Dear Lord Chancellor,
You will recognise the enclosed photocopy as a single page from my account of recent events. Needless to say, I have copies of the rest of it. Also of the photos showing the CIA hit team, establishing their involvement in the killings of Prince Ibn and Bill Clarke, and the recording of Bill’s message to me, when he was clearly about to blow the operation open. All of these things are safe somewhere. Just like me. Let’s hope we both stay that way. I’d be grateful if you’d pass this on.
Of course, I’m not where the postmark suggests. Doubtless someone will track me down eventually. Hope you make sure they read this first.
Yours, etc.
‘Damn you, Knight,’ the Lord Chancellor said. He picked up the telephone. He’d better do as the man said: pass it on.
*
A mile and a half north, in Fleet Street, journalist Doug Riley found his letter more entertaining.
Dear Doug,
Herewith is a cheque that won’t bounce. Thanks for your help.
The story will have to wait. Sorry to let you down. One of these days you might get it. If you do, send me some flowers. If you can find out where to send them.
Best regards
For a man who suspected that he’d just missed the story of the decade, Riley took it surprisingly well. So well, in fact, that he adjourned to the pub. He had someone’s health to drink.
*
A mile to the east, Bolton’s Restaurant, between Fenchurch Street and Lime Street, was the ideal watering hole for the money men of the City of London.
The hubbub was at its merriest that lunchtime as two bankers followed the maître d’ across the floor. They were a contrasting pair. One was pot-bellied and middle-aged, the other was younger and taller, with long ears.
Both men were drinking large gins, which they carried with them to their table. As they seated themselves they looked around automatically to see who else was there.
‘Well, I’ve had a useful morning, old boy,’ said the younger man, tugging on an earlobe.
‘Really?’
‘Chap walked in off the street. Had a couple of letters of introduction with him from West German banks. He’s West German, you see. Something in electronics. Turns out he’s come here to do a little company shopping.’
‘Hmm. Never sure about Germans.’
The younger man grinned and polished off his gin.
‘This chap’s cash-rich. Looking for ways to soak it up. I saw his balances. He authorised me to check them directly, bank to bank. He’s got accounts all over the place. Took me half the morning.’
‘What’s he want from you?’
‘A front. He wants to be able to wheel us in when he decides who he’s going after and makes his offer for them. Wants to do it through us. He’ll stay out of sight.’
‘Sounds straightforward enough.’
‘A licence to print money. We take a management fee for expediting the purchase, then we pick up the business’s account afterwards.’ The young banker dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Might even be some side action for chaps like you and me. Want me to keep you abreast?’
The pot-bellied banker didn’t look very interested. ‘Depends on the return.’
‘Can’t fail to be outstanding. Know who he’s planning to go for?’
‘How would I?’
The young banker rattled off a list of eight or ten company names, none of which meant anything whatsoever to his companion, whose face said as much.
‘Sunrise industries,’ the younger man explained. His fingers worried vigorously at his right lobe.
The pot-bellied one shook his head. ‘What?’
The young banker launched into a further explanation, full of phrases like ‘ultra hi-tech’ and ‘leading-edge technology’. The pot-bellied one just continued staring blankly at him.
‘Military application, some of it,’ the younger man concluded in some despair. ‘Defence contracts. From the Americans. Guidance systems – Star Wars stuff. Could be worth a packet, old boy.’
‘Ahh!’ At the mention of Americans, the fat banker understood. He saw dollars, military men who didn’t know a budget overrun from a tomcat, and whole days spent entertaining them at Ascot and Henley.
‘He’ll need security vetting,’ he said. ‘This German of yours. The government won’t let just anyone start buying up possible defence contractors.’
‘No problem. Got friends in high places, this chap.’
‘Looks like you’re made. Lunch on you, by the way? Old boy?’
*
Berkshire
Marie-Thérèse took the phone call as usual in her neat little office with its Sacred Heart picture and its crucifix over the door. On her wall she also had a portrait of Pope John Paul that had been painted from a photograph by her nephew in Ireland. As was her habit when she was on the phone, she gazed at the portrait as she spoke.
‘Good morning, Mr Knight. Are you well? Are you having nice weather? Oh yes, we’re all perfectly well. Yes, all the girls too.’
She listened for a moment, then smiled.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘It’s safe. Don’t worry. No, no untoward visitors. Good, yes, I’ll hear from you in a month then.’
She hung up.
‘Excuse me, Holy Father,’ she said as she moved John Paul to the side and unlocked the wall safe behind him.
Yes, the yellow lunch box was safe and sound.
50
Moscow
It was the last day of the Congress.
For a fortnight a tidal wave of speeches and lectures had washed over the delegates. But in the millions of words that had echoed around the vast conference hall, there was one that had rung out again and again. That word was reconstruction. Reconstruction of the country’s threadbare economy, of its industries, even of society itself. As for Gorbachev, he could hardly have spoken more plainly. There was nowhere to run to, he’d said, nowhere to hide; the Soviet Union had to reform and match the West’s economic power or be prepared simply to wither away. After this Congress, he warned the delegates, they had to go home ready to tackle the task with all the energy they possessed; if they weren’t committed to that, there could be no place for them in tomorrow’s Soviet Union.
