by Jeremy Duns
‘Are you sure about this?’ she said. ‘If you’re wrong—’
‘Of course I’m not sure. But I think it’s a better bet than approaching strangers.’
She breathed in. ‘What about Yuri?’ she said. ‘He might suspect us of doing just this – Brits sticking together.’
‘I’d be surprised. We only just came up with the idea ourselves, and it’s hardly the most obvious move. And we know something about Maclean he doesn’t.’
‘All right. We need to find the journal’s offices, I suppose?’
‘Yes. There should be a map in the glove compartment.’
I turned the key in the ignition and began reversing towards the main road.
IX
9.54 a.m., 27 October 1969, Gorokhovsky Pereulok, Moscow
An office block loomed in front of us, immense and grey, a couple of cars parked on the street directly in front. I couldn’t remember where Maclean lived, but I’d read the masthead of International Affairs a hundred times or more, and the address was always printed at the foot of the page: ‘14 Gorokhovsky Pereulok, Moscow’. Despite the anonymity of the building, this was a plush neighbourhood in one of the oldest parts of the city – we’d passed several eighteenth- and nineteenth-century palaces on the way.
We hadn’t passed any militsiya patrols or GAZ-23s, but Yuri and his colleagues would be searching hard for this car, so logic dictated we lose it as soon as possible. Sarah was too young to pass for a senior female official in the fiercely male Soviet military environment, and if we went together that might confuse matters, so after a brief discussion we decided it was probably safer that she stayed in the car than risked being stopped on the street. I parked a few streets away outside a block of flats, and left her huddled under the blankets in the back, clutching the attaché case. We agreed that if I hadn’t returned within twenty minutes she would try to make a break for the border alone.
There was a militsiya man on guard by the entrance: probably an undercover KGB officer assigned to the building in general, and Maclean in particular. I’d considered telephoning from a call-box, but had decided it was too risky. He might simply call his handler the moment he replaced the receiver, and I’d be picked up the moment I arrived at the arranged meeting point. No, if I wanted his cooperation, I would have to see him face to face. He might be under surveillance by the KGB, but after nearly two decades in the country I reckoned that the protection would be relatively light.
The militsiya man watched me as I approached, squinting, perhaps to see if I was someone he knew. He had a sergeant’s shoulder-boards.
‘Greetings, comrade!’ I said, raising my hand, and hoping blood wasn’t seeping through the glove.
‘Good morning, comrade. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here to see the Englishman, Frazer. Is he in his office?’
He frowned at the mention of the name, and my stomach tensed as I waited to see if the gamble would pay off. Maclean might no longer work here, or be on holiday, or be using another name, or be in Minsk…
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I just need to ask him some questions. One of the other Englishmen has gone missing, and head office thinks this fool might know about it. I doubt it, but I’ve been sent to ask just in case.’
He considered this for a moment. ‘That sounds like one of Vilshin’s ideas.’
I smiled. ‘No, this came directly from Andropov, would you believe?’
He whistled. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘It’s only just happened, and I was told to inform you about it. Everyone is in a panic, and it seems that when Andropov tells Vilshin to jump, he asks how high. Well, what would I know? It’s my first week in this job – just came down from Leningrad.’
‘Ah, I thought I didn’t recognize you. Who were you working for up there?’
‘Chap called Ledov. Even worse than Vilshin, I can tell you!’
‘That would take some doing. But it sounds like you catch on fast – it’s just as you say. Listen, can you wait here?’
‘Gladly. But don’t be too long, comrade – I don’t want to freeze my balls off out here! Nobody told me it would be so cold down here.’
He smiled. ‘Just wait until next week. I’ve heard it’s going to get a lot worse. Hang on, I’ll be back soon.’
He disappeared, and I wondered if he was going to make a quick telephone call to headquarters to check on my story. The uniform and a bit of blarney seemed to have done the trick, but the longer he took the worse it would be, because it might suddenly occur to him that he hadn’t even asked me for my name or my papers. If this went wrong, we’d reached the end of the road. The militsiya man appeared at the door again. And looming behind him, looking rather anxious, was a very tall man in a shabby suit and a spotted bow tie.
Maclean.
*
I told the KGB man I would take Maclean for a walk for about an hour. He nodded and wished me well, and I gestured to Maclean to lead the way. We walked off down the street together, me and this giant whom I had read so much about but never met.
‘What’s this about?’ he said suddenly, his voice surprisingly high-pitched. ‘I have some important work I need to do this afternoon.’
‘Paul Dark,’ I said, indicating that he take the side street on the right.
He looked up at me, confused. ‘Dark? But I never had anything to do with—’
He staggered back on his heels.
‘I thought you were in custody.’
‘I was.’
He reeled away from me, his hands outstretched.
‘Get away!’ he spat out in English. ‘I don’t want to get involved—’
I leaned over and grabbed at his bow tie, pulling him towards me and then turning him round and shoving him in the direction of the car. ‘Get in,’ I said quietly, showing him the Makarov.
