by Alan Judd
Well, the rest was predictable: the photographs of Ulriche and I in the café where we met, the mention of others more compromising, the suggestion that the English newspapers might take an interest in this secret relationship between a British Army officer and a communist prostitute, the tape recordings, the effect on my military career and my future of this unauthorised, undeclared, out-of-hours, compromising fraternisation, the sadness that would be felt by my pretty young wife when she opened the envelope containing the compromising photographs.
In fact, I’m not convinced they had those compromising photographs, or not usable ones, anyway. If they did, they would have shown me, just as they played an extract from the tapes. I realised then why Ulriche would always switch out the light when we went to bed, claiming she liked just the ‘romantic’ light from the sitting room through the half-open door. It was my second reason for gratitude to her. That, and her insistence on payment because it would make it easier to hate her for what she had done, and therefore recover more quickly from the pain of it, were of course trivial compared with the overwhelming fact of her entrapment and betrayal of me. Yet they were the more touching because of that. It was, I guess, all she could do, and it may have been why they took her off what I suppose I must call my ‘case’. She never tried to get any sort of information out of me.
Anyway, who was I to complain of betrayal? The shock of what was happening, my anger with Ulriche and with the Russians who were talking to me, my worries about what would happen were bad enough. But they were as nothing to my anger with myself and the shame and remorse which now accompanied my every thought of Jean. Remorse for what cannot be undone is a corrosive that eats at your heart and soul. Why cannot this be felt as piercingly at the time as it is afterwards?
During that first talk with Igor, though, it was practicalities I was most worried about. How to get out of my immediate situation came before deciding how to cope with the longer term. All sorts of things were going on in Berlin at that time and there was credible talk of kidnaps and killings. Were they going to abduct me and, if so, for what? Her flat was a few yards inside the Russian zone – something I haven’t mentioned so far, which shows how little account I took of it at the time, since my work took me in and out of that zone everyday and I had a pass for it. I could imagine myself the centre of a show trial as a spy. Admittedly, they did not mention anything like that but the situation was threatening enough and I had no doubt that the heavy mob was there to stop me making a run for it. Igor’s calm recitation of the possibilities and consequences of disclosure was bureaucratic rather than bullying, like a lawyer wearily outlining court procedure, but the more truly threatening because of that.
I decided that the best way of getting away from them was to go along with whatever they wanted, then think about it afterwards. ‘What happens now?’ I asked.
Igor shrugged and raised his eyebrows, which sent his forehead into corrugations. ‘It is up to you, Major Thoroughgood. I have described one set of circumstances. However, if you prefer, it is possible to avoid all that. All that is necessary is for you and I to agree to meet regularly and confidentially and to discuss frankly issues of mutual interest.’
‘What kind of issues?’
He offered me one of his strong Russian cigarettes. I don’t know what they had in them but it was a relief to have something to do. ‘Military matters, naturally. The intentions of the capitalist powers in this city. Then it depends upon your future career. Almost whatever you do, if we achieve a good relationship and you are willing to help build socialism, there will be ways you can assist. So long as our relationship remains confidential and you are always honest in what you say. Then we can help you. We like long friendships. We can help you throughout your life.’
Even then, almost despite myself and what he was doing, I had begun to like Igor. It wasn’t that he set out to charm – he never did that, he had no need, he was sufficiently confident of his own strength of character and purpose – but more his imperturbable matter-of-factness. His quiet but unflinching recognition of reality gave him great strength. It is a most attractive quality when accompanied by a special humour, which he had.
We agreed to meet again. We would use the flat, he said, because it was convenient for me, I had reason to visit the Russian zone, it was safe and, if I were forced to account for my visits, I could always confess to visiting Ulriche, but not mention that anything else had happened.
‘What is happening to Ulriche?’ I asked.
‘Ulriche is well, nothing has happened to her but it is better you do not meet. Do not try to find out about her. I will tell you if there is anything to know.’
As I stood by the door, next to the oval mirror, he added, with a smile that again creased his forehead, ‘And please be punctual for our meetings, Major Thorough-good. We Russians are unfortunately not famous for our punctuality, but I am. If you do not appear I shall conclude you do not object to disclosures.’
