He brushed past her and made quickly for the top of the staircase. Copperfield shouted after him:
“Can I give you a lift? I heard you pranged your car in France.”
“No, thank you.”
And he was down the stairs, carefully, followed by a breathless Caroline, and picking up his coat from the chaise longue, and down the second flight toward the front door and into the street. He pulled the coat on, glancing around him. Caroline ran out after him in her bare feet.
“I’m sorry you have to go. You will come round again, won’t you?”
But he didn’t answer, leaving her gazing after him as he strolled cautiously down the road to the main junction. At one point he glanced back and caught signt of Copperfield quickly pulling away from the study window, and then a taxi lurched into range, and he was running toward it. It was nine fifty-five and he was late.
* * *
He sat in the taxi thinking about Copperfield. It was inconceivable that he was the reason that he was asked to attend the party. But who else? What else? Hardly jolly old Caroline and the ghosts of Mummy’s lovers. Copperfield then, with all his innuendos. It had to be him. Not a very subtle encounter whichever way you looked at it–but then these things rarely were. A cryptic message by a recognized route, with the words Amontillado Caroline on it, and one is supposed to play along with the whole infantile absurdity of the affair. Eberlin would gladly opt out of the whole business tomorrow but it wasn’t that easy. He leaned forward and told the driver to change direction and go to the rear of the New Victoria cinema, by way of Hyde Park Corner. The taxi demonstrated a smart right turn into Montpelier Street, and then eased into the Brompton Road. A street clock opposite Harrod’s said ten five but was probably fast.
It had all started when he arrived in Fngland for the first time to attend Oriel College, Oxford. His public life–though that was hardly the word; it was more private than his private –was predestined from then on. A first class Honors degree and a postgraduate course in Medieval Warfare, of all things, and then straight into the Ministry, after all the necessary pulls and pushes and committed dinners were finally over. He had spent four years in Africa, based in Entebbe, doing nothing. The British Government was admirably tolerant at his lack of duty there. To them, the very effort of surviving outside England for a length of time was an art in itself. Eberlin would send letters back reporting the state of the banana crop and the decline and fall of the okapi. Once, in a mood of utter depression, he had copied a whole letter, word for word, from one of Evelyn Waugh’s books, about that wretched fellow who was sent to Africa as a correspondent. Eberlin had picked it up in the nearby NAAFI and found cold comfort in the story. Two days after sending the copied letter, he received the reply: MESSAGE RECEIVED, GOOD WORK. B. Then followed six months in Berlin and four months alone, except for the wild horses that took him there, in Abadan. He was now back in London and destined to be lodged there permanently, it seemed. One year ago, he had written Ex Libris on the flyleaf of his passport, and burned his suitcase.
The taxi stopped outside the cinema, blocking the narrow road. Eberlin paid the driver, walked quickly through the narrow corridor into Victoria Station and across the cold expanse of platform and then out onto the front of the station, and climbed into a second taxi and headed south of the river.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting, hunched up against the night wind, on a bench on the South Bank, staring across the Thames at Charing Cross Embankment, a cigarette clenched in his teeth. It was ten thirty-five and he was five minutes over the time. He glanced around, but there was no one in sight on the tiled public terrace except two lovers on a neighboring bench, a lamp exhibiting them to the world. Eberlin stared without interest at the man’s face peering over the girl’s shoulder. The girl had her eyes closed, head back, legs angled, while the man, sitting next to her in a green duffel coat, seemed to be exploring the crotch of the girl with his left hand and, as Eberlin saw it, picking his ear with his right. Eberlin stared blandly at the common tastelessness of it all, ignoring the man’s furious glares, wondering if the people he had to meet had come and gone. He got up and walked to the edge of the embankment and stared into the river. Perhaps he should leave now. He turned away, throwing his cigarette into the Thames.
