Yet he could not give up now. Far too much was riding on it.
A loud knock on the door jolted him fully awake. “Da?” he called out. The knock came again—two, two, and one—a tattoo that he recognized as Roger Martin’s prearranged signal.
“Dobroye utro,” a gruff voice said in a bad Russian accent: Good morning. It was indeed Roger.
As soon as Metcalfe opened the door, Roger pushed his way in. He was dressed oddly, in a tattered navy-blue telogreika, which was a padded and quilted peasant jacket, felt boots, a fur cap. Had Metcalfe not known it was Roger Martin he would easily have mistaken him for a Russian peasant or laborer.
“Jesus, Scoop, you smell awful,” Metcalfe said.
“How easy d’you think it is to buy new clothes around here? I bought ’em off some guy on the street who seemed more than happy to make a deal.”
“Well, you look authentic, I’ll say that. Straight off the kolkhoz.” Metcalfe laughed.
Roger pointed to his felt boots. “These valenki are bloody warm. No wonder the Russian army defeated Napoleon. The frogs got nothing on this. Now, why the hell didn’t you tell me to bring toilet paper?” He was carrying a heavy briefcase, which he set down. It contained the radio transmitter, Metcalfe knew; Roger had kept it with him since they’d checked into the Metropole. It could not be left in the hotel room, of course, and Metcalfe certainly could not bring it with him to his meetings at the Ministry of Trade, nor to the Bolshoi.
“As long as you’re dressing like a Muscovite, you might as well go all the way,” Metcalfe said. “Use strips of Pravda or Izvestiya.”
Roger grimaced. “Now I get why the Russians look so downtrodden. Plus, it took ten minutes for my shaving water to drain—you try the sink yet? Totally stopped up.”
“Hey, just having your own bathroom here’s a rare privilege, Scoop.”
“Some privilege. How was last night?”
Metcalfe gave Roger a warning look, circled his index finger toward the ceiling to indicate the likelihood that the room had concealed listening devices. Roger rolled his eyes, walked over to a table lamp, and began speaking into it. “There’s this really amazing invention the capitalists have come up with called toilet paper, and I really hope the Russians don’t steal the technology from us.”
Metcalfe recognized what Roger was doing: all his banter, his joking, served as a form of bluster to conceal his underlying fear. The Briton was one of the bravest men Metcalfe knew and accustomed to working undercover, but here in Moscow everything was different. Foreigners were scarce and were watched carefully, and blending in with the native populace was much more difficult than it was in France. Given his heritage, Roger easily passed as a Frenchman; here he couldn’t help but stick out. If being an agent in France was hazardous, doing so in Russia was downright treacherous.
Metcalfe dressed quickly, and the two of them went down to the lobby to talk. It was early in the morning, and the lobby was empty except for a few burly men badly dressed in boxy dark blue Russian suits sitting on couches and chairs pretending to read newspapers. Metcalfe and Roger sat in adjoining chairs at the far end of the lobby, far enough from the NKVD men that they couldn’t be overheard.
Roger spoke quickly, in a low voice. “Your transmitter won’t work indoors—we need an outdoor area, preferably isolated. Plus, it’s got to be concealed as soon as possible. Tell me your itinerary today, and I’ll figure out a plan.”
“There’s a party at the American embassy’s dacha in the woods southwest of Moscow,” Metcalfe said. “Corky told me about it—his man in Moscow will extend an invitation.”
“Excellent. There we go. But how’m I supposed to get around this damned city without a car? There aren’t any taxis, and my Russian isn’t good enough to use the streetcars. I mean, for Christ’s sake, I’m supposed to be your driver, and they won’t even give us a car!”
“They’ll give us a car,” Metcalfe said.
“A car and driver. Which is an escort and a minder and a jailer, all in one.”
“Have you tried the British embassy yet?”
Roger nodded. “No luck. Those guys don’t have cars for themselves.”
“I’ll try the American embassy.”
“Pull whatever strings you can. In the meantime, I managed to buy an ancient Harley-Davidson. My Russian’s terrible, but it’s amazing how far the British pound goes here. That plus some snowshoes and a compass. Then I’ve got to figure out how to get some aviation fuel. Awfully scarce these days, with all the rationing.”
