, returning from holiday.”

  “So. The passports?”

  They were handed through. The security policeman examined them, poked his head through the driving window past Shard and stared around. His breath smelled of garlic. He said, “So. The two British who were expected to pass into Hungary on the authority of Comrade Kolotechin. Yes?”

  Shard, catching the drift, said “Yes.” This looked like the crunch. He glanced sideways at Hughes-Jones: the Welshman’s face was working and his fingers shook, and he was making no move to reach for the automatic rifle. Probably there wouldn’t be time to use it in any case, but Shard was starting to reach behind himself and hoping that some element of surprise or magic might enable him to get away with a swinging burst when, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, the policeman smiled.

  “Comrade Kolotechin,” he said, “has asked for every courtesy. We will return with you to Chop, as escort.”

  “Thank you,” Shard said, feeling drained and emotionless. The reaction made him feel almost physically sick, and Hughes-Jones was mopping sweat from his long face. It looked as though the policemen back in the farm had died before they could transmit, and so far the authorities had not become anxious. It also seemed as though the nocturnal visit had not been connected with the Lada’s passengers. But time was still a nasty factor that could turn savage. “We’ll be on our way, then.”

  “Yes, please.” The policeman paused. “Comrade Kolotechin, you are good friends of his?”

  Hughes-Jones said, “Yes, yes, we are.”

  “Then you will be sorry.”

  More danger? Hughes-Jones asked, “Why sorry?”

  “Comrade Kolotechin is ill. He was flying on an important conference, as perhaps you know. He was taken suddenly ill after take-off, and the aircraft had to return.”

  Hughes-Jones expressed sorrow, and translated for Shard’s benefit. Shard also said how sorry he was and hoped the illness would be only temporary. It would, the policeman said. An upset in the stomach, which would not take long to mend. As the Russians walked back to their car and turned it towards Chop, relief and gladness flooded the Lada. Hughes-Jones said, “Kolotechin is a good man, you see. He has given us more time now.”

  “God bless Kolotechin,” Shard said, and followed on behind the escort.

  *

  Word of Kolotechin’s stomach upset duly reached Malta via the Foreign Office and was made known to Hedge, who reacted badly at first. “You wouldn’t think diarrhoea would stop a man defecting, would you? I call it inconsiderate, really. All the arrangements made and then he backs out.” He blew out his cheeks. “Do you suppose he’s changed his mind, Sir Humphrey?”

  “There’s no indication one way or the other.”

  Hedge clicked his tongue, then had a sudden thought when he remembered Shard and Hughes-Jones. He said, “I suppose it’s just possible …” His voice tailed off. Although Hedge had put him to some extent in the picture about Hughes-Jones, Sir Humphrey was not strictly concerned with events outside Malta.

  “What is just possible?” Sir Humphrey asked.

  “Oh, never mind, it’s not important. Are there any orders for me?”

  “None at all.”

  “None?” Hedge’s eyebrows went up.

  “No.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do, then?”

  Sir Humphrey said reluctantly, “Stay put, I assume. If there’s nothing to the contrary, one obeys the last order, doesn’t one?”

  “It’s a confounded nuisance,” Hedge moaned. “This could go on for weeks. The delay’s going to play right into the hands of that American, Hockaway.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “It’ll give him more scope, won’t it? More time to set up his damned nefarious plans.”

  “Again, I don’t see why. If Kolotechin had come in on schedule, one assumes Hockaway would have been ready. One can’t be readier than ready, after all. Can one?”

  The High Commissioner’s tone was teasing; Hedge didn’t like it. He got to his feet, terminating the interview; he was fed up. Stiffly he said, “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. I shall be in the Phoenicia if and when anything further comes through.”

  As Hedge turned away, Sir Humphrey said mischievously, “I’d pump Hockaway if I were you, old chap. He may have better sources.”

  Hedge slammed the door behind him.

  *

  The check through into Hungary was a formality; the security police and frontier guards waved them through with salutes as though they were the Kremlin personified. Kolotechin was a big, big man in the Soviet Union, the very fount of security, boss of everybody with a gun and a power to arrest. Shard drove through slowly and politely, not wishing to seem too joyful at leaving Communism, or anyway one brand of it, behind.

  Hughes
-Jones put his head through the passenger window and spoke to a skeletonic man in KGB uniform. “Please give our sympathy to Comrade Kolotechin. We both hope his stomach condition improves soon.”

