‘And the other items?’
‘Should arrive within a few weeks.’
‘So when do I get away from here?’
Juin looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve gone through a lot and used up too much nervous energy, though you probably won’t admit that. Your weight has also shaded down. Lost almost four kilos. I want you to have a full month of convalescence with lots of sleep, plenty of good food and as much exercise as you can get.’
Later that evening he delivered the one remaining message which mattered. ‘I’m off tomorrow and someone will be up to give you a final briefing in four weeks’ time. Until then enjoy yourself.’
Next morning Grant watched a car disappear down the snow-dusted drive. He felt lonely. They had worked and risked together for ten weeks and that without a single minute of friction. An acid test for any two men.
His campaign now partly depended on timing his return to Moscow to coincide with Maya’s first reappearance at Bolshoi, and Juin’s driver had delivered a code message from Miss Sidders stating that she had been advertised to dance again on April 1st. Six weeks left, he mused. Six weeks in which to learn about this new micro-rocket thing which the ballistics people were raving about. Six weeks left to build himself into perfect condition.
He returned to the parlour and drew up a tentative plan of operation, calculating moves to the last minute. It was as good a way as any of passing the hours and by worrying at it daily the thing should be foolproof when the time came.
His next visitor arrived ten days later, a baby-faced Texan with an engaging twang and a selection of guns upon whose action he was a walking encyclopaedia. He treated them almost like living creatures and had a strong preference for revolvers against automatic pistols. ‘Although, sir,’ he grinned, ‘I’ll be bound to agree that there can be a place for a small automatic at close quarters. Take the German Lilliput .425 for example. A real dinkum job for tight work. But no stopping gun. All these automatic jobs gimme a pain. Metal-cased bullets too often go clean through a guy an’ do more harm to the scenic interest of the background. Even Mausers or Lugers. An’ my orders are to get you goin’ good with a stoppin’ gun. A real stoppin’ job that can rock an ox at thirty feet. So, sir, if you’ll beg my pardon I’d jes’ get workin’ on this. Smith and Wesson’s Magnum type .357. Muzzle velocity 1,500 foot seconds and muzzle energy 800 foot pounds. There ain’t nothin’ t’ beat it. Not even the old Winchester .44 rifle. An’ that sure must have slaughtered more medium and heavy game than any other fire-arm on the rack.’
Grant refused to be impressed. ‘What’s wrong with a .32?’
Sanders wrinkled his nose with disgust. ‘None of them are REAL stoppin’ guns. The Magnum for you, sir.’
Grant hated fire-arms almost as much as he hated people telling him what to do and he had an inbred suspicion of experts. ‘After all, Captain,’ he said acidly, ‘I’ve to use the thing. Let me make my own choice.’
Sanders grinned amiably. ‘Sure, sir. You do that and you’ll find it’ll be the Magnum.’ For a week they worked on the smaller automatics before making a final choice, firing hundreds of rounds at target practice on the estate, with Captain Tyler Sanders using every trick of winter light and snow-dressed background to confuse his victim until he was certain that the final extra ten per cent had been screwed out of him and that he would remain ‘on top’ for at least the next few weeks . . . using the Magnum.
When he was satisfied with Grant’s shooting Sanders produced his last and most important weapon. ‘This is your micro-rocket. Most important thing since the war. Greater destructive and penetrating power than any bullet of comparable calibre. We reckon it can even be fired through a straw but we’ve rigged something really snazzy. Fountain-pen. The rocket lies inside and is motivated by simple pressure on the pocket-clip. Effect is to lift off the end of the barrel. The same motion then triggers off propulsion. Target should be immobilised and dying within two-fifths of a second at thirty feet. Almost silent.’
Grant knew the micro-rocket only by repute and handled it gingerly until the Captain had described the mechanism in detail. And then he smiled broadly. For close work it might be unbeatable. Thoughtfully he clipped it on to a pocket, pulled it out with his normal natural movement and then pressed the spring inwards with the end of the barrel pointing towards a low hill fifty yards away. There was a brisk recoil and a hissing belch as the end of the pen leapt outwards and in the same second a flurry of snow showed where the rocket struck rock.
