*
They left the apartment shortly afterwards. Larissa’s car was parked a short walk from the apartment block, away from the street lights. At this time in the morning, the traffic was thin and Larissa drove fast, constantly checking the single wing mirror, shaking her head at a brief glimpse of soldiers throwing up barricades at key intersections. Finally, they rattled into a much poorer area of the city, no trees, yawning potholes in the bare earth. The houses were terraced, visibly neglected, drifts of rubbish everywhere. It had been raining overnight and Larissa hurried Bella around the puddles, making for a door that already appeared to be open.
‘This is the place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘Call her Mama. She’s very old. Sweet, but old.’
A spectral figure was waiting in the darkness of the narrow hall, impossibly thin, a collar of white lace faintly visible at the neck of her black dress. She reached for Bella’s hand, thin fingers, no weight at all, and led her deeper into the house.
Bella recognised the smell of the place from the clothes she’d been given. The old lady paused at an open door at the end of the hall. A single candle propped in a saucer shed an uncertain light over the space that evidently served as her home. The space formed part of a bigger room and Bella could hear snoring beyond the fall of sheets that gave her a little privacy.
‘You’re OK?’ It was Larissa.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Later, yes?’
‘Whatever you say.’
When Larissa had gone, the old woman made Bella sit on the sagging sofa that served as a bed and insisted she eat. Bella picked at the bowl of cold kasha in the light of the single candle, aware of the old woman beside her: the sprout of grey whiskers from her chin, the gnarled fingers plaiting and re-plaiting, the gummy smile of contentment as the kasha went down. When Bella returned the bowl, the old woman inspected the smear of buckwheat porridge and disappeared into the shadows, quick bird-like movements that seemed to belie her age. She returned with a cup of water and a sprinkle of tea leaves. She began to warm the cup over the candle flame, never taking her eyes off Bella.
Bella was looking at a nest of icons on a nearby shelf. Above them, taped to the wall, was a sepia photograph of a young man in his twenties. The smile he’d tried to summon for the camera was far from convincing. He looked nervous, overwrought, and the flatness of his features told Bella he might have come from further east.
‘Your son?’ Bella asked in Russian.
‘Da.’ Yes.
‘His name?’
‘Da.’
‘What do you call him?’
‘Da.’
‘You speak Russian?’
‘Da.’
The old woman dipped a bony finger into the cup and scowled. Then she gave it to Bella and glanced up at the picture before linking her thin arms and rocking them like a cradle.
‘Da,’ she said again.
Bella sipped at the lukewarm water, realising that conversation was pointless. She was grateful for the safety of this anonymous slum, and she’d ceased to worry about what might happen next because events were so entirely beyond her control, but she suspected the old woman was crazy. Now she was nodding at the sofa, her hands prayerful, her head cocked against them. You must rest, she was saying. Lie down. Bella emptied the cup, slipped off her boots and did her best to get comfortable. Her head was at a strange angle, and her legs dangled over the other end of the sofa, but she could still hear snoring from beyond the blankets and within seconds she, too, was asleep.
She awoke hours later, feeling something wet between her toes. She struggled up onto one elbow. In the thin grey wash of dawn through the single window, she could see the old woman. She was on her knees at the end of the sofa, a bowl of water on the floor beside her, and she was soaping Bella’s feet, shaking her head and muttering to herself in a language Bella didn’t recognise. From time to time, she’d look up at the icons on the shelf, crossing herself with a dripping hand, and Bella briefly wondered whether she’d been assigned a special role in these troubled times, the stranger with no name, the mysterious saviour with the shaven scalp come to ward off the impending apocalypse, the bringer of grace and the scourge of the approaching Germans. Then she heard footsteps outside in the hall, and a grunt as someone pushed at the door, and she looked up to find herself looking at the face taped to the wall.
In the flesh, he was thinner than she’d imagined, almost spectral. His hair was long, tied into a ponytail with a scarlet bootlace, and a silver ring dangled from the lobe of one ear. In late-summer, his face was pale, and since the photo had been taken he’d grown the beginnings of a beard. The sight of the old woman on her knees brought a smile to his face.