*
They were both watching me: Sarah sitting upright in the back, and Maclean folded into the passenger seat as though he were an elaborate penknife. Looking at him close up, he seemed unbelievably old – the rakish cad from the wanted posters sent out by the FBI in 1951 was long gone. What was left of his hair was swept back in an almost Edwardian style, and there were enormous circles under his eyes. The eyes themselves were clear, though, so he just might have stopped the drinking. But when he opened his mouth, I was shocked to see that he had several teeth missing. All that remained that was familiar from the pictures I’d seen of him was the aristocratic sneer. He reminded me of an ancient butler in a Bela Lugosi film, answering the door of the haunted house to the innocent enquirer.
Well, I was no more innocent than he.
‘I know we’ve never met,’ I said, ‘and you have no reason to trust me. But we do have something in common, I think. Please hear me out. Then, if you want to walk away, do.’
‘We don’t have anything in common,’ he spat out. ‘You were never one of us. You did it because you fell for a woman.’
I took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t about what we’ve done with our lives, or why. It’s about the here and now.’
‘I’m perfectly happy with what I’m doing here and now, thank you very much. I worked for the cause I believed in – you were too busy playing cloak-and-dagger games for kicks.’
‘I was Deputy Chief of the Service,’ I said, regretting it the moment the words came out of my mouth. Maclean turned his head away, no doubt delighted at having exposed my petty egoism. But I could have told him there were no kicks to be had in being tortured, imprisoned and shot at. I looked out of the window, and wondered how to explain the situation, and if I’d get any more of a hearing than I had done with Smale. I decided to dive in.
‘Listen. Early this morning, I was taken to a bunker somewhere beneath this city. Brezhnev, Suslov, Andropov, Ivashutin and the rest of the gang were all there, chewing their cuticles off.’ He was watching me now, silent, the hooded eyes very still. ‘The
lot of them are convinced the Americans are about to launch a nuclear strike from B-52s. As a result, Brezhnev is planning to launch a full-scale attack on the United States. Annihilation will ensue.’
Maclean shifted his bum and squinted at me to check I wasn’t having him on.
‘This isn’t a prank,’ I said. I turned to Sarah and she handed across the attaché case. I clicked it open and found the threat assessment, then held it out to Maclean. ‘Take a look yourself.’
He hesitated for a moment, then took the papers. He sat reading them in silence for a few minutes, then looked up at me, his forehead wrinkled with lines.
‘This isn’t real,’ he said, handing the papers back. ‘It can’t be.’
‘Do we look like we’ve been in prison manufacturing forgeries?’ said Sarah.
He went quiet. ‘But it’s just bluff, isn’t it? Surely they can’t seriously be contemplating a nuclear strike?’
I replaced the papers in the case, closed it, and placed it between my feet.
‘What would you do if you were in their shoes?’ I said. ‘You have hard electronic and human intelligence showing the Americans are flying nuclear-armed B-52s straight towards your border, and at the same time there has apparently been a chemical attack on two of your heavily guarded naval bases, one of which is where you keep your nuclear submarines. Would you just sit tight and wait, hoping that the West isn’t about to launch a surprise attack and wipe you out? Or would you get your retaliation in first?’
He thought about it for a few moments, then said: ‘I hope I’d wait a little while, just in case.’
I nodded. ‘And that’s precisely what they’re doing. But I’m afraid a little while is all we’ve got. Because if the planes continue their path towards the border, Brezhnev will decide an attack is imminent, and he’ll launch a strike.’
‘But why on earth would the Americans keep flying their planes towards the border?’
‘I’ve no idea why they started doing it in the first place. The worst-case scenario is that they are in fact planning to launch an attack. If so, there’s bugger all we can do and that’s the end of it. But everything I know about military strategy in the West tells me that a surprise nuclear attack is not something we’re interested in carrying out, for obvious reasons, and so it can’t be that. Unfortunately, the Soviets don’t believe me. I can’t go into details because we don’t have time, but the fact is that they’re wrong about the chemical attack. The Americans may be playing silly buggers of one sort or another, but part of the puzzle simply doesn’t fit and I’m damn sure they aren’t planning to launch a nuclear strike.
‘The Service’s representatives here have shunned us and we’re now being hunted by the KGB, GRU, militsiya and everyone else. If I’m wrong, and the Americans really are intending to attack, it doesn’t matter a damn to you or anyone else that we’ve escaped, because this country and several others will be reduced to dust in a few hours. If I’m right, though, we might just be able to stop it happening. But we need to get to Finland to do that, and there are roadblocks all over this city to stop us from getting out. So you have to make a choice very quickly, I’m afraid. Either realize I’m telling the truth and try to help us get out of Moscow any way you can think of, and fast. Or guess that I’m lying, and tell us to go hang. But if you do that, you’d best be bloody sure of it, because you’ll be risking nuclear Armageddon. You’re our last hope, Donald. Please don’t walk away.’
I stared at him. I hated begging, but now was no time for pride. We needed this man’s help, and it had to come willingly or we’d get nowhere.
He had looked away again, and was tapping one foot against the side of the door. He bit a nail, then perhaps remembered my crack about cuticles and broke off. Finally, he looked up at me.
‘Brezhnev was there, you say? Was he smoking?’
I nodded.