“Surely a strategic bribe ought to do the trick.”
“Only once you figure out who to bribe,” Roger said. “That’ll require a trip out to the airport. I’ll need your map of Moscow—I’ve got my work cut out for me. And you? Did you make contact last night?”
“Oh, I made contact,” Metcalfe said ruefully. Then, quietly, he added: “But I’ve got my work cut out for me, too.”
As soon as Roger had left, Metcalfe went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, where he was seated at a small table with a rotund balding man with a gin blossom over his nose and cheeks. The man, who was dressed in a tweed suit of a garish plaid pattern, shook Metcalfe’s hand. “Ted Bishop,” he said in English, obviously recognizing Metcalfe immediately as a Westerner. “Moscow correspondent for the Manchester Guardian.” Bishop had a cockney accent.
Metcalfe introduced himself by his true name. He noticed that there were plenty of empty tables in the dimly lit restaurant, but this was the way Soviet hotels did things. They always seated their foreign guests together, especially those who spoke the same language. Presumably, herding them together made them easier to monitor.
“You a journo, too?” Bishop asked.
Metcalfe shook his head. “I’m here on business.”
Bishop nodded slowly as he stirred a lump of sugar into a glass of hot tea. His expression changed somewhat as something occurred to him. “Metcalfe Industries,” he said. “Any relation?”
Metcalfe was impressed. His was no household name. “One and the same.”
Bishop’s eyebrows shot up.
“But do me a favor,” Metcalfe said. “I’d really like to keep my visit quiet, so if you don’t mind keeping my name out of your dispatches—”
“Of course.” Bishop’s eyes lit up with the pleasure of having a secret to keep. Metcalfe realized that though he’d have to be careful around a reporter, the man could be a useful contact here, a good man to cultivate.
“Now, I hope you’re not too hungry,” Bishop said.
“Starved. Why?”
“Notice the sugar in my tea won’t dissolve. I’ve been waiting here so long my tea’s got cold. That’s the way it is every morning. The service is so slow you think they’re waiting for the eggs to hatch. Then when it comes, it’s a couple of slices of black bread, butter, and one greasy egg. And don’t try to ask for it the way you like it. They give it to you the way they like, which is whatever the hell way Olga back in the kitchen feels like making ’em that day.”
“At this point I’d settle for sawdust.”
“And you’ll get it, too,” Bishop said with a chortle. His entire belly shook, and his double chin wobbled. “Don’t eat anything mashed, I warn you. They like to put sawdust in it. I’m telling you, what the Bolshies have done to bangers and mash, blimey, you wouldn’t give it to a starving termite.” He lowered his voice. “And speaking of bugs, you’ve always got to assume they’re listening, everywhere you go. Got little bleedin’ microphones anywhere they can stuff ’em. I swear they’ve stuffed one up the desk clerk’s arse. Only thing that would explain the expression on the clerk’s face.”
Metcalfe laughed appreciatively.
“The Russian diet—it’s the best diet in the world, in’nt?” Bishop continued. “I must’ve lost a hundred pounds since I got here.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Four years, seven months, and thirteen days.” He looked at his watch. “Oh, and sixteen
hours. But who’s counting?”
“You must know Moscow pretty well by now.”
He looked askance at Metcalfe. “More than I’d like to, I’m afraid. What would you like to know?”
“Oh, nothing,” Metcalfe said airily. “Nothing in particular.” There would be a time for questions, but not yet. Go slowly with this fellow, he thought. He’s a reporter, after all, trained to look for the real story, to dig, to penetrate others’ lies. Still, he felt a genuine warmth toward the hardworking English journalist. He knew the type: salt of the earth, totally unflappable, frightened of nothing except boredom. He’d surely know all the angles.
“You know about changing money, right? Do it at your embassy—you’ll get a much better rate than what they give you here at the hotel.”
Metcalfe nodded; he had already changed some money here.
