‘So what does that make Yuri? Khrushchev’s Liubiimchik?’
‘Yuri will never be anyone’s pet. But at least he’s still alive.’
Bella nodded. This woman appeared to know everything.
‘One more question,’ Bella said.
‘Can’t it wait? Until later?’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ Larissa tapped her watch. ‘Just one.’
Bella described the walk down Khreshchatyk, crossing the busy boulevard, then catching sight of the Army trucks parked outside the City hotel.
‘There were big wooden boxes,’ she said. ‘And the soldiers were carrying them into a side entrance at the hotel.’
‘So?’
‘Those boxes came from Britain. I have no idea what was inside them because no one would tell me.’ She paused. ‘Not even Ilya Glivenko.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Was he at the hotel? Ilya?’
‘Very probably.’
‘And you? Do you know what was inside those boxes?’
‘Yes, I do, and if you want me to tell you, I’m afraid the answer’s no. Not for my sake, chérie…’ that same smile again, ‘… but yours.’
11
TUESDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 1941
By mid-morning, Moncrieff was beginning to realise why The Watchers found it so hard to recruit the right kind of officers to fill its ranks. To run effective surveillance, you needed endless patience and a talent for invisibility. You needed to make yourself so inconspicuous, and so unremarkable, that no one would spare you a second glance. At the same time, you needed to be alert to every passing face, every sudden eruption of passengers as the next train squealed to a halt, wreathed in steam, and then opened its doors. It was in the nature of the hunt that you only got one opportunity to spot your target, and tuck in behind him. A moment’s carelessness, some silly distraction, and he was gone.
Moncrieff had spent many years stalking deer in the mountains around the Glebe House. Indeed, at the urging of his dying mother he’d even established a business offering catered weekends for City stockbrokers with an urge to shoot a stag or two. He’d done his best to school these clients in the subtle arts of staying upwind, of moving carefully from cover to cover, of closing on the prey until a gentle pressure on the trigger would bring the animal to its knees. But nothing had prepared him for the smoky chaos of St Pancras station on a busy weekday morning. He was six foot three. There were very few places to hide. Philby knew him by sight. Hopeless.
Nonetheless, it had to be done. Ursula Barton, for whom he had enormous respect, shared his doubts about Kim Philby. She’d assessed the evidence, all of it circumstantial, and made it very clear that this little operation of theirs was to remain strictly their own affair. Tradecraft, she’d murmured, was everything and in this respect they’d be wise to lift a page or two from the NKVD operational guide. Nothing on paper. Reporting only by word of mouth, preferably on neutral territory. The devilled kidneys at St Ermin’s were the fondest memory but never again would they meet in a setting like that. A park bench in the September sunshine? Perfect. A stroll along the Embankment beneath a shared umbrella? Better still. She’d even used the word ‘freelance’, a clue to just how complicit they’d have to become in this adventure, because – to Moncrieff’s best knowledge – she’d never once strayed beyond departmental guidelines. If anything had persuaded him of the importance of what they were up to, it was this. She scented treachery. But she needed to be sure.
Moncrieff checked his watch: 11.47. The next train from St Albans was already in sight behind a cloud of steam at the end of the platform. In his heart Moncrieff believed he’d probably missed Philby, a schoolboy error on his part, but he was trying to persuade himself that Broadway had scheduled no morning meetings, and that Section Five’s rising star was about to arrive for lunch.
And so it proved. Moncrieff had found himself an alcove beside one of the station’s cafeterias. He spotted Philby the moment he stepped off the train: brown corduroy suit, polished brogues, a slightly dented homburg worn with a hint of jauntiness, battered leather briefcase in one hand, a folded copy of a newspaper in the other. Moncrieff eased his tall frame behind a neighbouring pillar and let the tide of passengers wash past. Philby was among them, walking slowly, taking his time.