‘How about safety catch?’ he asked.
‘Works automatically when the thing is in your pocket, sir,’ laughed the Captain. ‘Switch turns off when the pen is withdrawn. Real cute.’ He handed over a small packet of miniature cigars. ‘There’s a refill inside each of these. Look after them.’
When Captain Sanders returned south he took with him Grant’s final appreciation of the Moscow mission. Code word SNAPPY. Success might depend on dead accurate timing and he relied on ADSAD for last information. The key to everything now depended on confirmation that Maya was still due to dance as advertised on April 1st and final reservation on a flight which would drop him in Moscow on the same evening. Visa had also to be arranged and he had already applied for a three weeks stay arriving on the same day.
He had begun to find time hanging on his hands. But in the end another messenger arrived from Paris with a signal. He decoded it in his bedroom and then sighed with quiet satisfaction. The old boy was leaving everything to him. Timing. The lot. There was no further news from Lyveden about the object of the exercise, but Chang was said to be still in London. Tickets, passport and visa were enclosed, together with the usual pile of brochures from Intourist. A room had been booked in the Leningradskaya Hotel and he would fly from Edinburgh via London. Most important of all was a sketch of the Kremlin grounds showing the door of Gusev’s flat and some of the surrounding buildings. Finally there was a small hand-case with overnight things which had been delivered by the messenger together with instructions for use.
He looked at it lovingly. Fibre glass. Nicely worn. Well daubed with colourful stick-ons from a score of European hotels. Defaced with customs’ chalk and shipping labels. Completely authentic. But the most cunningly made thing of its kind he had ever seen. Apart from other mysteries enough explosive had been worked into the cavities between its sides to destroy a normal villa, and the time fuses incorporated into snecks and handle would be accurate to a second.
Before he switched off the light he opened the window and lit a last pipe with one of his ‘special’ matches. Breathing deeply over the flame he felt nothing. His tolerance towards the gas seemed to be lasting out.
And then he tore off one more leaf from his calendar. March 26th. Six nights later and he would watch Maya dance the White Swan Princess at Bolshoi.
Chapter Eleven – ‘Space-sickness’ is a good name
Grant detested air-travel. The monotony of endless cloudscapes depressed him and he loathed the impersonal world which unfolded below, a blur of dull greens or drab greys broken only by the smoke of cities and the mistiness of sea. He fastened his safety belt with relief as the jet altered speed and began to nose downwards towards the hazy expanse of snow which surrounded Moscow. Lights were twinkling in the darkness and he could see the sprawling shape of University buildings on Lenin Hills, the probing beams of traffic and a red glow from stars on the Kremlin towers.
There was a slight sensation, almost a thump, as the landing-gear pointed groundwards and locked into position, and then the plaintive wail of brake-flaps catching the chill evening air as the aircraft slowly poised for its last landfall of the day. Gently the earth tilted upwards and seemed to hover above his head as Grant watched the throbbing machine position itself for the run in. Snow, lightening the darkness, rushed towards him as the plane swept towards the runway, there was a glimpse of houses, a black ribbon of road and then the pulpy thud of contact between wheels and slushy tarmac. He watched the airport terminal swing
into view and glanced upwards at the luggage rack. ADSAD’s ‘special’ case was small enough to pass as hand-baggage, a point which had been taken into consideration by the makers. It was too delicate and dangerous ever to be long out of his possession.
The crisp caress of Moscow’s evening cold almost froze his face as he walked over to the administrative offices behind a professionally correct stewardess. ‘I hope you enjoyed your trip, sir,’ she smiled, as Grant passed into the stuffiness of a waiting room, oppressive with central heating.
He filled in the usual forms without hesitation.
Purpose of your visit? Tourism.
Fire-arms in your possession? None.
List of dangerous drugs, morphine or opium? None.
Occupation? Doctor of Medicine.
Address in Russia? Leningradskaya Hotel, Moscow.