Ahead of him was Hungerford Bridge, and he peered into the dark shapes of concrete flower beds and dark recesses of buildings and trees as he approached it. He reached the bottom of the long flight of stone, steep steps leading up by the Festival Hall, and began to climb them, his footsteps resounding on the concrete, pulling himself up with the aid of the metal rail on the wall. It was quiet now and dark and his horizon had suddenly been reduced to a square block of starred sky at the top of the steps high above him. He reached the top of the first slab of stairs and then he saw them. They were standing in the darkness of a small alcove, halfway up the flight, and were staring down at him, white smudges of face in the gloom. Eberlin hesitated, then the two Russians began to descend the steps, and in thirteen seconds they had met. They stood leaning against the right, high wall, breathing heavily, and offered around cigarettes. One of them remarked that he had just been reading the placards outside the Hall and that Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G was to be played on Tuesday. His companion said that he liked that very much, especially the piano sequence in the second movement. It was agreed that that was indeed a fine piano sequence. Eberlin said nothing but stared, depressed, down the steep steps toward the concrete plateau of benches and flowerpots below. The couple were still there, performing their digital pas-de-deux under the spot of yellow light. A ship sounded off on the Thames behind him, and one of the men said:
“You were late.”
Eberlin accepted a light for his cigarette and nodded.
“When you hadn’t arrived by half past ten we anticipated your movements and waited here. You were watching those two on the bench.”
“Yes.”
“Mmmm.”
Eberlin gave a quick shudder and said, “Do you mind if we walk up the steps?”
“Not at all.”
They began to climb the steps in silence, Eberlin between the two men. When they reached the top and stood twenty yards or so away from the base of the bridge, one of them said:
“Krasnevin?”
“Yes?” Eberlin replied.
“Why did you want to see us?”
“Not you.”
“Pavell refuses to discuss it further.”
“I would still like to talk to him myself.”
“It is out of the question.”
And the second man said, “Utterly.”
Eberlin sighed. He walked a little behind the others as they approached the first few wooden steps of Hungerford Bridge. A train rattled endlessly over the bridge above their heads, shattered lights picking out the web of steel by the side of and under the lines. He looked up. One of the many things he admired about England was the bridges. Not that he was interested in engineering in any way, but as a child in Russia he had read a book about how one of the bridges of London was once covered in houses, like a living umbilical cord between the two parts of the city. Was it Waterloo Bridge? Waterloo Bridge is falling down, falling down–no, that couldn’t be it. What does it matter? He caught up with the two men and said:
“I only want to speak to him for ten minutes. He can’t refuse me that.”
The men didn’t answer. One of them began to climb the steps of the bridge, but the other stopped him and shook his head. They crossed instead under the steps and into the shadows.
“What did you think of the party?”
“Not Copperfield?” asked Eberlin.
“To a degree.”
“He works for Brogue.”
“The Negro?”
“Yes.”
“Important?”
“To a degree.”
“Of course.”
“It’s imperative that I meet Pavel.”
“Why?”
Why? They m
ight well ask. Big Ben struck ten forty-five and they heard someone above them running down the wooden steps, and a different sound as a man came into view on the concrete and hurried away from them, not seeing them, and disappeared behind the building. Eberlin trod on his cigarette.
“I at least should be worth something more than a couple of zombies like you.”
The men laughed. Eberlin had said the word zombies in English, which amused the men. They laughed again and repeated the word. Eberlin felt sick. He swore loudly, broke out of the darkness, and began to walk toward the bridge. They allowed him to reach the first step, then one of them, an impish little man who had fought at Stalingrad, ran after him and said quietly:
“Comrade Krasnevin.”
Eberlin stopped and looked at him. “Pavel is waiting for you in the car.”
The man beamed with self-pleasure and Eberlin controlled a further expletive.
“Where?” he asked.
“Where else?” was the answer.
His companion joined him and the two men walked quickly up the steps over Eberlin’s head, leaving him alone again. He stood holding his breath until he could hear them no more, then nervously lighting another cigarette, he walked quickly in the opposite direction.
* * *
“Who are you now–Krasnevin or Eberlin?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, are we to speak Russian or English?”
