Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  No patrol cars appeared and the M3 went past in a blur of preoccupied thought as he considered how to report his news; similarly the outskirts of town and his approach to inner London.

  By the time he was seated before Gaunt and Knight in Gaunt’s office he had decided that the cassette needed little embellishment by him. He’d brought a portable cassette player along with him. Now he took it out and put it on Gaunt’s desk, then set the cassette beside it.

  The two men looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘It’s the recording of something new from Kunaev,’ he said. ‘This morning he announced that he wanted to go into another session. Right there and then. We were surprised. Parrish had been planning to leave it until this afternoon.’

  That was enough. He dropped the cassette into the machine, closed the lid and pressed play. Matt Parrish’s persuasive tones filled the room.

  ‘… ready when you are, Viktor, but I want you to set the pace. You just say whatever it is in any way you can. Now – what did you want to talk about?’

  There was a moment of silence. When Kunaev’s voice came, it was very soft, abstracted; almost as if he were talking to himself.

  ‘It is a question of whom I can trust.’

  The cassette rolled on while Parrish let the remark remain unanswered for a time. Sumner glanced at Gaunt and Knight but their eyes were fixed on the cassette player.

  ‘Viktor, we’ve been all through this yesterday. We’re on your side. You made the jump across to us. That took a lot of doing. Do you think we’re going to let you down after that? What is it you’re frightened of?’

  ‘Not you, I do not think. You are not big enough, high enough. That is why I am telling you. But beyond you? That is a problem.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Viktor, I don’t understand.’

  ‘I have proof …’

  The voice trailed away. Again Parrish waited before pushing him on.

  ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘They destroyed Nikita, the men in the Kremlin. My father loved him. But they called him a peasant and sneered at him. He wanted to give the country back to the people – that was the real reason they hated him. After Brezhnev and the other crooks took control, my father became fearful for the future. Fearful for himself, for my mother, for me. So he arranged some protection – he called it his avoska.’

  ‘His what, Viktor?’

  ‘You have never lived in Moscow, Mr Parrish. Or not as a Muscovite. In England you go into your shops and buy what you want. If you have the money. But money alone is not enough in Moscow. The shops are so often empty. Or filled with rubbish. So you carry always a little string bag. Folded in your pocket or the corner of a handbag. In case something good appears in the market one day. The bag is avoska. A just-in-case thing.’

  ‘This avoska of your father’s, Viktor – what is it?’

  ‘That does not matter. Not yet. What it proves is all that matters.’

  ‘All right. What does it prove?’

  Another long silence followed, punctuated only by the faint, regular squeak of the cassette’s reel mechanism. Sumner didn’t dare fast-forward the tape for fear of missing the vital seconds. Knight looked up inquiringly but Sumner avoided looking at him. Gaunt’s head was bent; his eyes were closed.

  Finally, Parrish’s voice resumed, very gently.

  ‘Viktor, will you tell me what the avoska proves?’

  When Kunaev made his answer, his voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘It proves that there is a traitor in your organisation, Mr Parrish. A mole, as you would say. No ordinary mole. Not like the others that you people get so excited about. Always you are so busy looking for them that you do not think who or what else might be among you. This man is a sleeper, you see – of a unique kind. He has been climbing the ranks of your organisation for twenty years, waiting for his time. By now he should be at the highest level. The highest level. That is what he was groomed for.’

  Sumner reached to the tape machine and pressed stop. Gaunt’s face was inscrutable as he looked up at him. ‘Who else has heard this?’

  ‘Only Matt Parrish.’

  ‘Stenographer?’

  ‘He wasn’t present. The interview was unscheduled.’

  Gaunt sat back in his chair and swung away from Knight and Sumner. They waited for his judgement. A minute ticked by.