Moncrieff already knew that the queue for taxis, at this time in the morning, would be long. Barton had organised a car and a driver from a company retained by MI5. Moncrieff had met the driver first thing. He was parked outside the station with a view of the cab rank and the moment Philby joined the kerbside queue, Moncrieff skirted the forecourt, staying out of sight, watching the taxis come and go. With Philby at the head of the queue, Moncrieff waited until the next taxi arrived. The moment Philby bent to the driver’s window, Moncrieff crossed the road and climbed into the waiting car.
‘Perfect,’ he muttered. ‘The black Austin.’
The traffic was light. The driver, schooled in the arts of invisibility, stayed well back. Once, in the depths of Bloomsbury, they were nearly caught by a traffic light. In Kingsway, a mile or two further south, a bus had come to grief on the edges of a sizeable bomb crater from an overnight raid and passengers were milling around in the middle of the road. The queue of waiting cars stretched back hundreds of yards, and Moncrieff watched as Philby clambered out of his taxi, checked his watch and began to walk.
Moncrieff followed him on foot, glad of the midday swirl of office workers out to buy a sandwich and a cup of tea, ducking into the cover of a fishmonger’s when Philby suddenly came to a halt at the kerbside. By now they’d passed the bomb crater and the bus and the road was clear again. Philby’s arm was raised and another cab was already slowing to pick him up. Moncrieff cursed as he watched his precious target clamber into the back, leaning forward to tell the cabbie where to go. Just in case, he made a note of the registration plate but knew already that it was a hopeless gesture. He could find a phone box that worked and make a call to St James’s Street but it would still take an age for Ursula Barton to coax a name and an address from the licensing authority, by which time the cabbie would have forgotten all about his fare with the homburg and the corduroy trousers.
Broadway, MI6 headquarters, was a forty-minute walk away. Either Philby was going straight there, or maybe he’d arranged to meet someone for lunch. In any event, Moncrieff had no choice but to lie in wait again, this time within sight of Broadway’s main entrance, hoping that an afternoon of in-house meetings might bring Philby back into the sunshine for his return to St Pancras. In anticipation, Moncrieff had booked a table in the window of a restaurant in the same street. Iberica wasn’t an ideal perch, far from it, but the maître d’ who’d taken his reservation seemed happy enough. I’ll be expecting a guest, Moncrieff had told him. She’s on the flying boat from Lisbon and she’s taking the train from Poole. We obviously won’t be ordering until she arrives.
The restaurant was nearly full by the time Moncrieff walked in but the maître d’ had been as good as his word and the table in the window, carefully reserved, was still free. Moncrieff slipped into the chair with a view down the street and consulted the menu. When the waiter arrived, he explained once again that he was awaiting a guest who might be a little late. In the meantime, he’d be very happy with an aperitif: a glass of sherry. The waiter said he understood.
Two hours later, after a third sherry, Moncrieff knew he had to eat. The waiter had become a friend by now, pausing to enquire about this wayward lunch companion, sympathising with the general uncertainty of more or less everything these days, and trusting – with the discreet raising of an eyebrow – that the wait would be worthwhile. Moncrieff, beginning to enjoy this little fairy tale, assured him that he lived in hope. His guest, he said, was the friend of a friend. She worked for the American Embassy in Lisbon and had yet to set foot on British soil. Moncrieff had seen a photo or two and it would very definitely be his pleasure to show her what was left of Central London. At the very le
ast, he thought, she might report back to her masters and thus hasten the entry of our American cousins into the war. In that respect, this little repas, whenever it happened, might acquire truly historical significance. In the meantime, before he risked yet another glass of Tio Pepe, Moncrieff would like to order the pigeon with a lightish helping of mashed potato.
It arrived half an hour later, with an extravagant flourish from the waiter.
‘Wine, sir?’
‘I think not. Let’s wait for the lady.’
‘Of course, sir. Bon appétit.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Et bonne chance, quoi?’