“As you wish.”
“I thought this was important?”
“It is.”
“Well then.”
Eberlin sighed heavily, slumped farther down in the seat of the car, and stared fixedly out of the window at the night outside. The small Volkswagen was parked in a dark lane ten miles north of London. The main road to Oxford and the North was behind them and below them and they could hear the low rumble of heavy night lorries commuting back and forth. Pavel was sitting next to Eberlin in the front seat, in front of the wheel. They didn’t speak for a long while, then Pavel said casually, his hand reaching toward the radio:
“Do you want some music?” Eberlin shook his head.
“It might clear the air.”
“No,” Eberlin replied. A silence and Pavel drummed lightly on the rim of the steering wheel, avoiding Eberlin’s eye. Finally, he lowered the window on his side, leaned slightly out of it on his elbow and said quietly:
“You mustn’t think that I’m against you. I’m not. I understand you more than you think but–”
“I don’t want understanding. I don’t want to be treated like a sick child or some naïve idiot who has to be humored–”
“I’m not humoring you.”
“What else are you doing then?”
“I’ve told you–I’m–”
“Throwing platitudes at me like rice at a wedding.”
“Well, what else can I say? You know I can’t–”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t. And close the window before we invite an audience.”
Pavel did so. He glanced at Eberlin. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” replied Eberlin quickly. “It’s my fault.”
“No, it was mine.”
“No, really, it was–” Eberlin stopped and smiled. Pavel relaxed and took a Schimmelpenninck Duet from the glove compartment with his left hand and put it in his mouth. Eberlin lit it with a silver lighter.
“Attractive lighter,” Pavel remarked. “German.”
“Is it? You surprise me. I didn’t know they made such–”
“West German.”
“Oh, I see.”
Pavel was a small man, thin on top and in the body. He was ten years older than Eberlin and had known him all his life. They liked each other very much and regretted bitterly the fact that they could never risk meeting together socially for a drink or idle conversation. Pavel had been married once, to a Hungarian girl whom he had met during the war. They had lived first of all in Budapest and then after the war moved to Leningrad, a town they both had loved very much. However, when Pavel was established in Soviet Military Intelligence, he was posted to Moscow, often not seeing his wife for a period of months. Inevitably, the marriage began to break apart and one day, returning home, he found nothing but his own few possessions and no note. He never inquired after her whereabouts nor even sought a divorce, but merely asked to be posted somewhere else. They sent him to Berlin, where he met Eberlin once more, and then to London. He never saw his wife again.
“Why exactly do you want to return to Russia?” he said suddenly.
“I’ve told you.”
“No, not that. I know you too well. It’s more than love of the old country and all that.”
“Everything is too out of proportion now,” said Eberlin softly. “The whole thing. I’m not objecting to what I do–no, that’s a lie, but we all feel that. No. I feel caged in. It was all right at the beginning when I was younger and keen and just working for Kuzmich, but it’s not that anymore. I’m working for the British as well–up to here. And it’s all getting out of hand….”
“You knew that. You didn’t go into it blindfolded.”
“Not blindfolded perhaps, but I had something then. I had …”
Eberlin turned away and stared at the dark fields outside and the black trees blocked around them.
“What did you have?” Pavel asked. “Enthusiasm,” Eberlin replied, “enthusiasm.”
There was a silence in the car, then Pavel said very clearly and without emotion:
“You know what you are saying, don’t you?”
Sensing the tone of the voice, he turned and caught Pavel staring at him coldly. Eberlin pulled a wry face and laughed.
“Oh, come now–I’m not thinking of defecting or joining the British or anything like that. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I wasn’t sure….”
“You know me better than that–my loyalties haven’t changed.
Only my attitude to my job, that’s all.”
“Has the killing of Nightingale anything to do with it?”
“No. Yes. No–I don’t know. No, of course it hasn’t.”
“What about the other man? He neither?”
