‘Has to be what?’
‘Walter’s little mole. Thank God he didn’t knock Franco off.’
‘You think he was the one?’
‘I do, yes, stands to reason. Well bred, a name like that. Clever, too. And a journalist in the making. Where better to make your name? With half the bloody world watching? Thank God the chap got himself killed. Saved us all a lot of trouble.’ He leant a little closer and tapped his watch. ‘Don’t forget the cricket this afternoon. I’m keeping score, by the way. We draw stumps here in half an hour.’
*
The cricket pitch, by happy accident, was a couple of minutes’ stroll away. Moncrieff decided he’d gleaned more than enough from the Krivitsky files and suggested a brief detour en route to a pub of Woodfield’s choice. As one colleague to another, he wanted to say a modest thank-you.
Woodfield jumped at the invitation. The pub was called the King Harry, and the moment Woodfield walked in, a pint of bitter and a pink gin appeared on the bar.
‘And you, sir?’
‘Same, please,’ Moncrieff assumed the beer had been for him, ‘without the gin.’
They settled in a corner. When Moncrieff suggested a snack, perhaps a sandwich, Woodfield shook his head.
‘Waste of alcohol,’ he grunted. ‘Cheers. Down the hatch.’
Half the beer had gone in seconds. Moncrieff pressed him lightly about life in the Indian police.
‘Kim says you had a grand time.’
‘Kim’s right about that. He was born there so he should know the place, but God knows how he ever coped with the climate. The heat gets you down in the end. Proper rain should cool you off. Not there, my friend, even in the bloody monsoon.’
‘And now?’
‘Me, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now’s perfect. A job that matters. Late nights when there’s a flap on. Lovely people, too, and so bloody young. I’ve one or two chums in your outfit. They tell me it’s too bloody big, too bloody impersonal, takes itself too bloody seriously. Does any of that ring a bell?’
‘I’m afraid I’m the wrong person to ask,’ Moncrieff took a sip of his beer. ‘Most of our people work up in Blenheim Palace. They used to be in Wormwood Scrubs, so they’re not making a fuss. Big? You’re right. Too big? God only knows. Go back a couple of years and we were dealing with floods of refugees, Free French sailors, Polish airmen, sundry riff-raff. You need to man the parapets, sort out the wheat from the chaff, and you need staff for that, in serious numbers. Your lot? I’m guessing it’s very different.’
‘You’re right, it is. And you know the real trick? Leadership. It’s one thing recruiting a bunch of bright young kids, quite another to get the best out of them. For that, says me, you need someone special, someone who can whip them into shape without them even noticing. With my background, I’d be hopeless. The last thing you need in an operation like Five is a policeman. We coppers stick by the rules. Everyone toes the line. Last thing you need.’
‘Five? You mean Section Five?’
‘Of course. You’ve been up there in that office of theirs, I know you have. It’s wonderful, what he’s done, what he manages to get out of them. Give a man a proper education, ideas of his own, and you’ve got a problem. But for some reason, God knows how, that never happens. Those boys up in Five love him, absolutely adore him.’
‘Him?’
‘Kim,’ he drained his pint and reached for the pink gin. ‘MI6’s favourite son.’
Minutes later, they were heading for the cricket pitch. Through a line of trees, Moncrieff could see that many of the players were already on the pitch, tossing the ball to each other. They wore an assortment of kit including, just occasionally, proper whites. Philby, deep in conversation with one of the umpires, wore grass-stained flannel trousers and an old shirt, open at the neck, that he probably saved for gardening. It was warm now, barely a cloud in the sky, perfect for the afternoon to come.
‘Don’t you feel out on a limb here?’ Moncrieff asked Woodfield. ‘With everyone else up in Broadway?’
‘Not at all. Like I just said, corps d’esprit is everything. We’re masters of our own little patch and that’s the way we like it. If we really need to talk to Broadway, we can. That’s what telephones are for.’
‘But there must be meetings, surely? Organisations die without them.’
‘Of course there are,’ Woodfield was still watching Philby. ‘That’s why he goes up there twice a week, poor bugger.’