By now, apart from a portly Tory politician whose face Moncrieff recognised, the restaurant had emptied. Moncrieff began to demolish the pigeon and asked for more gravy, listening to the politician bewail his wife’s many failings. It appeared they lived in the country. She was mad about riding to hounds, lived and died by the state of her strawberry patch, but was a dead loss when it came to rumpy pumpy. His companion, a woman half his age with a hawk-like face and very little appetite, covered his big hand with hers and assured him everything would be just fine. The maid would have serviced the flat by now and they had the rest of the afternoon to themselves.
The politician beamed, catching Moncrieff’s eye and offering a companionable wink. Moncrieff nodded and concentrated on reorganising the pile of tiny bones on his plate, keen to avoid a conversation. As he did so, he looked down the street to check the stairs that led to Broadway’s imposing front entrance. It was gone four o’clock and suited figures were beginning to emerge into the late afternoon sunshine. Among them, deep in conversation with another man, was Philby.
Moncrieff signalled to the waiter. He’d kept a running tally of the sherries and the pigeon and knew that a couple of pound notes, mercifully soiled, would be enough to include a handsome tip. The waiter pocketed the notes with the faintest smile.
‘Giving up, sir?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Disappointed?’
‘A broken man.’
Moncrieff got to his feet and made for the door. Through the fall of lace curtains, he could see Philby making his way past on the pavement opposite. Moncrieff waited until he got to the end of the street. Then, with a parting nod of farewell to the waiter, he stepped out into the sunshine.
Philby, by now, had disappeared. Moncrieff hurried to the corner. Philby was already crossing the road, maybe forty yards ahead, looking at his watch, heading for the river. He had the briefcase tucked under one arm and at the next intersection he paused at the kerbside to extract what – from a distance – looked like a manila envelope. He gazed at it a moment, then tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket before crossing the street. Two more corners, and Moncrieff – still in pursuit – could smell the river.
They were in Westminster now. Moncrieff knew from Ursula Barton that Philby had been at school here, a boarder like his father at one of the most prestigious establishments in the country, just a stone’s throw from the Houses of Parliament, and the Abbey, and the great offices of state. He’d know every one of these streets, Moncrieff thought, every short cut, every cul-de-sac, every possibility to make a little mischief. Here, at the very heart of the nation, he might already – for whatever reason – have been harbouring doubts about King and Country. There was still no proof, no clinching evidence that he was serving two masters, but Moncrieff’s instincts told him that Ursula Barton was probably justified in her suspicions. At the very least, there were questions to answer, conversations to be had, circumstances to be explained. The likelihood of coincidence went only so far.
Philby was at the end of Great Peter Street. Ahead lay Millbank, and, beyond the thickening traffic, Moncrieff could see the spread of green beside the river. Philby waited for a space between a coal lorry and a passing Rolls-Royce, then hurried across. Hidden by the traffic, Moncrieff watched him settle briefly on one of the many benches, checking casually left and right before opening his briefcase again. This time he produced the folded newspaper he’d been carrying at St Pancras. Then he reached in his pocket for the envelope, quickly scribbled something on the outside and slipped it inside the newspaper. Moments later, he was on his feet, striding away towards the looming gothic fretwork of the House of Lords.
Moncrieff shook his head, partly astonishment, partly relief. So open, so blatant, so reckless. Tradecraft told him that his minder would be waiting close by. This was a classic drop, and the information in the envelope – doubtless smuggled out of Broadway, doubtless important – was now ready for collection. Moncrieff had to get himself across this road, ready to intercept the pick-up. Maybe a Russian from their embassy. Maybe someone English in their pay, another spy, another traitor.
Moncrieff stepped into the road. His sheer presence seemed to slow the oncoming traffic. A tiny space presented itself in the wash of a trolleybus and he seized his chance. Seconds later, he was across the road, scanning the green space ahead of him, making for the bench. In these circumstances, he had power of arrest and it would be a pleasure to deliver the Russian to the nearest police station. Moncrieff knew what would follow. First, they’d ignore the pleas about diplomatic immunity and leave the prisoner to sweat a little. Meanwhile, he and Barton would plan their strategy for the days and weeks to come. Best to soft-pedal the incident? Swear the police to silence on grounds of national security? Wait until the prisoner had given them everything they’d need to make a second arrest? Up at Glenalmond? In the very heart of Section Five?