Name of all those friends or relatives who live in the Soviet Union? As friends, he listed Lieutenant-General Sokolnikov, Lubianka Prison, and People’s Artiste, Maya Koren, Bolshoi Theatre. If things went smoothly his mission would be completed before Sokolnikov was able to move and his open use of Sokolnikov’s name might also delay reportage or cause his arrival to be handled through routine channels.
The police officer in charge read the paper without comment. ‘Your first visit?’
‘No.’
‘What brings you back?’
Grant used his parade ground voice. ‘My friend General Sokolnikov had been expecting me for some weeks. We have an appointment for tomorrow. Luncheon at the Prague.’
The officer listened deadpan but stamped the passport and pointed to a girl sitting in the background. ‘Your Intourist guide-interpreter who will escort you to the hotel, but first, money declaration.’
The girl introduced herself when he had completed the form. ‘Your car is waiting, sir. My name is Alexina and it will be my pleasure to do whatever you wish. In reason, that is,’ she added hastily, as she noted the glint in Grant’s eye.
They walked together into the customs hall. He had only one small suitcase to collect, and, as he had anticipated, the customs officer ignored it, Russia was still the easiest country to enter, so long as your visa was in order and your papers checked.
He sat in the back of the car, with Alexina in front, and they drove silently into the city. There was more snow than he had expected and normally he would have enjoyed the muffled sounds of traffic, the glimmer of ice on sidewalks or the occasional glimpse of Moscow’s skyline, its seven lofty multi-storey buildings and the fleeting silhouette of an old church gleaming in the moonlight, but now he was assessing minutes, wondering how many of his guesses and calculated risks would be justified, and how quickly he could arrange dinner.
The Leningradskaya was Moscow’s latest show-piece for tourists. He checked in at the desk, handed over his passport and then visited its Intourist office with Alexina. ‘Get me a ticket for the Puppet Theatre. Tonight if possible.’ The bluff was worth while, anything was worth while which diverted attention from the main purpose of his mission.
‘Okay.’ Sergei Obraztsov’s puppets were the finest things in Moscow and Grant saw that he had risen in her estimation. He left her arguing with the girl in charge of theatre bookings and went up to his room, an opulent affair designed to show visitors that expense was no object to the Soviet Union.
Moving with studied leisure he unpacked his suitcase, hung up his only spare suit in the built-in wardrobe and then took off his clothes, the oldest outfit he possessed. This bathroom was almost up to American standards and he opted for a shower, standing under it long enough to wash off the grime of travel and the last traces of fatigue. Then he dressed carefully for the late Russian winter, two pairs of string vest underpants and two vests, a snug Kashmir shirt, his Saxony Minmore check suit and a Braemar Everest sweater. He had brought a special pair of thickly-soled seal-skin boots for wear outside. They also justified use of his ‘special’ case, fitted with room for spare socks and a pair of Garnet gloves. He made certain that the safety catches were ‘on’ and then slipped into his favourite lightweight suède shoes for dinner.
Maya’s ear-ring was in his hip pocket. He despised mascots, but wanted to please her before morning.
Alexina was waiting for him in the dining-room. ‘Your ticket for the Puppet Theatre, sir. Will you want a taxi?’
He knew that everyone concerned would be happier if he was behaving very normally. ‘Sure. Half an hour before the show starts.’ And then he remembered the usual drill. ‘Tomorrow I want to see one of the top men in Intourist to arrange my programme. See you in the office at nine sharp.’
She beamed with pleasure. Intourist guides detest visitors who don’t know their own minds and she liked self-confident men. ‘You won’t need me tonight?’
‘Just fix my meal vouchers and that will be all.’
‘How about a taxi back to the hotel?’
‘No. After you’ve been travelling all day you need some exercise. I’ll walk.’
‘You won’t get lost?’
‘No.’
‘Because if you do,’ she said seriously. ‘I can get into trouble. It is my duty to protect you.’
He looked at her wickedly. ‘Then if you don’t want to get into trouble mind your step. It’s cold sleeping alone in this climate.’
It was the only way he knew of getting rid of a female Intourist guide who was determined to do her duty. She scowled with annoyance, as he knew she would, and then stormed out of the room. He was working his way through a half bottle of Caucasian champagne and a boiled chicken when she returned with his meal vouchers. ‘If you speak to me like that again I shall complain and you will be given a male guide.’