“If it’s restaurant recommendations you’re looking for, I may be able to help you out there, but it’s a short and sad list. Looking for real American-style apple pie? Your only hope is the Café National. Aragvi, on Gorky Street across from Central Telegraph, serves decent shashlik. Good Georgian cognac, too. The Praga, on Arbat Square—well, the food’s lousy, but they have a nice gypsy band, and there’s dancing. Used to have a good Czech jazz ensemble here, but they got kicked out in ’37 for allegedly being spies. Real reason, I’m sure, was that they made the Russian jazz boys look so bad. Speaking of spies, Metcalfe, I don’t know if you’ve ever been here before, but you’d better watch yourself.”
“How so?” Metcalfe asked blandly, masking the surge of tension he suddenly felt.
“Well, have a look around. You’ve noticed the YMCA boys, right?” Bishop motioned with his ample chin at the lobby.
“YMCA?”
“What we call the NKVD chaps. Bolshie bulls. Bad actors. They’re very interested in wherever you go, so be careful who you meet with, ’cause they’ll be watching.”
“If so, they’re going to be awfully bored. Mostly I’ve got meetings at the Ministry of Foreign Trade. That should put them fast asleep.”
“Oh, I have no doubt you’re on the level, but that’s not enough these days. Often as not, the Reds are looking to frame you capitalists if negotiations don’t go well. Ever hear about that British engineering firm Metro-Vickers?”
Metcalfe had. The Metropolitan-Vickers Electrical Company Ltd. had supplied the Soviet Union with heavy electrical machinery. A year before he came to Moscow for the first time, there had been a major diplomatic incident when two of their employees had been arrested on charges of industrial sabotage. “Those two engineers were tried in a Moscow court and sentenced to two years in prison,” Metcalfe recalled, “after a couple of turbines they’d installed had malfunctioned. But weren’t they released after the whole thing turned into a major diplomatic kerfuffle?”
“Indeed,” said Bishop. “But the reason the Bolshies dared to arrest ’em in the first place was that the fellers had so little contact with the British embassy that the Kremlin figured they were safe targets—determined that the British government were prepared to disown them. You have close ties with the American embassy?”
“Not particularly,” Metcalfe replied. He had exactly one contact there, an attaché named Hilliard whom Corky had suggested he be in touch with. But the attaché would be careful, circumspect about his contacts with Metcalfe. If anything happened to Metcalfe—if the Soviets caught him in any compromising position—the embassy would disavow any connection. Corky had pointedly warned Metcalfe about this.
“Well, I suggest you make friends there as soon as you can,” the Brit advised. “You see what I told you about the service here?” He took a gulp of his tea. “You may need an ally. You never want to be in Moscow without an ally.”
“Or what?”
“They’ll sense weakness, and they’ll strike. If you have some sort of major institutional affiliation, be it a newspaper or a government, you’ve at least got some kind of protection. But without it, you’re always vulnerable. If they think you’re trouble, they won’t hesitate to grab you. Just a word to the wise, Metcalfe.”
It was a bitterly cold day, so cold that Metcalfe’s face burned. This was, he had overheard some Muscovites commenting, already the coldest winter in years. He stopped into a Torgsin store on Gorky Street, which sold scarce goods, unavailable to any Russians, for valuta, hard currency. There he bought a shapka, a Russian fur hat—not for disguise, but for needed warmth. There was a reason that Russians wore these hats: nothing could keep one’s head as warm, protect one’s ears from the fierce Russian winter. He remembered how bitterly cold it could get in Moscow, so cold that if you left a window in your flat open just a crack, the ink in your inkwell would freeze. When he was last here and there were no refrigerators, even for the most privileged foreign guests, he and his brother would be forced to hang perishables outside the transom windows in string bags; inevitably, the milk, the eggs, would freeze solid.
He was being followed, he saw at once. At least two of the burly NKVD agents he had seen earlier sitting around the lobby of the Metropole were tailing him with a clumsiness, a lack of subtlety, that bespoke either poor training or a deliberate intent to let Metcalfe know he was being followed. Metcalfe thought it was the latter. He was being warned. If he hadn’t been so familiar with the ways of the Russian secret police, he might have been more concerned, might have wondered whether they suspected that he was not here simply on business. But Metcalfe knew how the secret police here worked, or at least so he told himself. They kept a close watch on all foreigners. They were like guard dogs, growling at any potential interlopers, warning them not to get too close. These thugs—for they really were little more than thugs, knee breakers—were assigned in teams to follow all foreigners, to intimidate them, to make sure that all foreign visitors to Moscow felt the hot breath of the Soviet police state on their necks.