  ‘We have here an allegation,’ Gaunt said at last, still facing the window. ‘A grave allegation, yes, but still only an allegation. It may be true, it may not. Until it is proven – if it can be – it is imperative that as few people as possible learn of it. That becomes our first priority.’ He sucked in his narrow cheeks. ‘I’ll have to tell the PM, of course. And the cabinet secretary. Not the Joint Intelligence Committee, however – damn thing leaks like a sieve.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Our second priority is to see if it is true.’

  ‘And if it is,’ Knight asked quietly. ‘Then what?’

  Gaunt’s morose eyes regarded him evenly. ‘In that event, it becomes even more important that only a very select few are informed.’

  Knight turned to Sumner. ‘Has Kunaev said exactly what his proof is – this so-called avoska?’

  Sumner shook his head. ‘As soon as he got that far he clammed up. Said he wanted to think before he told us any more. When we saw he was determined, we called it a day and I came here at once.’

  Knight made to rise. ‘He’s had his thinking time. I’ll go back with you now and we’ll talk to him some more.’

  Sumner shook his head again. ‘There’s a problem with doing that, Edmund.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kunaev refuses to talk to anyone from now on except Matt Parrish and myself.’

  Sumner looked at the others’ faces; both were still tense but he saw realisation dawning in their eyes; he rewound the cassette for a second or two and pressed play again.

  ‘… waiting for his time. By now he should be at the highest level. The highest level. That is what he was groomed for …’

  It was Knight who put it into blunter words: Knight who, as director of counter-espionage, was the most senior man after Gaunt himself.

  ‘He’s pointing at you and me, Horace,’ he said. ‘He says it’s you or me.’

  *

  Sumner was dispatched to make arrangements with Parrish for a further session with Kunaev; but Knight made no move to leave Gaunt’s office.

  Gaunt looked at him warily. ‘Are you about to suggest that we discuss this?’

  ‘Don’t you think we should?’

  Gaunt straightened some of the things on his desk before looking at him. ‘Until we have proof – whether from Kunaev or in some other way – it seems to me that such a discussion is entirely without benefit. Each of us would of course deny the allegation. We might each try to lay it at the other’s door. Neither action would be proof of anything. We would be no further forward than we are now. I fail to see the point. We will await Kunaev’s proof – if it exists.’

  ‘Don’t you think your reticence could be interpreted in another way?’

  Gaunt uncrossed his thin legs. ‘Don’t waste my time, Edmund. Your eagerness could be interpreted in just the same way. You’re demonstrating my point perfectly.’ He sat forward and spread the palms of his hands on the desk, a signal that he wanted to get on, that their meeting was over. But Knight still remained where he was.

  ‘We have other business, Horace. What I really wanted to talk to you about. Bill Clarke’s death.’

  ‘Bill Clarke? What an awful thing. I was with him only that afternoon. We had a meeting with the PM. When I heard the news I just couldn’t believe it. Such a terrible waste –’

  ‘It was no accident.’

  Gaunt withdrew his hands and sat back again. ‘What are you saying?’ His face was giving nothing away.

  ‘His death wasn’t an accident. Not in the car, anyway. I don’t think it was an accident at all. To start with, as you well know, there was no car crash.’

/>   Gaunt blinked slowly. ‘I know this, do I?’

  ‘You’re wasting my time now. I know about the hooker, about Brook Cottage, about all of it.’

  ‘That’s classified information, Edmund. Extremely classified.’

  ‘Classified?’ Knight shook his head sceptically. ‘Half of London knows what really happened. Or think they do. The sex games that went wrong.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  Gaunt drummed his fingertips together softly.

  ‘The facts of the matter are these,’ Knight went on. ‘Everyone’s doing what they were set up for: putting together a cover-up to protect Clarke’s name, his family’s peace and the government’s standing. But the sex was a decoy. Or at least, the way it ended. We’ve obligingly created a cover-up on top of one that was already there. The media’s been taken in just as effectively as the rest of us. They’ve stopped digging for anything else because they think the sex is all there is. They’ve been frightened off because of the pressure to keep the lid on what is in fact the wrong cover-up. Someone’s murdered a senior member of the government – not to mention three other people – and we’re helping them get away with it.’