“Killing those men isn’t the heart of it. To me it was just an expediency. No, not that. Everything’s just snowballing in size every second and I don’t think, if it gets any bigger, that I’m the right man to cope with it. For my sake and for the sake of everybody, I ought to be sent back to Moscow.”
He opened the car door suddenly and got out into the lane and closed the door behind him, leaving Pavel sitting inside. Eberlin walked onto the damp verge and over a ditch and into a sloping field that stretched down toward the highway. His shoes squelched as he trod carefully over the wet grass to the brow of the field and stood looking down at the shifting headlights below, like a broken, dejected scarecrow. It wasn’t long before he heard the dulled slam of a car door and then, shoulders hunched forward, Pavel made his way over the grass too and joined him, and they both stood silently looking at nothing. Then, with a light touch on Eberlin’s sleeve with his hand, Pavel said quietly, “We’d better get back.”
They both turned and returned to the car and sat back in the seats. The doors were shut. Pavel reversed the car slightly, nosed it toward the main road and then eased into the traffic. There was a roar and an E-type Jaguar hurtled past, and they both stared at the receding white rear of the car highlighted in the headlights and then it was gone. Pavel switched on the radio and late night BBC music petered out into the stillness of the car.
“You’ve been in England sixteen years now, haven’t you?” asked Pavel after a while.
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen? As long as that? You must be–thirty-five, thirty-six now. Thirty-six?”
“Yes.”
“Time passes. Have you still got that odd little man cleaning up for you?”
“Yes. But he’s not a cleaner, he�
�s a manservant.”
“Oh really?”
Eberlin smiled.
“Well, well,” murmured Pavel, and then, “This is a nice piece of music, don’t you think?”
Eberlin had come into the country at the age of eighteen with a trunk of textbooks, ink-stained exercise books with essays ranging from My Holiday to The Great Vowel Shift and Its Effects, photos of himself and other schoolchildren standing before the Taj Mahal, and one of him holding the ear of an elephant near Delhi, slightly out of focus. He had entered Oriel College with an impeccable background, filled with Kiplingesque memories of British India. It was a façade he had enjoyed, for he had never been near India in his life. At the age of sixteen, he had entered an offshoot of Pugachev, the Soviet Military College near Kiev, and had graduated from there immediately to Oxford to assume the identity of the fictitious English boy, Eberlin. The foundation work was faultless. It was part of a system instituted as long ago as 1927 by Stalin, who even then saw Communism as an international movement of subterfuge and infiltration, and the operation could roughly and badly be translated as Wine Cask Fill–a clumsy expression of which the nearest English equivalent might be “New Wine in Old Bottles.” At times, even, a preselected English child of the right background was trained in England from birth, and then at a certain age, after establishing roots in relevant sectors, was transported to Moscow or, as it was later, Kiev, to be replaced by a trained Russian complement, who would pick up the roots and carry on. On paper it looked fallible. In practice, it was without error. Eberlin himself knew of a Tory M.P. of a northern constituency whose loyalties ranged much further than the House of Commons. He had met, as a pupil in Pugachev, a brash, ebullient young fellow called Dubrovsky who had been a year ahead of him, and whom he knew now to be a Republican general in the U.S. Army. He had met him once vaguely in the Fish Room at the White House, during a cocktail party of Eisenhower’s in 1960. Eberlin couldn’t stand either of them. He had met Senator John Kennedy there too, and had liked him as a man but despaired of his implicit trust in his associates. The assassination three years later came as a shock but as no surprise. On the day of it, he received a bottle of Haig tied in a blue ribbon, from a member of the Ministry. He poured it, nauseated, down the sink. The next morning, he received a message from Pascal that read simply: AM WEARING A BLACK TIE UNDER MY RED. Eberlin, like many liberal Communists, questioned much of their dogma, but adhered to its basic tenet passionately. If asked, Eberlin would not admit to it, but in essence he was an ultra-extreme Socialist in the English sense. But it all, brought down in the final analysis, had no point whatsoever.
A Dandy in Aspic Page 3