  “Not too soon,” Shard murmured and then they were off and away into Hungary, automatic rifles and all.

  Hughes-Jones said, “He will see to that, you may be sure.”

  “What?”

  “It will not be too soon — the stomach. It will last until we are safe.”

  Shard nodded. “I’ve worked that out for myself, actually.” Once across the border, he drove fast again; they were soon into Tokai on the Tisza river; here they bought petrol and stopped for a meal in a pavement café. Communism was still all around them, but the Russian weight had gone out of it somehow. It was probably wholly psychological — yet not quite wholly. Here in Hungary in 1956 had come the revolt against Stalinism, and the terrible shadow of the rolling Russian tanks had not yet been exorcised or forgiven. In Hungary, Russia had many enemies. Likewise, Kolotechin the disillusioned Communist might well have friends, and the next ‘safe house’, where they would spend the next night — it was not far from the Austrian border, at Kormend — would belong to one of them.

  After the meal and a glass of Hungarian wine they drove on, feeling relaxed. Hughes-Jones was back at the wheel now; he was pleased to be driving again, after his three years of captivity. His lay preaching had meant a good deal of driving, he said, and it was one of his delights to be on the Welsh roads, seeing the remoter parts, the wild and lovely parts where God was held in higher esteem than in the cities. Cardiff, he said, was a wicked place where life and morality was no longer founded upon the chapel.

  *

  In Moscow Mortimer Moriarty, after the departure back to London of the Foreign Secretary and his party, sought an interview with one of the Counsellors of Embassy. The matter was urgent, he said; and he was bidden to the presence.

  “Well?”

  “The matter of Kolotechin, Counsellor.”

  “Yes?”

  Moriarty coughed. “His stomach. A phoney illness, clearly. We’ll have to know when he’s fit to travel and when the Malta conference is now to be arranged for.”

  “You’re not asking me to spy, are you, Moriarty?”

  Moriarty reassured the Counsellor speedily. “By no means. Most certainly not. Not you. I’ll … er … put wheels in motion if nothing comes through shortly. We have to consider the other end: Malta, and Kolotechin’s contact man Hedge.”

  “Yes, yes. Can’t Hedge wait? What’s the actual urgency about all this? I thought you said the matter was urgent?”

  “Yes, I did. Something else has come up, and it’s to do with Hughes-Jones. As you know, he’s on his way back to Britain with Detective Chief Superintendent Shard, and with Kolotechin’s connivance. Now questions are being asked about him here in Moscow.”

  “By whom?”

  “The Procurator-General’s office. You’ll remember Hughes-Jones was considered likely to be re-arrested and executed at some stage — probably after the Foreign Secretary had left Moscow —”

  “Yes. He was being watched. Yet Kolotechin got him away as I understand. What about the KGB men detailed for surveillance? What have they had to say, d’you know? I suppose we can take it they haven’t shopped Kolotechin?”

  “Yes, indeed. My assessment would be that Kolotechin’s squared that … probably by saying he had plans for Hughes-Jones and wanted him at large. That could fit with our own hypothesis that Hughes-Jones might have been killed during the Foreign Secretary’s visit and the responsibility laid upon us. Our wish not to allow him to defect finally, if you follow, to stay in Russia. Well, now the Foreign Secretary has gone back to London — and we’ve been asked to state what’s happened to Hughes-Jones.” Moriarty frowned. “It’s all rather difficult. I’d appreciate some guidance. I suppose we could say — infer, rather — that he’s being held in the Embassy. They’d be unable to insist we handed him over, but then when he turns up in the UK, well, we’re going to look like liars, don’t you know —”

  “Look like, Moriarty?”

  “Well, you know what I mean. Yes, we would be, of course. On the other hand, I suppose we could be assumed to have despatched him somehow or other after we said he was here. Or inferred it, that is. But then there’s the time element, isn’t there? I mean, he’d have had to leave before now, as in fact he did. Once he reaches UK, Whitehall will never keep the Press off it. I really don’t know what to do for the best. We must consider Kolotechin, too. He’s behaved extremely well and we can’t let him down. Besides, we want him to defect. You do see what I mean?”

  The Counsellor sat back in his chair, legs outstretched, elbows on the chair’s arms, fingertips tapping together before a longish nose. He made humming and ha’ing sounds, diplomatic noises. Then he delivered his counsel. “Go away and have a large vodka, Moriarty. Inspiration will come.”

  “Oh.”