‘Mama,’ he said. Then he looked at Bella. ‘I’d like to say sorry,’ his English was perfect, barely accented. ‘On Larissa’s behalf.’
‘For what?’
‘For what she did to you,’ he touched his own head. ‘She’s a fine journalist. As a barber, she’d starve.’
‘That bad?’
‘Worse. The Russians will cross the road to avoid you. Maybe that was her plan.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
Bella was gazing up at him. In the photograph he’d looked nervous, ill at ease. Now, he was anything but. ‘And this lady is your mother?’ she asked. The old woman was still washing Bella’s feet, seemingly oblivious to the presence at the door.
‘No. I call her Mama because that’s what she wants. She’s younger than she looks, and a little crazy.’
‘She’s been kind. Tell her I’m grateful. Will you do that?’
‘No need. She lives in a world of her own. Here, Mama—’ He had a package wrapped in stained newspaper tucked under his arm. The old woman at last looked up. She seized the package and unwrapped it. Inside were three fish, none of them longer than a finger. ‘A friend of mine sleeps down by the river when it gets hot.’
‘They smell bad.’ Bella had turned her head away.
‘Sure. He found them washed up. You get a present, too. My name’s Ponomorenko, by the way. You can call me Yuri.’
‘You don’t like Ponomorenko?’
‘I prefer Yuri.’ He was wearing a heavy canvas jacket. From one of the pockets he produced a tiny bundle of fur that Bella recognised at once.
‘Mitya,’ she reached out.
‘Mitya? Lovely. That’s what his friends called Shostakovich. Larissa found her this morning. Keep her away from dogs, Mama. Maybe people, too. Otherwise she’ll get eaten.’
‘She’s staying here?’
‘Yes.’
The kitten had caught the scent of the fish. She was in the old woman’s lap, eager for the decaying flesh. Yuri stepped across and hooked her out, scolding her in Russian. Beautiful hands, Bella thought. Long fingers. Clean nails.
One of the hanging sheets stirred and another cat appeared, fully grown. She, too, wanted the fish.
‘Her name’s Svet,’ Yuri said. ‘She’s nursing kittens of her own. One more won’t make any difference. Larissa’s idea, not mine. Enough…’ he gestured Bella to her feet. ‘… we must go. An hour on foot. Maybe longer.’
*
Much longer. Once again, Bella found herself in an endless maze of side streets, doing her best to keep up with Yuri’s long stride. Within minutes they’d left the area where the old woman lived. The houses were bigger, in better condition, and there was a shop or two where one street intersected with another. Waiting for a horse and cart to pass, Bella caught sight of herself in the window of a shop selling hardware. For a moment, she didn’t recognise the tall figure hunched in the Army greatcoat, a greasy cap hiding her baldness, then she felt a presence at her elbow, Yuri turning back from the kerbside.
‘You want to buy a hammer? Nails? A samovar, maybe?’
‘I’m trying to walk like a man,’ Bella ignored the question. ‘Do I look the part? Do you think anyone’s fooled?’
‘You look great. You speak Russian?’
‘Da.’
‘Prove it.’
‘Now? Here?’
‘Yes.’
Bella shrugged. She was tired. There were consequences of getting stopped that didn’t bear contemplation. But Yuri’s question, the aggression in his voice, stung her, and so she launched into a description of her apartment overlooking the Moscow River, which of her neighbours were first to finish a bottle of vodka by lunchtime, how easy it was to buy anything you liked if you could lay hands on hard Western currency.
Yuri took a step back. Amused? Yes. But impressed as well.
‘Larissa was right,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Kyiv.’
‘Right, how?’
‘You knocked her over. I can’t remember when that happened last.’
Knocked her over? They crossed the road and plunged down a street that led towards the river. Bella was feeling better now, buoyed by her little moment of theatre, beginning to understand the risks these people were taking on her behalf. One occupation was about to end. Another set of thieves were only days away from taking over the city. At the bottom of the street, faced with a major boulevard, they paused again. Beneath a tree a chalked symbol – a circle pierced on two sides – had survived the overnight rain. Bella stared at it a moment, then asked what it meant.