  ‘Do you have justification for any of this?’

  ‘Some. What started me off was this.’ Knight took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and tossed it across the desk. Gaunt unfolded it and scanned it quickly.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Bill Clarke called me on Friday night. That’s the message he left on my answerphone. He was badly upset about something.’

  ‘It could mean anything or nothing. You two were old friends. What’s odd about him calling you?’

  ‘We hadn’t been in touch for months. And you haven’t heard how he sounds. Worked up, rattled.’

  ‘I’d like to hear that recording. Do you have it?’

  Knight shook his head. ‘It’s at home.’ He stood to leave. ‘Here’s why I’m telling you this, Horace. Bill Clarke was a friend once. Now he’s dead. No one cares a toss, not even his wife. He was no saint, but he wasn’t a killer either. His widow thinks he was, and so do a lot of other people. That’s how he’ll be remembered. But it was the other way around – someone murdered him. I don’t know if it was connected with why he wanted to see me or not. Either way, someone’s been very clever and the Murder Squad and Special Branch haven’t got a clue – or maybe don’t want one. I think we owe it to Clarke to get to the truth. You’ll have to talk to Special Branch, raise merry hell if you have to.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘If you don’t, I bloody will.’

  He left the office before Gaunt could reply.

  *

  In the corridor he almost bowled Joss Franklyn over.

  ‘Steady, old man,’ Franklyn said through his usual cloud of pipe smoke.

  ‘Sorry, Joss. Wasn’t looking.’

  ‘In a paddy with Gaunt, more like. What’s he been saying to you? Ticking you off about these Spetznaz boys getting in? Mustn’t let him get to you.’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  Franklyn took the pipe from his mouth and peered into Knight’s face. ‘You need a break, Edmund. What about some opera?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of tickets for tonight. Wife’s poorly, can’t come. Why don’t you come with me, it’ll take you out of yourself. The Barber of Seville. Lots of fun.’

  Knight laughed, thinking of the Kunaev debrief that was closed to him anyway.

  ‘Taking out of myself,’ he said. ‘That I could surely do with.’

  Franklyn held up the folder in his hand. ‘I’m on my way to see Gaunt myself, let him know what I’m doing with my people in regard to the Spetznaz unit. Only be about ten minutes. I’ll pop down and see you after and we can sort out times. Sound all right?’

  Knight nodded, grateful for the man’s kindness. Franklyn stuck the briar back between his teeth and, pulling a face for Knight’s benefit, tapped on Gaunt’s door.

  *

  Later, with Franklyn gone, Gaunt sat back and thought. He thought very hard indeed; He swivelled his chair in small motions from side to side, his bony elbows resting on its cushioned arms and his legs crossed again. He steepled his fingers and let his thumbs beat a soundless tattoo against one another. These were his only outward movements. His head was down, his great eyes seemed to be fixed on some secret inner scene.

  His secretary crept in at some stage and left a file of letters on the corner of his desk. She said nothing to break his concentration, and closed the door on her way out as quietly as if a baby had been asleep in the room.

  After fifteen or twenty minutes Gaunt sat upright. He laid his arms on the desk top and breathed deeply, like a man waking from a catnap.

  He picked up the receiver of the black phone by his elbow and tapped in a number. All the telephone lines in that building and its satellites spread around London were among the most secure in the world. There was no need to bother with the scramble button.

  ‘Gaunt here. I think we have a problem.’

  He paused, fastidiously aligning his jotter and pen and listening to the question that was asked.

  ‘Mr Edmund Knight,’ he replied.

  He listened again.

  ‘There is a complication. I have been giving it some thought. I have concluded on a course of action. I think we must implement it at once. It requires your sanction.’

