Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  They stopped off for a couple of minutes at the post office on the corner before strolling south along Queensway. They walked abreast or in single file as the numbers of people allowed, and took it in turn to hold Andrei’s hand.

  From Bayswater they took the Circle line south. Unlike the other shoppers they didn’t change for Oxford Circus or get off at High Street Kensington but stayed on as far as Embankment, where they hurried through the station and took the Northern line to Waterloo.

  When the escalator brought them to the British Rail concourse they turned left and checked the departures board at the end of the station. Anna took Andrei into the WHSmith shop and helped him choose some comics and a picture book. Viktor went to the opposite side of the concourse and bought tickets.

  They boarded the train on platform 20 at nine fifty-eight. The tickets were one way.

  *

  Knight got home from Eva’s a little after ten. The answerphone had a call from someone selling double glazing and a message from a local bookshop. Knight sorted through his mail and newspapers as he listened.

  ‘Edmund, it’s Bill Clarke.’

  Knight stared at the answerphone.

  ‘I need to talk to you. Sooner the better, really. In confidence, Edmund. I’m at home this weekend. Could you call me the first chance you get?’

  He put down the papers and played the message again, hearing a tenseness in the voice that he hadn’t noticed the first time. Clarke was angry or rattled about something.

  There were two numbers for Copperfields. One was Clarke’s official line and would most likely to be answered by a Special Branch man. The other number was the one he gave to family and friends, and would be picked up by himself or Marion. Knight found the personal number and keyed it in.

  ‘Who is this?’ a man’s voice asked, one that Knight didn’t recognise.

  ‘Hello?’ he said tentatively.

  ‘Who did you wish to speak to, sir?’

  What was a Special Branch man doing on Bill Clarke’s personal number?

  ‘William Clarke. Is he there?’

  There was a pause before the voice answered. ‘I’m afraid Mr Clarke’s not available. Could I ask who’s calling him?’

  But Clarke had requested confidentiality.

  ‘This is a personal call. When will he be available?’

  Another pause, longer this time, as if the man was consulting with someone, or as if that someone was listening in and feeding him his answers.

  ‘That’s hard to say, sir.’

  ‘Is Mr Clarke actually at home or not?’

  ‘Not at the moment. If you would tell me who you are, sir?’

  ‘Is Mrs Clarke there?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not available either.’

  It made no sense: Clarke not available and not even at home. He’d said he would be. Something might have come up, but that didn’t explain what a Special Branch man was doing on his line. Why wasn’t Marion ‘available’ either?

  ‘Sir? Are you still there? Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you wanted to speak to Mr Clarke?’

  Knight’s number was barred but if someone was listening in, the chances were that they would also be trying to trace the call. It would come up as intelligence service.

  ‘In confidence, Edmund.’

  The Special Branch man was in mid-sentence when Knight put the receiver down.

  20

  He heard the car pull into his drive a couple of minutes later. He was crossing the hall and detoured to open the front door; he was expecting no one.

  A car from the local taxi service was waiting a short distance from the door while a man leant into its window to pay the driver. There was a brightly illustrated cardboard carton, like a box that toys came in, at his feet. Behind him stood a woman looking up at the house, and near her a small boy clutching an armful of comics. The woman saw Knight at the door and immediately lowered her gaze. Her hand sought out the boy’s.

  The man picked up the carton and turned as the taxi drew away. He put his arm around the woman and stared at Knight for a moment.

  ‘Mr Edmund Knight?’

  ‘That’s right. Good morning.’

  Knight stuck his hands into his pockets and waited. His visitors seemed uncertain what to say or do next. There was something waif-like about them, as if they were lost. He studied them more closely: their faces, their clothes. Something troubled him about them but he couldn’t yet pin down what it was.

  The man passed the toy carton to the woman and stepped closer. He was in his early thirties, the woman a little younger.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Knight prompted.

  ‘My name is Viktor Kunaev,’ the man said. ‘This is my wife, Anna, and our son, Andrei.’