‘It’s the work of the nationalists,’ Yuri said. ‘When they can, they use paint. Ukraine for the Ukrainians. We live in hope.’
The boulevard turned out to be Khreshchatyk. Yuri confirmed that Larissa lived near there.
‘A big apartment? Up at the top of the building? Where I stayed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now?’
‘Now you come to my place. They watch Larissa, like everyone watches Larissa. She never complains so maybe she likes it that way. You’ll see her again.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me. Come.’
They hurried across the wideness of the boulevard, avoiding the traffic in both directions. This part of the city might have been anywhere in Europe, Bella thought: the big plane trees, the grand hotels, the well-stocked shopfronts, the hint of haute couture and a whiff of perfume from some of the women who stalked past. A tram clattered around the corner, two soldiers hanging out of the back, trying to get a smile from these women, and Bella instinctively turned her back, earning a stern word from Yuri.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Remember what these people have survived. Be afraid, try and hide, and they’ll smell it.’
They crossed the road. One of the hotels was the Continental. Three army trucks were parked outside, well-guarded, and, as they mounted the pavement, soldiers were manhandling wooden crates out of the back of the biggest truck. Bella paused a moment, staring at one of the crates. She recognised the line of stencils, the loops of rope on both ends, the tell-tale clasp and padlocks. She’d flown thousands of miles with these very same crates. They’d come from Northolt.
‘Something wrong?’ It was Yuri.
‘No. Nothing,’ she nodded at the hotel, suddenly playful. ‘We’re stopping for coffee?’
‘No.’
Another half-hour took them into the oldest part of the city. A cobbled street wound up a hill, climbing away from a park and the river beyond. The houses looked ancient, crooked, as old as the rocks in the park below, and there were churches everywhere, onion domes glinting in sudden bursts of sunshine. At the top of the hill, without warning, Yuri ducked into an alley between two houses. Stepping carefully round curls of dog shit, Bella followed him. At the end of the alley was yet another church, much smaller, more intimate. A path led between the headstones in the graveyard. At the rear of the church, surrounded by tall yew trees, was an extension, a single storey, ugly, recently added. Yuri had produced a key. A glance left and right, and he was standing to one side, inviting Bella in.
‘Welcome,’ he murmured. ‘Larissa again. Her idea.’
About to step inside, Bella hesitated. Away to the south, she thought she caught the rumble of yet another thunderstorm, yet a glance at the sky revealed no trace of a cloud. Yuri, watching her carefully, understood at once.
‘The Germans,’ he gestured round. ‘Maybe two days? Maybe three?’
9
SUNDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 1941
Moncrieff knew that Ursula Barton had been manning one of the weekend desks at St James’s Street. He invited her to a bite of midday lunch, and the restaurant of St Ermin’s Hotel seemed richly appropriate. Barton, arriving late, was amused.
‘If this is your idea of being discreet, think again. Half the people in this room are politicians and the rest are just as nosy,’ she was studying the menu. ‘The kidneys, please. With mashed swede.’
Moncrieff described the two days he’d spent at St Albans. When it came to conversations that might interest the queen of ‘B’ Section, he was spoiled for choice, but the encounter that had really stuck in his mind was the drive back to town with Maskelyne.
‘Dons have minds of their own,’ he said. ‘Thank God for higher education.’
‘You really believe that? My ex-husband went to Oxford. It made absolutely no difference. He was born obdurate and stupid and he went to great lengths to stay that way.’
‘Maskelyne’s different. Obdurate, yes. Stupid, never. Do you know anything about cricket? There’s one player who watches everything, sees everything, knows everything. He stands behind the wicket. Big pair of gloves. Sentry at the gate. Huge responsibility.’
Moncrieff described the ball Philby had floated down on the leg side, the invitation for the batsman to belt it high in the air in Moncrieff’s direction.
‘I’m guessing you dropped it.’
‘I missed it completely.’
‘A huge embarrassment.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Much laughter all round.’
