by Adam Hall
'She's over there.'
The cafe was crowded.
They were mostly young people, perched along the benches with newspapers opened on the tables among the dark bread and bowls of soup — Komsomolskaya Pravda, Sovetsky Sport, Literturnaya Gazeta. At one table they were arguing loudly, and passing separate sheets from their newspapers for the others to read. They were talking about the Borodinski trial. I looked across the room.
'Which one?'
'With the fair hair, next to the man with the beard.'
I pushed my way between the tables; some of the men looked up at me, noting my clothes and looking away again. I assumed they'd seen the man sitting alone near the doors and talking to no one. They must have.
'Natalya?'
She looked up at me through the tobacco smoke. So did the bearded man.
'Which Natalya?' he asked me, straightening. 'Natalya Fyodorova.'
She went on staring at me without answering, her ice-blue eyes showing nothing at all.
'Who are you?' the bearded man asked me. I went on watching the girl. The man said: 'She doesn't want to talk to you.'
I leaned over the table and spoke close to the girl, on the other side from the man. 'I'm a friend of Helmut's.'
Her hands were on the table in front of her, and I saw them move slightly, coming together. As I straightened up she looked at the man. I thought she was wondering if he'd heard what I'd said.
'She doesn't want to talk to you,' he told me. 'Are you deaf or something?' He pushed his bowl of soup farther away from him, as if to give himself room.
The girl looked up at me. 'Who are you?' Her eyes were still cool, but she was watchful now, involved.
'A friend of his. I'm trying to find him.'
The sound level around me went down suddenly as some of the people stopped talking. I looked into the mirror above the brass samovar and saw two men coming in. They didn't greet anyone, but took up a position on the far side of the room, talking to each other but looking around them. In a minute the sound level went up again, but it wasn't as loud as before.
I looked down from the mirror.
'Whose friend?' the bearded man asked me. He was leaning back, ready to get up if he had to. The girl was quite pretty, and I understood his reactions. I wondered if she'd noticed that he hadn't heard the first thing I'd said to her. It could be important.
'The trial's fixed,' said a young Jew at the same table. 'They're all fixed, we know that. All of them!'
'Shhhh!' a girl said, gripping his arm.
'To hell with them,' he said loudly, and looked across at the two men who'd just come in. The noise level dipped again and recovered. A woman laughed about something, to show that she didn't care. In the mirror I saw the two men watching her.
Natalya stood up suddenly, taking her sealskin hat from the table, knocking against a bowl of soup; the man caught it in time. 'I remember him now,' she told him, 'he's in my office. This is work.' She came round the table, shaking her hair back and putting her fur hat on, glancing into the mirror through the haze of smoke.
'This isn't the time to work!' the man said, and got to his feet.
'Stay here, Ivan. I'm coming back. And get me some more solyanka.' As we moved away she asked me, 'What's your name?'
'We'll talk outside.' The two security men weren't watching us specifically but I didn't want to give them time to take an interest; in this city the faceless live longest.
The militia men were still at the junction of the two streets when we went outside, stamping their feet in the cold; their breath clouded in front of them as they turned to watch us leaving the cafe. A black Volga was parked halfway along the block with its lights out. It hadn't been there before.
The girl asked my name again but I said, 'It wouldn't mean anything to you.' She wanted to stop, but I kept going and she had to come with me; men on surveillance get bored and they'll question anyone in sight. We turned the corner and kept on walking; this street was clean and the Pobeda was parked in shadow between two of the lamps.
'How did you find me?' She kept swinging her head to look at me, frightened because I knew her and she didn't know me. I took her arm so that she'd keep walking; the two militia men would be watching us, simply because we were something that moved in a static environment.
'Gorsky told me where to look.'
'I don't know any Gorsky.' She tried to hold back and I tightened her arm in mine.
'Do you want to see Helmut again?'
'Yes,' she said on a breath. 'But they — '
'Then trust me, and do as I tell you. We've got to keep walking.' She quickened her step. 'You do know Gorsky. He's the upravdom at the building in Vojtovica ulica.'
She was beside herself, Gorsky had told me, when she heard he'd been arrested. She kept coming back every day, asking if I had any more news. This was another thing right out of character with Schrenk: when you're in the field you do not take a girl to the safe-house; you don't take anyone. I'd been worried about his state of mind after they'd interrogated him but now I was worried about the things he'd been doing before his arrest. It was as if there were two people: Schrenk and this other man who'd been breaking all the rules.
'Do they always watch that cafe?' I asked the girl. She was keeping up with me now, and I could feel the tension in her, because I'd talked about Helmut.
'Not always. Tonight it's because of the trial; they think we might demonstrate, or make trouble. Most of the people who go there are Jews, and they want Borodinski released. It would be symbolic.'
'Of what?'
'Of the power of the dissidents. There've been many demonstrations all over the city. Don't you know that?' I felt a slight tug on my arm as she held back again, not trusting me, not knowing who I was, and not wanting to cause any harm to Helmut.