So by the time the delegates were gathering for the closing speeches on that final morning, they’d learnt beyond a shadow of a doubt which way the wind was blowing the top of the tree.
That left but one question to be answered, a question that swept through the side lobbies and toilets where they whispered together. In their political system, it was the make-or-break question.
So much for the top of the tree, they said to each other; but would the branches beneath it be blowing the same way?
*
In the Arsenal block, Gorbachev’s office door opened and Zavarov, Ligachev and Chebrikov were shown in. Gorbachev turned from the window to watch them, noting with grim satisfaction that all of them looked rather ill at ease. They were meant to be. His summons for them to come to him, issued only ten minutes earlier, had been calculated to achieve precisely that, catching them when they least expected it, on this of all mornings.
He offered them no greeting. He went to his own seat behind his desk and waved them into the chairs arranged in front of it. No meeting of equals around a table, this.
One detail caught the eye of each of his visitors as he sat down: although there were only the three of them, a fourth chair had been set out in that neat line before the General Secretary’s desk. It sat empty. Gorbachev made no attempt to explain it and it was as if a ghost was sitting there watching them.
‘So, comrades,’ Gorbachev announced heartily, ‘we come to the end of Congress for another five years. It’s been an exciting one – don’t you agree? – new ideas, a new path for our great country. What stimulating times we live in!’
They watched him uneasily.
‘And today, of course, as is our tradition, the closing speeches will affirm the commitment of the P
olitburo and the Central Committee to that new path and the changes it will entail.’
He paused to look slowly from one to the other of them, his gaze settling on Ligachev.
‘Changes such as the overhaul of the party’s structure and organisation.’
Then to Zavarov.
‘The fact that military spending will continue to be held in check and absorb less of our national wealth.’
Finally, his gaze went to Chebrikov.
‘Then there is our commitment to gutting the state security apparatus clean of corruption and laziness.’
The three men exchanged discreet glances but said nothing.
‘As for those closing speeches, their words will be scrutinised, messages will be read between their lines. Here is why I called you together this morning. Comrades, make no mistake – every word, every coded signal in those speeches, will declare unequivocal support for the policies to which I have committed myself, and to the path of change on which I have set the Soviet peoples.’
That did it; Zavarov finally spoke up.
‘Comrade General Secretary, perhaps this is the time for us to raise a small matter with you. It concerns the Middle East project on which we’ve all been engaged.’
But Gorbachev raised a hand to stop him.
‘I want to talk about the same matter,’ he announced. The faces before him looked warier than ever. ‘I believe that in this matter we will find the grounds for my confidence regarding your support. Sadly, however –’ he gestured at the empty chair ‘one important person cannot be here today. But he asked me to pass on to you his fraternal good wishes and his assurance that he will be with you in spirit, though he cannot be here in person, when you declare your complete and unstinting support for me. Complete and unstinting, comrades. Nothing less will do.’
‘Who is this mysterious absentee?’ Zavarov growled.
‘I didn’t say? Forgive me.’ Gorbachev took his time. ‘A good friend of yours. General Nikolai Vasiliyevich Serov.’
*
In the apartment on Kutuzovskiy Prospekt the letter arrived unopened: the Soviet chief of staff and his wife were spared the indignity of having their mail tampered with; visibly, at any rate. This one certainly hadn’t been touched: all the edges and corners were sealed with transparent tape. An old trick. For all their clevernesses, that was one simple precaution the KGB hadn’t found a way around.
Olga Zavarova held the unexpected envelope gingerly, at arm’s length, as she studied it. Letters were usually bad news. Hadn’t it been a letter that sent Georgi Fedorovich off to Afghanistan? On the other hand, it got him out of her way for a while; something to be said for unexpected letters after all.
She brought her glasses down from where she’d propped them on the crown of her head and peered more closely at the envelope. This letter wasn’t for Georgi and it wasn’t from the Kremlin. It was for her and it had apparently come from Great Britain, of all places. Unless her English was letting her down completely, that was what she could read on the poorly inked postmark. She walked over to the light from the window. The postmark yielded no further clues: the town or city of posting hadn’t printed.
She turned the envelope over; no sender’s address on the reverse, a normal precaution with mail from the West. She looked at the front again. Her name and address were in proper Cyrillic script, not the Latinised form that she might have expected on a letter from England.
Whom did she know in England? More to the point, who in England knew her?
Olga shrugged. Only one way to find out.
She had always told Georgi he had hands like a peasant and fingers to match. But now, as she wrenched at the envelope, it seemed that she was just as bad. She swore nervously at her incompetence.
Suddenly the tape and paper parted, her hands sprang apart, and something fluttered to the floor. No, two somethings. Pieces of card. Olga grunted and bent over to retrieve them.
Even before her fingers touched the nearer rectangle, she saw what it was. It lay face up and she stared at it, not believing what she was seeing.
Her fingers trembled as they picked up the photograph. Faded monochrome. Grainy. Torn at one corner and cracked across its surface. And so familiar.