And that is how it started.
Charles sat while the watery sun left the balcony. The tops of the plane trees were busy worlds even in late autumn, but his mind was filled with his father’s voice, at once familiar and new. This was his father and not his father, his father at about his own age, believable, forgivable, recognisable as an earlier version of the man he had known. The voice was moderate and clear, the voice of a patient, exact man, concerned to get things right. What was different was the expression of feeling in the first person, something his father rarely, if ever, did. Normally it was impossible to imagine his father as a young man but, strangely, it was his unusual directness that made him now so immediately believable.
What came after, though – the decades-long deceit – was less forgivable and less credible. The threat of blackmail would have weakened over the years because as the case went on the KGB would have had something to lose, too. Could it be that his father had simply got the taste for spying, as others did? The manuscript demanded a leap of imagination, but an achievable one. That first betrayal was easy – perhaps, for Charles, all too easy – to understand, but the sustained betrayal that followed made it impossible to respect the voice whose candour pleaded so eloquently for itself. Why had he gone on? Why? Charles asked the question aloud, addressing his father, with only the chattering starlings as answer. For the first time since the funeral, tears ran unregarded down his cheeks.
He left the balcony, closed the French windows and took one last look around the flat. He believed now that he knew why Hookey had given him the manuscript. He still had no idea how Hookey came to have it, but that would have to wait. The next stage was up to him. The woman below having gone, he kept the key.
9
Two nights later Charles was trying a new pizza restaurant near Queensgate when Rebecca walked in. ‘Found you,’ she said, with a triumphant smile. ‘Your phone’s out of order. The office has been trying to get hold of you for a day and a half. They’ve rung your mother, knocked on your door, everything. It was me who said you never neglect yourself when it comes to food but can’t be bothered to do anything, so you’d find some convenient trough.’
He stood. ‘You know me better than I thought. Join me in my trough?’
‘I shouldn’t really, I had a big lunch.’ She sat. ‘Do they do small ones? Perhaps I could have some of yours.’
‘I’d rather you had one of your own. I could get hooked on pizzas.’
‘Spaghetti for me, then.’
He’d been drinking wine by the glass but now ordered a bottle. Apart from one call to Mary about the flat, he’d spoken to no one for two busy, fruitless days.
‘Have you found him yet?’ she asked.
‘Who says I’m looking?’
‘Hookey. He summoned me and indoctrinated me into the whole thing. He calls me his “runner” now. He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t worked for him before. He says Hugo thinks he’s too important to do any running around and anyway he’s not indoctrinated into Legacy, so doesn’t know a
bout it. Hookey asked me to ask if you’ve found Lover Boy.’
‘No joy. It’s hard, mounting surveillance by yourself, but I’m getting fitter. I must’ve run over every blade of grass in Kensington Gardens. No sign of him or his car.’
‘Hookey thinks you should ring him. His contact with you is sanctioned and they might think you’ve changed your mind or something. You’d have to invent a reason why you need to see him, of course. Something he could say when he got back. MI5 might huff and puff but Hookey would say you’re a free agent now, sort of. Out of control.’
‘It still puts Lover Boy at risk, though, and he may refuse to meet. Probably would. A chance encounter would be better.’
‘He’s at risk anyway, Hookey says. His girlfriend’s been trying to get hold of him. Wants her pay-off before he goes, Hookey thinks. She rang the embassy but fortunately she got his Russian name wrong and they put her through to one of the military attachés. Now he’s got some explaining to do. But she might try again and then he’d be in serious trouble. That’s why the office has been trying to contact you. They want you to stop her.’
‘But I’m not supposed to see her, either. Perhaps they should ask the Minister of Defence.’
‘Hookey says you’ve got to stop her even if you have to marry her yourself.’
‘It might be very expensive.’
‘Hookey says do whatever it takes and do it a.s.a.p.’
‘I’ll go round in the morning.’
‘Tonight, he says.’
She picked at her spaghetti. They talked of how the others were coping with Danish Blue. Alastair had got himself arrested in a case of mistaken identity in Copenhagen, there were worries about Christopher in Paris, Desmond had submerged into Florence like a stone in a pond, Roger was doing well in Vienna, Gerry was enjoying flitting about Europe and clearing up behind them.