  His accent was all the confirmation Knight needed. Their faces were faces that could be seen in any street in Moscow, their clothes were what might be picked off any rail of indifferent garments in a Moscow store. That was what had felt out of place about them.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he repeated, more reserved this time.

  Kunaev paused for a moment and glanced at his wife. ‘I am a Soviet citizen. I work for our embassy in London.’

  Knight glanced instinctively down the drive. Kunaev noticed and smiled.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Knight. I was very careful. We have not been followed.’

  ‘Why should you be?’

  ‘For the same reason as my coming here has surprised you. Because of the jobs we both do. In our different ways and at our different levels, of course.’

  ‘What would they be?’

  Kunaev produced a cheap-looking wallet and opened it. A passport and some other items lay inside, not tucked in its pockets but arranged on top as if he’d deliberately prepared them for this moment. He handed them over and glanced back at his wife as Knight began to look through the items. As well as the Soviet passport there was a junior-grade Soviet diplomatic pass. Both bore his photograph. The diplomatic pass was in English and identified him as a member of the commercial attaché’s staff. A third item, in Russian, was a security pass for entering the embassy. Knight noted that it admitted him to the unmarked building in Kensington Palace Gardens as well as the block on Bayswater Road that most members of the public thought of as the embassy.

  But it was the fourth item which Knight found of most interest. He recognised it at once as a KGB pass: almost certainly First Chief Directorate. Like the embassy pass, it was in Russian. He turned the card over in his hand; on the reverse it had an electronic strip like a credit card, suggesting that it could be used as a key in one of the building’s security systems, probably the FCD annex.

  His face still expressionless, Knight returned the documents and put his hands back in his pockets.

  ‘I’m no expert, but the passport and diplomatic pass seem to bear out who you say you are, Mr Kunaev. For what that’s worth. But the other items seem to be in Russian; I’m afraid I can’t make head nor tail of them. I’m no wiser as to what’s brought you here. Or what any of this has to do with me.’

  Kunaev sighed. He put the articles away and returned to his wife’s side. ‘Very well, Mr Knight. I am sorry we troubled you.’ He took his wife and son by the hand and began walking down the drive.

  ‘Mr Kunaev?’

  They stopped. Kunaev looked back at Knight. The boy whispered something to his mother. She drew him close as she answered.

  Knight moved inside the doorway and extended his hand in invitation. ‘Would you and your family like to come inside until we sort out this confusion? It looks like more rain. We’d be better off indoors. And perhaps your little boy is tired or hungry.’

  *

  The chief constable was on the fourteenth fairway and his ball was in the rough again. Fingering the spare ball in his pocket, he picked his way through the coarse grass and wondered if the other players were far enough away not to spot if he did a switch. He stole a glance over his shoulder to assess his chances.

  Tha
t was when he saw the maroon car. It was sitting quietly on the road that cut across the fairway, just on the crest of the low hill. It must have only just arrived, for he’d crossed the road himself not two minutes ago and it hadn’t been there then. While he was staring at it the headlights flashed once.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he called back to the others. ‘Business.’

  The chief of Special Branch was waiting for him in the back seat, with the window open. As the chief constable drew near, the two plain-clothes officers in the front got out and strolled a few yards away.

  The chief constable slid into the back beside his visitor.

  ‘What brings you all the way out here? Apart from the bracing air.’

  The Special Branch man slid a forefinger inside his tight collar as if to loosen it.

  ‘Murder,’ he said. ‘Multiple murder.’

  ‘Sounds nasty. Still, doesn’t usually interest you chaps.’

  ‘What if one of the victims was a politician? What would you say then?’

  ‘Depends who he was.’

  The Special Branch chief pushed a button in his armrest and the window began to rise with a soft swish. He waited until it was completely closed.

  ‘The Home Secretary,’ he said.

  The chief constable whistled softly. He sat in silence for a moment, knowing the rest would follow without being asked for.

  ‘In embarrassing circumstances,’ the Special Branch man added eventually. ‘The kind of thing that’d give the media great joy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘May we turn to practicalities?’