‘Do that.’ He said with deliberate provocation. ‘I like women who know what they were made for. So off you go. I want to eat.’
He smiled as he watched her march away in anger, a flush suffusing each cheek. If he had appraised the Intourist set-up correctly she would be scared to ask for a transfer in case they accused her of having failed on the job, but she would also be so angry that she would leave him alone for the rest of the day.
He was finishing his second cup of coffee when a bell-boy reported that the taxi was waiting. Moving with his usual deceptive stride he returned to his room, brushed his teeth and lifted his reversible overcoat lined with flank musquash. He had packed an old-fashioned camel-wool balaclava helmet and as he left the room he casually lifted his case. The bell-boy carried it down to the car and as they passed the reception desk a swarthy-faced clerk looked at him enigmatically. ‘Enjoy the theatre, Doctor. Will you order breakfast now or on your return? I understand that you prefer it in your bedroom.’
Grant hesitated only for a second. ‘Bedroom. 8.30,’ he said curtly. It was the first sign that they had spotted him. He had hoped for a few hours longer but gritting his teeth he sauntered through the hall. A Pobeda was waiting, gleaming black and highly polished, even in the dirty weather. The driver dropped him at the Puppet Theatre and watched as he passed through the foyer. Grant only waited long enough to see him glide off, and then turned into the lavatory. Swiftly he changed his shoes inside a cubicle, reversed his coat and pulled the balaclava down over his ears. It was at least a slight disguise when he returned to the publicity of the foyer and walked back into Gorky Street, stopping impulsively at a phone box to ring one of Chang’s men and leave a guarded instruction to stand by for action on the next night.
ADSAD had also wangled the most difficult thing of all, a seat for Bolshoi. The key to the beginning, he thought as he fingered it lightly and strode across Mayakovsky Square towards the theatre, a good ten minutes’ walk away.
He was relying on his estimate of Sokolnikov’s character to see him through. They would never expect him to move so quickly. He lingered only for a moment in the Bolshoi cloakroom as he handed over his suitcase, took off his outer boots and changed again into shoes. But the woman in charge was interested in the labels of his case and he gave her every cha
nce to see it both inside and out as he stuffed his boots and gloves in and then watched her place it on the shelf. ‘American?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘British.’
She seemed disappointed but handed him a ticket and hung his coat on a peg. A programme seller then took him to his seat and he checked again on the only things which mattered. Maya was dancing and the former Royal Box was empty, which meant that some top people would arrive just before the lights went out.
He glanced at his watch. Three minutes. The orchestra was tuning up. The place was packed to capacity, every one of its 2,000 seats occupied. A huge delegation of East Germans occupied a block of seats in the area and there was a spattering of turbans, saris, dinner jackets and even an occasional kimona amongst the crowd. And then it happened, Sokolnikov and three other men taking their seats in the place of honour.
It had been a guess, but a shrewd guess, that Sokolnikov would attend Maya’s first performance, and satisfied, he forced himself to look away, sitting head down and hunched in his seat, studying the programme.
Swan Lake was his favourite ballet. He knew every note of the score. As a balletomane he could appreciate every nuance of the dance and he knew that no company in the world could ever equal the delicacy and perception of a Bolshoi production. But at last it was over. Maya was given a personal ovation from an audience applauding on its feet for over five minutes and Sokolnikov was smiling broadly, though Grant remembered that Maya had never once looked in his direction. She seemed unusually fragile, a pale slip of a girl, almost ghost-like against the glare of a flood-lit stage, and as the curtain closed after a long, final bow, he merged with the crowd, pausing for more than a quarter of an hour in the foyer to drink tea and watch the bustle. When he had lingered for as long as he dared he returned to the cloakroom. The place was almost empty and once again he changed into the seal-skin boots with their thick specially reinforced soles. Again he wore his coat with the fur outside, drew the balaclava down over his face and sauntered into the night air to linger by the tiny garden near the columnated façade.
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