  He listened a third time, then rang off. He stood up, ignoring the file of letters, gathered his camel topcoat from the hatstand, and left the office.

  27

  Moscow

  The money began moving at midday; the money that Serov had fretted over.

  Director Smolny of the Foreign Trade Bank was alerted by his deputy that some major transferrals were being effected. He capped his fountain pen, clipped it safely away in an inside pocket of his dark suit, and followed the deputy to the communications room. Their progress was stately: two plump burghers as filled with importance as a good chicken Kiev is full of Ukrainian butter. Heads turned to watch them pass, sensing that something of moment was afoot.

  The telex machine was still chattering when they arrived in the marble-floored room. Two whole sheets had been filled and a third was two-thirds done. Smolny clasped his hands behind his back and waited. Halfway down the fourth sheet the machine’s print head fell silent; the sheet reeled up to the end and stopped.

  A second or two passed, just long enough for the men to assert that theirs was not a hurly-burly world, before the deputy looked questioningly at Smolny. The director nodded once. The deputy went to the machine, carefully detached the sheets, folded them in sequence and handed them to him. Like the good servant delivering a newspaper on its silver tray, it was not for him to glance at the sheets in advance of his master.

  Smolny slipped a set of half-moon spectacles onto his nose, lifted his eyebrows to settle the spectacles comfortably in place, and scanned the long list of account numbers and amounts.

  ‘These are substantial receipts,’ he remarked after a time. There was approval in his voice. ‘Very substantial indeed.’

  The deputy adopted a look of mild gratification. His head tilted and a small smile came to his damp lips.

  ‘What accounts would these be?’ Smolny wondered.

  The deputy cleared his throat softly. In that place it had all the significance of a lengthy speech.

  Smolny peered at him over the spectacles. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe they’re some of the secure accounts, comrade Director.’

  Smolny stared for a moment, then went back to the telex sheets. KGB account numbers. Registered against a series of dummy organisations and non-existent individuals; a way of moving funds about. Smolny sighed. When the Foreign Trade Bank was used, it generally meant that the funds were to leave the Soviet Union. Sooner or later. He hoped later.

  The credits, he noted, came from three sources, all at the State Bank. He didn’t need the deputy’
s assistance to know which they were. Their importance and prestige made their codes familiar to every senior banking officer in the capital. One was the Central Committee account, the second a holding account normally used for military procurement budgets, and the third was one of the KGB’s own Treasury accounts.

  Satisfied that no more was to be learnt from the telex sheets, he thrust them at the deputy.

  ‘See that these transfers are verified and recorded.’ He took off his glasses and waved them at the deputy. ‘And don’t delegate it – do it yourself.’

  With that he swept back to his office, pleased to contemplate what the aggregate of the receipts would do to the day’s balances. To say nothing of the week’s; the month’s if they were left that long; perhaps even the accounting quarter’s: he could keep hoping.

  An hour later the deputy tapped respectfully on his door and peeped his head around it.

  ‘Comrade Director, further instructions have been received on those secure accounts.’

  Smolny looked up as sharply as if his head had been on a spring.

  ‘What?’ He stopped jotting digits on the ruled sheets spread over his desk and held his pen in mid-air. His other hand clasped its cap anxiously. ‘What instructions?’

  The deputy looked mournful. ‘We are to wait until five pm today. By then banking hours will have begun in Panama.’

  ‘Panama?’

  ‘We are to transfer everything to a series of accounts in one of the Panamanian banks.’

  Smolny’s fingers were pressing on the cap of the pen so hard that they were turning white.

  ‘Five pm?’ he echoed.

  The deputy nodded. ‘I’m afraid it means that not a kopek of the receipts can be counted in today’s balances.’ The slightest hint of that small smile reappeared on his damp lips as he withdrew and closed the door quietly.

  *

  Serov was going through Valyukev’s inspection report on the London rezidentura when the phone rang. Valyukev himself was on the line.