She wasn't his type. His women had been dark, simmering, sensual. Corinne, Rebecca, Toni Alvirez. I couldn't see him with this fair-haired girl full of her fears and her extrovert dreams, the symbolic power of the dissidents, the effectiveness of demonstrations. Not his type: it was inconsistent again.
'What's your job?' I asked her.
'I'm a senior clerk, in the Kremlin.'
Connection.
'Who's the man you were talking to?'
'Ivan? He's an engineer.'
'Did he know Helmut?'
'No. I don't understand,' she said tightly, 'you said you were looking for him. But he was arrested, didn't you know that?'
'He escaped.'
'Escaped?' Life came into her and her hand dug into my arm. 'You mean he's free?'
'I don't know.'
Two more.
'I don't understand,' she said anxiously. 'If he escaped then he must be — '
'He managed to reach West Germany. Then they found him again. I think he's in Moscow.'
Two more militia men.
'You mean in prison?'
'I don't know.' I began slowing our pace a fraction. 'If he is, there are certain friends who'll be trying to get him out.'
'By demonstrating?'
It was all they could think about. They thought they could get Borodinski off a life sentence or a death sentence, just as they'd thought they could get Ginzburg off, and Pektus, and Shcharansky; but all they could ever get by demonstrating was a night in the cells and a roughing up and a new entry on their records in the KGB files.
'No,' I said. 'Not by demonstrating.'
They were coming towards us from the other end of the street on this side. The Pobeda was on the opposite side and the distance at the moment was about the same. I could turn round now and take the girl with me and get her into the car and drive off but I didn't think I could do it without hurrying, without being seen to hurry. I might have done it alone, measuring my steps, walking indiscernibly faster and with a longer stride, getting my keys ready; but I couldn't do it with the girl: she was still frightened of me, frightened for him, because whatever I said to her it wouldn't convince her that I wasn't in the
police and hunting for Schrenk and hoping she could lead me to him.
'Who was his best friend?' I asked her. 'You?'
'I love him.' Her voice faltered on it. It was over three months since she'd last seen him and she'd been starting to get over it and now I'd brought it all back. 'I'd do anything to see him again.'
'Then keep hoping. And trust me.'
The two militia men were close now. There was no reason why they should stop us but there was always a risk and it worried me because yesterday I'd been hang-gliding over the Sussex cliffs trying to shake off the tensions of the last operation and then Croder had thrown me out here and this was alien soil, hostile and dangerous and unpredictable, and I didn't feel ready to take the risks and beat the odds and stay this side of survival. I wasn't sure of my cover or my accent: to be word perfect in the safe-house was different from being put to the test in the street. Above all I wasn't sure of the essential steadiness of nerve I was going to need if they lifted a hand and said Propusk. Papers.
'What other friends did he have?' I asked her. There wasn't much time now; we might get separated.
'He didn't have many friends.'
'Give me one of them. Two of them. Trust me.'
They carried walkie-talkies. So if I turned round and took the girl with me and began hurrying they didn't even have to shout to us to stop: they just had to press a button and tell the other two to stop that car when it reaches you, and check it out. And there'd be no hope this time of keeping enough distance between them and the number plate: they'd see it and alert the Volga and bring in the radio networks and it wouldn't matter how fast I drove or how far.
I could feel the blood leaving my face and going to the muscles, and the quickening of the pulse as the adrenalin started to flow. I was that bad, to that degree unready even for a routine encounter with a couple of flat-footed young militia men: an exercise the training directors put the novices through on their first trip behind the Curtain. So what was it going to be like when Bracken called me and said yes, he's inside Lubyanka after all, we want you to go and get him out?
'Ignatov,' the girl said.
'Other name?'
She hesitated again because she didn't know that she wasn't putting Ignatov in danger. Or Helmut.
I watched the militia men coming.
'Pyotr,' she said, half holding it back.
'Who else?'
'I don't remember anyone else.'
She thought she'd gone too far. 'Natalya,' I said, 'is your identity card in order?'
She swung her head. 'Yes. Why?'
'These two here,' I said. 'If they question us, don't mention Helmut, or Pyotr Ignatov. We're just recent acquaintances, you understand?'
'Yes.'
They were watching us now. Peaked caps, batons, side-arms, radio sets. They were walking in step.
'You don't know anything about me,' I told her. 'Just my name. My name is Kapista Kirov. But we both like music. Classical music.'
Close now. Briskly in step. They were young men, conscious of their uniforms and their heady power. They might stop us simply because they decided they'd like to talk to a pretty girl, watching her ice-blue eyes while they went through the routine questions.
'I'll step off the pavement,' I told her. 'We'll make room for them. The whole problem with Prokofiev, it seems to me, isn't in his music at all. It's simply that he's overrated by the critics. The result is that a lot of his work sounds disappointing, after all the eulogies and the acclaim.' Their eyes in the shadow of their peaked caps, watching us. 'His music is just as good as it always was, and we should listen to it as if we've never heard of him before. Otherwise we shall miss a lot of what he was trying to convey.' Briskly in step. 'Nikolai doesn't agree with me, I know, but — '
'Propusk,' one of them said as they stopped.
6: IGNATOV
Two kopecks.
'Is Sergei there?'