The trembling spread to her whole body as she crossed the room to the Steinway and held the photograph next to the print in the silver frame.
Two identical prints from a single negative. A soldier of the Red Army with captain’s boards on his shoulders.
Taller in those days. Slimmer too. Broad shouldered even if he did have peasant’s hands. A proud, good-looking wife by his side.
And there, gazing out from the picture with those serene eyes, their beautiful daughter.
Suddenly Olga’s head was swimming.
‘Katarina,’ she whispered. The name set her lips tingling; she hadn’t said it aloud for years, not even to Georgi. Hah! Above all, not to Georgi.
She let herself flop down onto the nearest couch and continued staring at the black and white photograph. Then she remembered the other piece of card that had come in the envelope.
She went back and fumbled to pick it up off the floor. It seemed to be a photograph too, but it had fallen face down.
Finally she had it in her hand and turned it over.
‘Dear God in heaven.’
She sat down heavily. This photograph was modern and in colour. She stared at it for many minutes. She had no need to compare it with the first one, the older one. Nor did it matter that the older one was monochrome. She was a mother: she could remember the blonde hair and the green eyes, like jade. They were the same hair and eyes as in this colour photograph. A generation apart, but the same.
‘To the life,’ she whispered. ‘Katarina to the life.’
There was no letter of any kind in the envelope. Nothing but the photographs.
*
It was dark when Georgi Zavarov got home from his fateful Congress. He was exhausted, empty and about as low as he could be. And, damn it, on this of all days there was no one at the door to take his coat and put a friendly drink in his hand. Infuriating. Ratushny no longer worked for them, of course. And Olga being Olga, she’d found something wrong with every replacement that they’d offered her, and had sent them all away. Under the circumstances, was it unreasonable of him to expect that the least she could do was see to his needs herself?
Suddenly he stopped his mental grumbling and listened. His heavy coat hung from his hand. He let it fall.
‘Tchaikovsky,’ he whispered.
It was true. The unmistakable strains of a melancholy nocturne drifted along the hallway.
Slowly, soundlessly, he pushed the drawing-room door open. The only light was what fell into the room from the kitchen. And there, at the Steinway, sat Olga. She was playing without benefit of any score or the light to read it by. Playing like her husband hadn’t heard for years.
Zavarov ignored the torn scraps of envelope on the floor and crept quietly to an armchair. She hadn’t noticed his arrival. He wouldn’t make a sound to disturb her. He only wanted to hear her play.
*
England
It was a nice little town. Not very large, just a harbour and a beach, really. Dead quiet at this time of year. The shops hadn’t even got around to stocking up on beach balls and flip-flops yet. They’d do that for Easter. Which would be early this year, only two or three weeks away.
‘Stuff your psychiatrists,’ was what Knight had told Welfare. ‘I know all about your psychiatrists. She’ll be fine with me.’
And here they were. He wouldn’t be telling Curzon Street where either. He’d used some of the cash to buy a new car, just to make things harder for them. Not in his own name, of course. Nor the new one they’d given him. Just like the house wasn’t rented in either of those names. His solicitor had power of attorney to sell the place in Berkshire. The money would get to him in the end. He still had a trick or two.
The days slid by in a lazy stream. Swanning about like s
choolkids in the long holiday. They walked in the forest above the harbour. He talked to Galina a lot, mostly in her own language, sometimes in his, which he was beginning to teach her. He cooked them plain food and made sure she ate all he put before her. She painted a little but showed no inclination to sculpt. He took her swimming in the nearest big town. They explored all the coffee shops and tea houses for miles around. They went boating on a lake, wrapped up against the March wind. They drove to look at the countryside. They listened to all kinds of music, from classics to rock. He rented movie videos from one of the shops; in fact, it amused him that she seemed to be becoming a television addict. Not that he ever said anything about that: there were worse things.
According to the local doctor, the baby that she was carrying was just fine. But after his first examination of her he’d asked Knight about the scars on her wrists.
‘I guess she lost a lot of blood,’ Knight admitted.
‘I was wondering how she got the scars, actually.’
‘It’s because of the blood loss I was worried about the baby.’
‘The baby’s perfectly healthy. The scars look a few months old. The pregnancy can’t have been very advanced at the time. Care to tell me what happened?’
‘I’ll bring her again in a month’s time, Doctor. Thanks.’
She’d be all right. They all would. All three of them. Spring was in the air. Buds, new life.
*
He left it a while before arranging to see Sir Marcus Cunningham. They had brought him out of retirement for a while to keep an eye on Gaunt. It was all very discreet. Gaunt still held the position and title of Director General; Sir Marcus was merely there ‘in an advisory capacity’.
Knight and he met by the boating lake and Galya waited in the car while the two men strolled along the marina.
‘Pity about that bloke and his book,’ said Sir Marcus. ‘The fingerprints.’
‘Viktor Kunaev? Yes, sorry about that. All those years and I never knew.’
‘You were young.’
‘I was soft.’
Sir Marcus smiled. ‘Weren’t we all once?’
‘Once.’
Patriots Page 42