  “But remember this.” The Counsellor’s body moved suddenly as he resumed the upright and thrust a finger towards Moriarty. “On no account are you to involve the Embassy in anything, I say again anything, that might in the future be used as a handle by the Russians. The Ambassador would never stand for that, never.”

  “Thank you for your advice,” Moriarty said, and left the room. He left mutinously; the Diplomatic Service was a bloody sham. No one ever wanted to take a decision. The higher up they were, the less they took. Now it was back to himself; and himself was precisely where the blame would land with a bloody great thud when things went wrong. In the meantime, his job appeared to be to steer a devious and narrow course between Kolotechin’s safety vis-à-vis the Procurator-General (who would shop the KGB boss the moment he got the least suspicious) and the honour and integrity of the Embassy, which meant the British Government and even the Crown. And of course there were still Hughes-Jones and Shard themselves to be considered: they were not likely to be in the clear yet. Hughes-Jones could still be brought back to face execution. Shard would go back into the Lubyanka too. Moriarty’s head whirled. Really, Kolotechin had complicated the issue beyond measure by complaining of stomach pains …

  Moriarty had no idea in the world of what he should do. Other than stall the Russians in their enquiries, which he proceeded to do, knowing that he couldn’t hope to keep it up for long. And knowing that he must never let a word drop about Kolotechin.

  *

  “Well met,” Hockaway said heartily but with narrowed eyes and a bulge still noticeable beneath the left shoulder.

  “Yes, indeed. Er …”

  “Wouldn’t mind a rye — thanks.” Hockaway snapped his fingers at the Phoenicia’s barman and gave the order himself, just to make sure. Hedge looked, and was, a mean and devious bastard who might dream up an excuse and fade. The drinks came; Hedge had put in a word for a Scotch. Hockaway downed his rye fast but said nothing about it being his round next. Hedge’s thoughts about Hockaway were similar to the American’s about him, but he had a purpose and intended to be dogged about it. The High Commissioner had suggested pumping Hockaway; that, on reflection, though it had been intended sardonically, was not as silly as it had sounded at first. Americans often had good sources, it was true. Of course, it could be taken for granted that Hockaway wouldn’t willingly part with any hard information, but there were ways of gleaning what one wanted to glean and it was worth the attempt. Reluctantly, Hedge bought another round of whisky and suggested they might sit out on the terrace.

  “Too hot,” Hockaway said.

  “Yes. No doubt that’s why it’s empty. Almost.” Hedge gave a discreet cough. “No eavesdroppers.”

  The American looked at him sharply. “So what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular,” Hedge answered, sounding casual. “I just thought an exchange of views might be helpful.”

  “Why?”

  Hedge shrugged. “We’re allies, after all. The Special Relationship and all that, you kno
w.”

  “That was years and years ago,” Hockaway said jeeringly.

  “True. But it’s still there. I feel it quite strongly, as a matter of fact. I’ve no objection to being helpful where possible.”

  Hockaway nodded and wiped the back of a hand across his lips: fragments of the Phoenicia’s peanuts had stuck. “Okay, the terrace,” he said. They carried their drinks out into the hot sun, which was diabolical, but they managed to find a more or less shady spot by a dilapidated tree. “Right,” Hockaway said as they sat down. “Give.”

  “Give? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes.” Hedge coughed and then started the ball rolling. “Our friend.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “He hasn’t come in.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “As a matter of fact,” Hedge retorted, not liking the sarcasm, “I do say. One has to start somewhere, it’s only civilised.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. Well, now. I wonder what we’re supposed to read into it.”

  “The guy had a gut-ache. That’s not classified info. Maybe you know it.”

  “Yes, I did. It seems funny to me.” Hedge had no intention of going too far — so far, in particular, as to release any information about Shard and Hughes-Jones, who could indirectly have been responsible for Kolotechin’s stomach upset. “Not very serious, one would have thought?”

  “Depends,” the American said. “How about an appendix blowing up?”

  Hedge nodded. “Yes, that’s always possible, of course.”

  “Sure is. Short of that, I would say it’s not serious. If it’s an appendix, he won’t be coming through for a long while yet. But maybe it’s not an appendix.”

  “Then why —”

  “Maybe he’s changed his mind. What’s the point of guessing? Some day, someone back home’ll get around to giving us orders. Then we’ll know, won’t we?” Hockaway got to his feet, his second rye now finished. “Thanks for the drink. Do the same for you sometime. You know something?”

  Hedge blinked in the strong sunlight. “What?”