‘Indeed. But that’s the point. It was a sunny day, not a cloud in sight. Philby placed the field. The right ball, and he knew I’d be catching blind. That ball wasn’t just meant for me. It was for all of us.’
‘Is this a plea in mitigation?’
‘On the contrary, it’s a tribute to how clever the bloody man is.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Meaning he wanted to mark our card, send a message if you like. Be careful who you offend. Be careful in your choice of enemies. The message couldn’t have been plainer, but the real art is the way he chose to deliver it. Maskelyne has a very dim view of our Broadway friends. He thinks they’re a liability and he doesn’t mind saying so. The one exception is Philby. Another phrase I heard is “favourite son”. He’s twenty-nine, Ursula, and he’s on manoeuvres. One day, they’ll all wake up and he’ll be running the place.’
‘But you just told me he’s clever. So maybe he deserves to.’
Moncrieff didn’t answer. Instead, he wanted to know why Barton had directed him towards the Krivitsky file.
‘That’s a question I might ask you.’ She sat back as the waiter appeared with their order, then reached for her knife and fork and waited until he’d gone. ‘Well?’
‘Krivitsky believed the Soviets were running an agent in Spain. He was working as a journalist. And he was reporting from the Nationalist side. That’s what he told Jane Archer. Here, upstairs at this hotel. Did you know any of this?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘And you’re aware that Philby meets all those criteria? Every single one?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, did anyone from our massed ranks trouble themselves to pursue the matter? Call him in? Have a chat?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Which must mean no.’
‘Indeed. That would be a fair assumption.’
‘So why not? What stayed our hand? Prima facie, Krivitsky was the real thing. He really did work for Moscow. He really was NKVD. In fact, he ran most of their agents across Europe.’
‘I know, Tam. I was there in The H
ague where he’d pitched his tent. We all knew what he was up to. His pedigree was never in question.’
‘So why didn’t anyone believe him?’
‘They did, Tam. Jane believed him. And said so. Not just the agent in Spain but the FO plant as well. Eton, Oxford, well-bred, good family. Krivitsky’s words, verbatim.’
‘And no one took it any further?’ Moncrieff couldn’t believe it.
‘Nobody. At the time, of course, we were swamped. Some weeks it felt like half of Europe was at our door. All those people to be screened, locked up, weighed in the balance, occasionally turned around and pointed at their former masters. We were puffing uphill, Tam, and the gradient was getting steeper.’
‘That’s an excuse.’
‘I know it is. Jane knew, too, and she was brave enough to say so.’
‘Which is why she was sacked?’
Barton shrugged, and speared another slice of kidney. Moncrieff had barely touched his brawn salad.
‘If you knew all this already,’ he said slowly, ‘why did you send me up there at all?’
‘Because you wanted to see Bella’s file. Any joy, incidentally?’
‘Not really, but you probably knew that, too.’
‘Tut-tut, Tam. I thought we were friends.’
‘We were. We are. But that’s not the point. What I did was very visible. Unless I broke in and burgled their bloody Registry, just helped myself, it couldn’t be otherwise. They knew I was coming. They knew what I was looking for. I filled in a form. I booked time in one of their cubicles. It was all there in black and white. The names on the docket. Isobel Menzies. Walter Krivitsky.’
‘And Philby? He knew?’
‘Of course he did. He knows everything. We sparred, as you doubtless anticipated. We sparred that first day in Prae House, we sparred that evening when I stayed the night at his place, and we were still at it the next day. I’m an ex-bootneck. I can hold my own in any company. I can read a conversation on any level. And more to the point, I can recognise a message when I see one.’
‘Like the catch you missed?’
‘Absolutely. And the beasting that followed afterwards in the pub. Good fun, most of it, but there’s another message, isn’t there? The one you sent. Through me. We’re curious, Mr Philby. Mr Krivitsky has whetted our appetite. And now we’d like to find out more. That’s why Philby put the sun in my eyes. That’s why he made sure the ball came my way. That was his answer. He’s running rings round us. And he’s telling us to back off.’ Moncrieff paused for a moment, then leaned forward. ‘So, there it is. Message delivered. Can I go home now? Back to Scotland? Finish my leave?’
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 8