Moncrieff waited, puzzled by how few people seemed to be around. A couple of men in suits, probably politicians, sharing a joke. A mother, or perhaps a nanny, making the most of the sunshine, rocking a baby in a pram. A boy on a bike, risking the wrath of the park attendants, cycling along the path that overlooked the river. But however hard he looked he could see no one who seemed remotely interested in retrieving the folded newspaper on the bench.
A little later, a wind picked up, heavy with the breath of the river, and the pages of the newspaper began to lift in the sudden breeze. Moncrieff waited a minute or two longer, knowing that – at the very least – he had to lay hands on the envelope. The pick-up, almost certainly, wasn’t going to happen and he could imagine countless reasons why. A mistake over the rendezvous. An accident of some sort. Any bloody thing.
Finally, giving up, Moncrieff walked across to the bench and retrieved the paper. Inside, as he expected, was the envelope. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, then slipped his fingernail under the crease and opened it. Inside, he found a single sheet of paper. He slipped it out and found himself looking at a menu for the restaurant he’d just left. He recognised Philby’s handwriting at once, perfectly formed letters, obsessively neat. Splendid eatery, he’d written. The pigeon can be a little unreliable. Next time I’d suggest the pheasant, especially at this time of year.
Moncrieff read the message again. The hunter hunted, he thought. Hunted, shot, gutted and ready for the pot. Then he remembered Philby settling on the bench to scribble something down and he returned to the envelope, turning it over. On the front, in black ink, were two capital letters, ‘T’ for Tam and ‘M’ for Moncrieff.
Moncrieff gazed at the envelope. He felt a hot lick of anger, deep in his bowels. After the missed catch in the outfield, yet more humiliation. Then he looked up, first at the river, then left towards the Houses of Parliament. Philby was standing in the sunshine, watching him. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, after the merest tilt of the homburg, he was on his way.
12
WEDNESDAY 17 SEPTEMBER 1941
The next morning, events on the battlefields around Kyiv signalled the city’s end. Three days earlier, Hitler’s armies had finally linked hands nearly 200 kilometres east of Kyiv, completing the encirclement. Savage fighting slowly tightened the noose and Stalin’s new commander, General Timoshenko, knew the situation was hopeless. All day he sent messages to the Stavko, Stalin’s command headquarters, requesting permission to withd
raw nearly three-quarters of a million troops still defending the city’s outer perimeter. They’d inflicted far more damage on the advancing enemy than the Germans had ever expected but supplies of fuel and ammunition were fast running out. In the evening, late, a signal at last arrived at Timoshenko’s field headquarters. It read ‘the Supreme Commander has authorised withdrawal from Kyiv’.
At this very moment, Ilya Glivenko was meeting Ukrainian party boss Nikita Khrushchev at NKVD headquarters at the very heart of the city. From here, in what the locals still called the Big House, NKVD officials had been carrying out thousands of arrests and executions over the past four years, cowing the populace and destroying all opposition to the regime. Now, though, the game was up, and everyone knew it. A copy of the message from the Vodzh found its way to Khrushchev but he barely spared it a glance. Instead, he was looking up at Glivenko.
‘Show me,’ he said.
Khrushchev was accompanied by two bodyguards, a driver and a woman whose precise role was unclear. They stood in the dim light of the stairs that led down to the bowels of the building. Glivenko made it plain that only Khrushchev was allowed any further. Corridors left and right housed the bare unsoundproofed interrogation rooms where skilled NKVD interrogators extracted confessions and then returned their bloodied charges for sentencing. Even now, as the city braced itself for evacuation, it was obvious that the NKVD were as busy as ever.
‘Come, Comrade Khrushchev. I don’t need to waste your time.’
The Party boss was unused to other people giving him orders and his entourage knew it. There were issues of respect here, of deference to authority. The People’s Revolution might have triumphed, but Khrushchev was very definitely in charge.
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 10