'Who?'
'Sergei Panov.'
'I'm sorry, there's nobody here of that name. This is the British Embassy.'
'Oh, excuse me. I must have asked for the wrong number.'
'That's quite all right.'
Every line to the Embassy was tapped and radio was out of the question and protracted speech-code was a slow-burn fuse because they'd go straight through the exchange and trace the call and raid the place within minutes so I'd had to ask for a cut-out.
'Sergei' was for Taganskaja Metro station and I got there in fourteen minutes, feeling nervy again because in this city there wasn't much traffic at night and I was vulnerable. It had been bad enough half an hour ago.
Have you been to the cafe? the younger one had asked.
Yes, she'd said before I could stop her.
I see. And were you talking about the trial there? About the traitor Borodinski? His eyes going over my papers again, turning them to the light, looking for the wrong weave, the wrong coloration, the wrong serial number, looking at the photograph and then at my face, then back at the photograph.
We were talking about Prokofiev, I said before she could answer. She could get us arrested: they were trying to provoke us into saying something wrong.
Prokofiev, or Borodin-ski? A little joke, his tone amused, a young man who knew his composers.
He wasn't playing a game of his own. Since the trial had begun, the standing orders for the police were to show these dissidents that it was useless protesting and demonstrating and thumping the cafe tables. Comrade Borodinski would be tried in the court, not in the streets. A night in the cell would remind them of that.
If we call him a traitor before he's tried
It simply means, I cut in on her again, that it's how we regard him. With a short laugh, squeezing her arm, Ask Helmut — he says we ought to raid the courthouse and string him up from a lamp-post outside.
Who is Helmut? His eyes watching her, watching me.
A friend of ours, I told him. He feels rather strongly about traitors.
The other man stamped his feet, feeling the cold, getting bored. I was waiting for Natalya to say something, ready to cut in on her at once; but she was quiet now, because of my warning.
Where are you two going now?
Home, I said.
He looked down at the papers again. But you live in opposite directions from here.
I'm seeing my friend home first.
His head came up. Why? Are you saying the streets are dangerous?
Of course not. It's just that I'm enjoying her company.
A thin smile. Let's hope she's enjoying yours. He passed my papers back, slapping them on to my hand. It's late for people to be out on the streets. It disturbs the more respectable citizens who are trying to sleep.
Quite bad enough.
The cut-out came up the escalator of the Metro station, dropping his thin little cigar into the sand bin at the fourth pace from the moving stairs and sliding both hands into the pockets of his coat, thumbs hooked out. He wasn't too quick on the parole and countersign and I put him through a variation before I took him across to the car and drove five blocks and stopped between two trucks parked on the wasteground alongside a building site where a crew was working the night shift. It was a new apartment block and the crane was swinging an entire prefabricated wall into place with four window apertures in it; sparks flew in a fountain from a welder's torch on the floor below.
'Have they found Schrenk yet?'
'Not yet,' he said. 'You'd have been told.'
'I was absent from base.'
'Oh.' He gave me the tape recorder and took something else from the glove pocket and sat clutching it in his bare hands.
'What's that?'
'This? Handwarmer. Burns charcoal. I can't stand this bloody cold, look at these chilblains.'
I began talking on to the tape. 2/2 12.09. 1 need all info on Natalya Fyodorova, senior clerk, Kremlin office, companion of subject before arrest. Also all info on Pyotr Ignatov, Party member, often in subject's company, no other details known.
/> She'd told me I would find him at a meeting of the Izmajlovo chapter at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and I was going to be there if I could make it. This wasn't for the tape because Bracken might decide to send someone else in to watch Ignatov and I wanted to work solo: the man could be ultra sensitive about Schrenk's arrest and they could frighten him off.
I need to know how the subject was arrested: in a street or where? What street, what place? Had he made a mistake? Bad security? Was he blown? Need to know why he applied for post as a-i-p: this is important. I'm finding inconsistencies in his behaviour prior to arrest.
Condensation was forming on the windscreen and the crane swung its skeletonic arm through the floodlights insubstantially, like a back projection on frosted glass. The welder's torch flared with an acid radiance and I looked away from it to protect my night vision.
Should I stress the importance of Natalya Fyodorova? She probably knew more about Schrenk than anyone else in Moscow, more than Bracken's team could find out in a month. But I was seeing her again tomorrow: leave it at that and don't risk over-surveillance. She could be frightened off as easily as Ignatov.
I suggest messages by hand direct to base in digraphic square, key 5. When absent I'll report hourly at the hour plus 15, Extension 7, silent line. Signal ends.
I sat thinking for another five minutes. There was a lot more I wanted to ask but I wasn't going to put it on tape because I didn't want to show my hand at this stage: I didn't know how Bracken normally worked but I knew he was the key man in a crisis and he might react differently; once he knew my line of enquiry he might throw in contacts and tags and shields and the whole bloody bazaar. I didn't want anyone in my way.
'Who does this go to?' I asked the man beside me.
'Winfield.'
'Who's he?'
'One of our a-i-ps.'
'Where's his base?'
'Didn't anybody tell you anything? We — '