‘What colour was his cigarette holder?’
That was easy. ‘Amber.’
A look of awe came across his face. I thought it best not to mention that this fact was in all the Service’s files and had even been reported in the world’s press.
He stopped tapping his foot and looked back and forth between Sarah and me for a few moments, squinting. Then his mouth hardened.
‘All right,’ he said, finally. ‘You’re going to need papers, and I know the best forger in Moscow. But let’s get out of this car.’ He turned to me. ‘And take off the jacket and cap, for God’s sake – we’ll never persuade him to help if you’re in that get-up.’
X
We left the car where it was and walked. After about fifteen minutes we arrived at a block of flats, the concrete painted a pale green. It was lower than the one we’d been parked outside but in the same style, square and unadorned, with rows of tiny balconies jutting out onto the street. The front door had no one guarding it, and was unlocked. Maclean didn’t break his stride; he just opened the door and walked in.
The hallway and stairwell were a shambles, the paint peeling from the walls and broken bottles and rubbish scattered around. We climbed a narrow flight of stairs and Maclean knocked on the door three times with his fist, waited a few seconds, then rapped twice. There was a shuffling noise, followed by the sound of a latch dropping, and then the door finally swung open. A man with a beard and thick spectacles peered out sceptically.
‘Good morning, Anton,’ said Maclean. ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced like this, but we met a few months ago, at Zimshin’s party. Do you remember? I need your help. I wouldn’t usually think to impose on you, but it’s of the utmost urgency.’
Anton looked us up and down for a moment, then peered over our shoulders to see if there were any more of us. Finally, he opened the door all the way and gestured us in.
*
We followed him through a tiny hallway and into the living room, which was dark, tiny and smelled strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. It was also a tip: piles of books and papers took up most of the available space. A few stools were arranged around a table, along with a thin bed that had a blanket strewn across it: Anton had evidently been resting there when we rang the doorbell. Greying socks and underpants hung over a radiator, which had a saucepan tied to one of its corners with string – presumably to catch any drips – while a battered tape recorder emitted Bob Dylan at low volume from the top of a glass-fronted bookcase.
Anton gestured for us to sit in the stools while he propped himself on the edge of the bed. He was wearing a frayed shirt and baggy drawstring trousers held up with braces and his thick dark hair was swept back in majestic disarray. Judging by the titles of some of the books strewn about, he was a physicist of some sort. He was also clearly a dissident, because he was about my age and it was a Monday morning, so he should be in the same sort of office I’d just fished Maclean out of. Instead, he was at home, and for a scientist in this country that meant he must be in disgrace or at least under some form of suspicion. So my information about Maclean had been right: he did move in dissident circles. But would this one be willing to stick his neck out for a complete stranger? He was already rather angry, waving his arms accusingly at Maclean.
‘Please explain yourself,’ he said. ‘And it had better be good, because I have no idea what precautions you took coming here.’
‘We weren’t tailed,’ said Maclean. ‘But these people really do need your help. They’re British, and they need to get out of the country with some very important information that affects all of us.’
Anton looked at Maclean in astonishment, and then at me and Sarah.
‘More British spies? Are you a madman?’ He clenched his fists and stood up from the bed. ‘Sorry, I thought this was serious. Get out, all of you. Now.’
Sarah tugged at my sleeve. ‘Let’s go,’ she whispered. ‘There must be another way.’
I shook my head and walked over to a pair of glass doors that led to a small balcony. I pulled the curtains aside slowly, almost expecting to see a mushroom cloud on the skyline. Silly of me
. We wouldn’t see it – it would just come. There probably wouldn’t even be a Four-Minute Warning.
I glanced down at the street a few feet below. A handful of people were trudging by, coats wrapped tight against the chill, and I watched them for a few moments. But there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about them. I tugged the curtains back together and walked over to Anton, who looked like he was about to roll up his sleeves to fight me. I placed the attaché case on the table, opened it and took out Yuri’s threat assessment.
‘Is this a forgery?’ I said, handing it to him.
He took it reluctantly, peering at it through his spectacles.
‘No,’ he said, after he’d read a few lines of it. ‘This appears to be a genuine military intelligence document. How did you get hold of it?’
‘Never mind that. Read the last sentence, please.’
He turned the page and read it aloud. ‘“Our assessment at this time is that we must consider launching a nuclear strike, perhaps within the next twelve hours.”’ He looked up at me, then at Maclean and Sarah. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said. ‘This cannot be right.’
I took a breath. Stay calm. ‘If it weren’t, we wouldn’t be here. I listened to Brezhnev order ballistic missiles primed less than four hours ago. He and his generals are in a bunker as we speak, contemplating a full-scale nuclear attack on the West. If they do, the West will counter-attack. We, and millions of others, will die. We want to try to stop this happening, but we need your help.’
There was silence for a moment, except for Dylan, who was continuing his lament about the state of the world in the corner of the room. Then Anton started asking me a lot of questions, but I cut him off and explained that there wasn’t any time. Maclean’s colleagues might soon be wondering where he’d got to, and I couldn’t afford to spend the day going over the intricacies of the B-52 flights and the mustard gas accident.