*
Philby, last night, had promised to sort out something to wear for Moncrieff. In the draughty hut that served as a pavilion, he found an assortment of garments that properly belonged in a jumble sale. Nothing fitted. Everything was too small. Eventually, after struggling to climb into a pair of Army-issue trousers, he re-emerged into the sunshine to find Philby consulting a page torn from a secretarial notepad.
‘Nothing serious,’ he said. ‘This is just a pick-up game. Think opera. Enjoy the overture and the rest happens in the pub.’
Moncrieff needed to establish that cricket wasn’t his game. Apologies in advance, he said. Expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed.
‘Absolutely no problem, Tam. We’ve lost the toss. The enemy have put themselves into bat.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘I’ve got you down at long leg. Enjoy the sunshine.’
The game began. Long leg took Moncrieff down towards the boundary, marked by a privet hedge. Staring up towards the wicket, he had the sun in his eyes. The opening bowler he recognised from the Section Five office. He hurled the ball down the wicket with immense conviction, much to Philby’s delight, but failed to make any impact. From time to time, one or other of the batsmen would glance a delivery towards long leg, and Moncrieff would do his best to return it, but it was obvious from the start that Section Five were hopelessly outclassed.
Then Philby, exercising the captain’s prerogative, called for the ball and beckoned the fielders closer to the wicket. His pace was much slower, more artful, and as over followed over, Moncrieff began to pay more attention. The sun in his eyes was still a problem but, as Philby sauntered up, he became fascinated by his delivery. He bowled front-on, with a round arm, head and chin raised high as if he was peering over some obstacle, yet his face wore a distant air of meditation, even as – with a flick of his wrist – he released the ball.
The batsmen facing him were equally bemused. One tried to sweep him to leg and failed. The other took a step forward, determined to drive the delivery over the distant hedge, but he, too, was caught by the vicious spin on the ball. Then, in Philby’s third over, came the moment when he dropped the ball a fraction wide and the batsman seized his opportunity, half turned at the crease, and belted it high towards the boundary.
Moncrieff knew the ball was coming his way. The law of physics was incontestable. But in the blinding glare of the sun, he could see nothing. He tried to shade his eyes, aware that the rest of the team were watching him. Then the ball landed with a dull thud just inches away, and he looked up to see the batsmen completing another run.
Embarrassment, Moncrieff knew, was too small a word. He picked up the ball, returned it to the wicketkeeper, and then held his hands wide. Mea culpa. My fault.
*
A couple of hours later, the wicketkeeper bought him a pint. They were back in the King Harry, thoroughly beaten and dying of thirst.
‘Here’s to chaos,’ he said. ‘Grand effort.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Ivor Maskelyne,’ the wicketkeeper thrust out a hand. ‘I’m the standing reserve. When they call on me you know times are hard.’
Moncrieff recognised the name at once. Jasper Maskelyne was a stage magician who specialised in creating illusions. His talents had been snapped up by General Wavell, fighting Rommel in North Africa, and it was whispered in certain quarters that the magician had plans to make Alexandria disappear.
‘The great Jasper? Any relation?’
‘Sadly not. W
e’ve always kidded ourselves that he might be a distant cousin, but I suspect that’s an illusion, too.’
Moncrieff smiled. Maskelyne was a big man, as untidy as everyone else. His face had reddened in the sun and his broken glasses were secured with a grubby twist of white medical tape.
‘You work here?’ Moncrieff asked. ‘Section Five?’
‘Oxford, I’m afraid. Balliol. Our mad world still has room for a degree in Classics and I’m happy to oblige.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to Byzantine literature. Long may it last. Christ, look who’s here.’
Moncrieff glanced round to catch a figure in a striped blazer and flannels who’d just stepped into the pub. He had his arms round Philby and was whispering in his ear while he took a good look at everyone else. A bottle of champagne, cork still intact, dangled from one hand and the moment his eyes settled on Moncrieff he disengaged himself and staggered across.
‘Moncrieff? Can this be true? Do my eyes deceive me? My bro pays daily tribute to your loveliness, but nothing can prepare a man for this. By God, you’re handsome. Dare I touch?’