Yet Metcalfe found the presence of these NKVD goons perversely reassuring. It was evidence that the NKVD was not unduly suspicious of him, strangely enough. It meant that the secret police considered him a run-of-the-mill foreigner and nothing more. Had they suspected that he was up to anything else—had they known the real reason he was here—the NKVD would not put a team of mediocrities on his tail. They would have assigned far more skilled agents. No, these thugs were ordinary Russian junkyard dogs, there to make sure he stayed on the straight and narrow. He found them reassuring.
At the same time, however, their existence was a problem for Metcalfe. There were times when he not only didn’t mind being followed; he actually welcomed it—his visits to the Ministry of Foreign Trade, for instance. He wanted the NKVD to see him going about his cover business. But this morning, he had to lose them without appearing to do so. If he shook an NKVD tail too skillfully, he would raise all kinds of alarms in the Lubyanka, the much-feared headquarters of the NKVD. They would know that he was not only up to something suspicious but was also more than a mere American businessman. They would know that he was an intelligence agent.
This morning he would be a sightseer, nothing more than that. A tourist out to see the sights of the Russian capital city. He would have to act in a way consistent with that, which meant an assortment of behaviors: no obvious evasive tactics, no sudden moves, yet at the same time his movements must not be too smoothly coordinated. He could not appear to be too purposeful, as if he were going somewhere, meeting someone, as if he had an appointment. No, he would have to behave with a certain plausible randomness, stopping to look at things that struck his fancy, just as a tourist might.
And yet at the same time, somehow, he would have to lose the followers.
There was an old lady selling some mysterious soft drink from a cart. A sign identified the drink as limonad, which was Russian for any kind of carbonated drink. A long queue of Russians, wearing fur hats with the flaps down so that they stuck out like donkey ears, waited with bovine patience to pay a few kopeks to drink her blend of carbonated water and red syrup from o
ne communal glass. Metcalfe stopped as if curious, his eyes scanning the line, at the same time confirming the positions of his followers. One was a few hundred feet behind him, walking with a leaden pace. The other was across the street, pretending to use a phone booth. They were in place.
They were watching, keeping their distance and therefore letting him know they were watching. To be any closer would be less than plausible; to be farther away would be impractical.
Metcalfe continued walking up the broad avenue with the leisurely pace and demeanor of a tourist taking in the vagaries of a strange city. The wind blew sharply, at times howling, carrying with it stray flakes of snow, crystals of ice. His boots—the polished leather boots of a wealthy American, not felt valenki—crunched on the snowdrifts. A short time later he was accosted by a one-armed newspaper dealer, an old man selling copies of Trud and Izvestiya and Pravda. In his one hand he held several copies of a small red booklet, which he waved at Metcalfe. “Half a ruble for this songbook,” the toothless old man called out desperately. “All of our greatest Soviet songs!” He sang in a high, cracking voice, “ ‘Stalin, our great father, our sun, our Soviet tractor.’ ”
Metcalfe smiled at the man, shook his head, and then stopped. An idea occurred to him. A tram was coming, a streetcar in the Bukashka line, also known as the “bol’shaya krugosvetka,” which ran along the Garden Ring Road. He saw it approach slowly, in his peripheral vision. One follower was across the street, examining the window display of a store marked OBUVI, or Shoes; in reality, of course, he was watching Metcalfe in the reflection in the plate glass. The other was coming up the same side of the street as Metcalfe was on, keeping his careful distance. In a moment, this watcher would reach the stand where the old woman was selling her limonad, and if Metcalfe timed it right, the watcher’s line of sight would be temporarily obscured. He approached the toothless old newspaper dealer as he pulled out his wallet. The watcher down the street could see that Metcalfe was stopping to buy a songbook, a transaction that would take thirty seconds at least, for the old man would also no doubt try to sell others of his wares. Thus, even during the few seconds when the watcher’s view was blocked, the NKVD man could assure himself that he was missing nothing.
The Tristan Betrayal Page 15