  ‘A cover-up?’

  Staring ahead, the Special Branch man nodded. ‘And it better be good.’

  *

  In fact, Andrei needed the toilet. Knight showed Anna where it was, then set out some biscuits in the kitchen. He led Kunaev into the living room and, without bothering to offer any explanation, closed the curtains at both ends of the room and put the lights on.

  He waved Kunaev to an armchair, sat down opposite him, and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Well now, Mr Kunaev. Perhaps you’d like to explain why you’ve come here.’

  ‘I know who and what you are, Mr Knight. That and the identification papers I have shown you – all of which you understood perfectly well – should be enough to convince you of my identity. In due course you can verify it further by checking through the diplomatic lists. I have no idea whether your people also have me on record as a rezident within the embassy, but again, the passes I have shown you should be adequate proof of that. So let us not waste further time on pretences.’

  Knight heard him through in silence and continued watching him for another minute, then got up and went to the hi-fi unit. He found the microphone and held it up for Kunaev to see.

  ‘You don’t mind this, do you?’

  Kunaev smiled. ‘Not if it means you are taking me seriously.’

  Knight snapped a blank cassette in place. ‘It means nothing one way or the other.’ He positioned the microphone on the low table between them, switched the machine on and set the volume controls while he announced the date, time and location.

  Kunaev seemed perfectly at ease, showing no more than polite interest as he observed these preparations. Knight returned to his seat and gestured towards the microphone.

  ‘Over to you, Mr Kunaev. I might just add for the record, before you begin, that you’re under no obligation to say anything at all. You can leave my house this moment if you wish, and I won’t lift a finger to stop you. You understand that?’

  Kunaev nodded. Knight pointed to the microphone. ‘I understand,’ Kunaev said aloud.

  ‘Please repeat what you said to me when you first arrived – who you are and so on. Explain what identification you’ve shown me.’

  Kunaev did as he was asked, speaking clearly and carefully. Just as he was describing the identity papers, Anna and Andrei came into the room; she glanced at the microphone but said nothing, and led the child to a corner at the other end of the room. She selected a few toys from the cardboard box, sat down with Andrei and began to play quietly with him.

  Kunaev finished what he was saying and became silent. Knight was about to prompt him when he realised that his eyes were on his wife. She had looked up from the child’s game and was returning her husband’s gaze calmly and steadily; as if a pact between them was being ratified. After a moment Kunaev turned to look directly at Knight again.

  ‘I seek asylum from your government for myself and my family,’ he said.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be less dramatic just to ask your own government for permission to emigrate to Britain?’

  Kunaev laughed. ‘I said no games. FCD personnel do not qualify for exit visas. Somehow I think you know that.’

  ‘And if my government were to grant you asylum?’

  ‘I will participate in whatever debriefings you require. We want only fresh identities and the opportunity to make a life for ourselves here.’ Kunaev looked again at his wife and child, then added, ‘And protection from acts of reprisal.’

  Knight nodded thoughtfully. ‘You haven’t yet mentioned what position you claim to hold in the rezidentura.’

  ‘Claim to hold? I am the senior cipher clerk. I report directly to the chief of the rezidentura, Colonel Aleksandr Lyulkin. I am responsible for handling both incoming and outgoing signals. All embassy traffic comes via me, whomever it is for. If it is ordinary embassy material or for GRU – military intelligence, but you know that – I just pass it on and they decode it themselves. All we decode is KGB traffic.’

  ‘You’ve said you’re willing to be debriefed. Does that include a detailed account of your work and the other members of the rezidentura?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Their identities and ranks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about information on your military intelligence people in the GRU section?’

  ‘It is limited. We are brothers in arms but we are competitive brothers. We keep our distance. I do not even see their cipher books. But yes, I will tell your people what little I know.’

  Knight sat back in. his armchair. ‘And your government’s illegals network in this country?’ He raised his eyes to see Kunaev’s reaction.