Like everyone else at St James’s Street, Moncrieff knew about Guy Burgess. His brother, Nigel, worked for MI5, monitoring the activities of the UK Communist Party.
‘You’re drunk.’ It was Maskelyne. ‘Again.’
‘Christ, I hope so,’ Burgess was still gazing in mock-wonderment at Moncrieff. ‘Dear Kim tells me you’re staying the night. Me too. You’ll know about the domestic arrangements. Only one spare bed, alas, but I used to be a sailor so bunking up comes naturally. Does a needy man get a goodnight kiss? Just one? I do hope so.’
Moncrieff studied him a moment. Wavy black hair. Full lips. Stained teeth. Appalling breath. Wet eyes.
‘Maybe I’m spoken for,’ Moncrieff said. ‘We’ll have to see.’
Philby had joined the group, steering the four of them towards a spare table. Burgess gave him the bottle of champagne, accompanied by an extravagant wink.
‘Kim says you cut a dashing figure out there…’ he nodded towards the door, ‘… on the field of battle. Is this true? Is there yet more to your lovely self?’
Moncrieff was no stranger to difficult situations but repartee this extravagant was something new.
‘Your reputation goes before you, Guy. I’m glad to say I’m not disappointed. That brother of yours is too generous. I’ll have him shot tomorrow morning. Leave it to me. I’ll see it happens.’
Burgess paused for a moment, his mouth half open. Philby, still clutching the bottle, had a smile on his lips. Moncrieff hadn’t finished.
‘Nigel tells me you were with Kim in Spain? True?’
‘False. My brother lies. Shoot him twice.’ He beckoned Moncrieff closer. ‘You know about Kim in Spain? The fucking Ivans blew him up and nearly killed him.’ He turned to Philby. ‘Teruel, Kim? Have I got that right? You and a bunch of other scribblers? Sitting in some fucking car or other, minding your own business?’
‘The rest died,’ Philby nodded. ‘Which I imagine made me lucky.’
‘There,’ Burgess’s hand lay on Moncrieff’s arm. ‘From the horse’s mouth. Franco even gave him a medal, fool’s gold of course but no thanks to the fucking comrades.’ In the absence of a drink of his own, he seized Moncrieff’s glass and proposed a toast. ‘Death to the comrades. May Stalin die in hell. Poor Kim. I bet it frightened you, didn’t it? A big bang like that?’
Philby, looking at Moncrieff, murmured something that sounded like an apology. Then he got to his feet and clapped his hands for quiet. Laughter and conversation died. Heads turned at the bar.
‘As your captain…’ he began, ‘… it once again falls to me to award the Victor Ludorum. We have, of course, been soundly beaten but no matter. In victory, grace. In defeat, more beer.’ There was a roar of applause, stilled by Philby. ‘And so it gives me the greatest pleasure to award – yes – this fine bottle of Moët, courtesy of my very good friend here. A few words, Guy? We’d be grateful.’
Burgess got unsteadily to his feet, gripping the back of the chair, half turning to the rest of the bar. Then he reached for the bottle and his gaze settled once again on Moncrieff.
‘This, dearest Tam, is for services to Isaac Newton. I’m told that non-catch of yours was a sitter, but my friends here hold no grudges. Gravity, alas, always wins in the end, and in any case the taking part is the thing. So, three cheers for the sainted Isaac. Hip hip…’
The bar erupted. There were shouts of bravo. Philby was still on his feet as Burgess kissed the bottle and handed it to Moncrieff. Moncrieff raised it high and took a bow. More applause, even wilder. Then Moncrieff heard a voice in his ear.
‘You’re welcome any time, Tam.’ It was Philby. ‘Absolutely our pleasure.’
*
Maskelyne drove Moncrieff back to London. The two men shared the front of the Alvis, as the darkness stole in from the east. The party in the King Harry was still in full swing when they left but Maskelyne had a late dinner appointment in Kensington and Moncrieff was grateful for the offer of a lift.
‘You’ve been with these people long?’ he asked.
‘Since the outbreak of war. I’m never quite sure what I bring to the table, but they seem to appreciate another pair of eyes from time to time.’
Moncrieff nodded. From his perch in MI5, he’d been aware of the spillage from Oxbridge high tables, of senior academics who’d made their way into the world of intelligence gathering.
‘So what did you make of them?’
‘Them?’ Maskelyne’s eyes didn’t leave the road. ‘Or all of you? Plural?’
‘Them. MI6.’
‘I was first astonished, then – to be frank – incredulous. Incredulity, believe me, is worse.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘It’s difficult to explain. You’re there in the heart of the machine, in the belly of the beast, and you look round, and you have a conversation or two, and you meet more chaps, and shake hands, and attend meetings, and do more than your share of listening, and all the time you’ve got the feeling that all this fatuity, this senseless blather, this posturing, this endless chasing of ghosts, is some clever camouflage for the real thing.’
‘An illusion?’
‘Precisely. I used to tell myself that out there somewhere, God knows where, there was a proper organisation, people of quality, folk who knew what they were doing, a real secret service. But then comes the moment when you have to accept that this isn’t true, that what you’re seeing and hearing is indeed the real thing, and at that point you’re left with only one conclusion.’
‘Which is?’
‘That we’re fucked. My only hope, and it’s a slim one, is that the enemy is even more deranged. But that, I’m afraid, might be whistling in the dark.’ He slowed to overtake an old man wobbling along on a bicycle, and then allowed himself a soft chuckle. ‘You know what I really think?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The whole thing, from where I sit, is a waste of time and money. Just now, we have very little of either. If I was in the chair, I’d wrap the whole thing up. A subscription to a decent newspaper, just one, would give you all the intelligence you’d ever need.’ He shot Moncrieff a look. ‘Does that sound unduly treasonable?’
‘Not at all. You’re talking about MI6? Broadway?’
‘I am. That’s my bailiwick. I speak as I find.’
‘No qualifications? Nothing in mitigation?’
‘Good question.’ Maskelyne was smiling now while he thought about it. Then he laughed. ‘That catch you fluffed this afternoon. I was watching Philby like a hawk. That’s what us wicketkeepers do.’
‘And?’
‘His bowling had been OK, more than OK, straight down the middle, very disciplined.’
‘And then?’
‘And then he lobbed down a loose one, plum on the leg side, an absolute gift. Whatever happened, it was coming to you in the outfield. The batsman couldn’t miss.’
‘You mean he set me up?�
�
‘Of course he did. The sun was in your eyes. That’s why he put you there. He knew you’d fuck it up. He was absolutely certain he could make a fool of you. Clever…’ he nodded, ‘… not Broadway’s style at all.’
8
SUNDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 1941
Larissa shook her gently awake before dawn. They had to leave, she said, before the city began to stir. The clothes lay beside the bed, carefully folded, a womanly touch that made Bella smile.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Another place. Safer. Somewhere to wait.’
‘And then what?’
‘Someone else will collect you there.’
‘Who?’
‘Put the clothes on,’ Larissa nodded at the floor. ‘Please.’
Bella shrugged. She knew she had no choice. Fully dressed, she did her best to avoid the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Once, at Oxford, she’d briefly dallied with a career on the stage, but she’d never auditioned to be a tramp.
‘Wonderful,’ Larissa was back with a camera. ‘You look like a man. Put the coat on.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
Bella did what she was told. Larissa gave her a cap, grey wool, leather-rimmed, stained and greasy to the touch.
‘You want me to wear this?’
‘Yes.’
Larissa took a step back, cocked her head this way and that, then stepped forward and adjusted the cap until it sat lower over Bella’s eyes. Only then did she start taking more pictures, adjusting the exposure for the dimness of the light, making sure that the background was as neutral as possible.
‘These are for your ID card,’ she said. ‘We have people who can supply them. Fakes but good fakes.’
‘How long am I staying here?’
‘That depends on the Germans. But they’ll be issuing ID cards, too, and they’ll need to see your old one.’
‘I’m Ukrainian forever?’
‘That might be wise.’ Larissa smiled. ‘Now take the cap off.’
‘Why?’
‘I want one last shot,’ she stepped forward, and kissed Bella softly on the lips. ‘For me.’
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 7