  ‘Mr Knight, you know the conventions as well as I do. There is no crossover between illegals and rezidenti. Nor between their activities.’

  Kunaev’s expression was open, his eyes untroubled. Either he was a very good actor or he really knew as little on that particular front as he claimed.

  For a moment, however, Knight sensed that the man was about to say something more. But his son ran across to him and began chattering.

  The moment passed; Kunaev fell silent again. Anna came over and retrieved the boy.

  But there was something there, Knight knew. Something more than Kunaev was saying.

  And something about the man himself that he couldn’t yet put his finger on.

  He would eventually, though.

  21

  In the meantime, the cassette was still running.

  ‘You’re offering to betray your country, Mr Kunaev.’

  Knight saw Anna look up sharply at the other end of the room. It was the first indication that she understood English.

  ‘You’re prepared to become a traitor. How do you feel about that?’

  Kunaev returned his stare angrily. ‘I do not see it as betrayal.’

  ‘The Soviet authorities will. Why are you prepared to do it? What is your motive?’

  ‘That need not concern you, Mr Knight. Nor your government.’

  ‘On the contrary. It’s of tremendous interest to us.’

  ‘In case I change my mind, you mean? Or in case I am trying to – what is the expression – set you up?’

  Knight looked steadily at him. ‘Both have been known. Please answer my question.’

  He saw Anna catch her husband’s eye; she nodded almost imperceptily. Kunaev sighed.

  ‘P
eople grow tired of being told what to think and believe. Tired of a system that allows no alternative.’

  ‘You’ve got a leader now who claims to be a reformer.’

  Kunaev laughed. ‘Gorbachev? More Leninist than Lenin? We have heard big promises like his before. Remember Khruschchev? If comrade Gorbachev survives, we will see how many of his fine promises he fulfils.’

  ‘You think he might not survive?’

  ‘Some promises are easy – like “You must all work harder,” or “We will stop you getting drunk.”’

  ‘Why do you think Gorbachev mightn’t survive?’

  ‘Mr Knight, stop trying to find out if I know something about that. I do not. All I am saying is that if Gorbachev is pushed aside like Khrushchev – or dies unexpectedly – the men who will take over will be throwbacks. Worse perhaps than those we had before Gorbachev. Do you think that is what Anna and I want for Andrei?’

  The boy looked up at the mention of his name.

  ‘There is my motive, Mr Knight,’ Kunaev added, nodding in his son’s direction.

  ‘What if Gorbachev does survive?’

  Kunaev frowned. ‘Will he really let Andrei be a free man? Or will it be a freedom that is conditional on saying and thinking the right things? Perhaps a slightly different set of right things from what others before Gorbachev would have prescribed, but prescribed even so.’

  The cassette was approaching its end. Knight stopped the machine and flipped it over. When he looked around, Anna was standing behind him.

  ‘Are you satisfied with my husband’s motives now, Mr Knight?’ She folded her arms and looked at her husband. ‘You see, we are not motivated by simple greed. We do not ask to come to your country because we want to own cars or swimming pools. If that was all we wanted there are better places than Britain.’

  ‘The betrayal.’ Knight looked away and switched the machine on again. ‘How do you justify betraying your own people in what you’ve both done and said today?’

  She laughed in his face. ‘Is it betrayal to want to cut down to size a system that pens and herds people like animals? The Soviet peoples have never known freedom, Mr Knight. Never. We went from being oppressed by tsars in palaces to being deceived by tsars in committees. They wore rough coats like the rest of us at first. But soon they got a taste for silks and satins. They moved back into the palaces and dachas and the guarded houses. They put their children in exclusive schools. They ate rich foods while the rest of us fought over scraps. Now they have limousines and servants, and everything is just like before. This man you call a reformer, Gorbachev – his wife and daughter dress like fashion models in Paris or New York. Seventy years ago the Soviet peoples thought they had a revolution. What revolution? We still await the revolution, do you not see that? We are still waiting for the real Bolsheviks. Until then, whom are we betraying?’