‘Is it true about you and Gerry?’ asked Charles. ‘I feel I can ask now I’ve left.’
‘Me and Gerry?’ She laughed. ‘Who says?’
‘Speculation by new sources on trial.’ He thought for a moment. ‘F1, R3, A3.’
‘Frequent, irregular and with poor access just about sums it up. Perhaps they’ve got the names wrong.’ She smiled. ‘And have you been in touch with Mrs A1 since you left?’
‘Should I have?’
‘I was the other person in the rose garden at the Castle that night. I felt I couldn’t leave while you were talking because you’d have thought I was listening, but I couldn’t help overhearing. You want to watch yourself with her.’
‘So you were the unknown cigarette?’ Charles couldn’t recall any compromising words or actions. But tone and manner could say enough. ‘I don’t know her that well.’
‘Dangerous lady. Anyway, it’s time you went to see your other lady friend. Too many women in your life, Charles.’
‘On the contrary. None of them mine.’
‘Perhaps that’s how you like it?’
He could make but not receive calls on the flat phone. There was no answer on Claire’s number, which Rebecca had brought with her. He drove down to Belgravia, intending to leave Claire a note to call. He took his father’s manuscript.
Claire’s sitting room light was on. She came to the door in her coat and calf-length boots. ‘Thank God it’s only you, Pete. I’ve just got back.’
‘You’re expecting someone?’
‘No, but you never know.’
‘Busy?’
‘Worked off my feet, you might say.’ Something was awry with her make-up and her hair straggled. ‘You don’t mind pouring us both some wine, do you, while I get these things off? Bottle in the fridge.’
The fridge was empty save for a little milk, an unopened packet of butter and half a bottle of Spanish white. Charles could find no clean glasses, so washed two dirty ones, drying them with his handkerchief. She reappeared in a fluffy pink dressing-gown and matching slippers, her hair brushed and her make-up partially removed except for a smear on her cheek.
‘I haven’t seen or heard from him this week,’ she said. ‘I was expecting to but I know he’s busy, rushing around before he goes. He’s only got another few days, hasn’t he?’
‘You haven’t tried to contact him?’
‘No.’ She sipped the wine and pulled a face. ‘Bloody paint stripper. Who gave it to me? Unless it’s my mouth. What about a cup of tea?’
‘Good idea.’
Charles kept the manuscript folded in his newspaper. He wanted Viktor to read it and had considered using Claire to get it to him. It would expose their connection but the sacrifice could be worth it. It also meant trusting her to say to Viktor only what he wanted her to say, but her lie about her telephone call was not encouraging. He was angry with her about that, to the point of disliking her for it. One more call could finish Viktor. But the important thing now was to get her safely off-stage. Showing anger would be self-indulgence. ‘Merely personal’, Viktor might call it.
‘Just as well he hasn’t been round, really,’ she said when she returned with the tea. ‘Been one of those weeks.’
‘Bad week?’
She nodded as she drank. ‘You meet all sorts in this job. There are some pretty funny people around, I tell you. Not funny ha-ha. Nasty funny.’
‘D’you mean your minister?’
‘No, he’s just kinky funny, harmless. Last night I went to a client I’d never had before. He was staying in the Park Lane Intercontinental, it was fixed through the escort agency, all kosher, usual sort of thing. Then when I got to the room I found this thin little bloke in glasses, looking as if he couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding, you know, and he stared at me and said, “Take your clothes off.” Just like that, cold as charity. Watched me undress as if he was a hospital doctor waiting to operate. Then when I was standing there starkers, just standing because he didn’t want me to do anything, he looked me up and down and said, “I was promised a beautiful girl, not mutton dressed as lamb.” That got me really angry, right off me trolley, you know. “Listen, mister,” I said, “you’re getting the best screw in town, take it or leave it. And the price has just gone up.”’ She fumbled in her dressing-gown pocket for cigarettes.
‘What happened?’
‘He took it and paid up and I went. But it takes it out of you, that sort of thing, when someone looks at you and speaks to you like that. Then this afternoon I had this geezer who wanted to pretend he was raping me. I had to go to his flat and pretend to be a housewife in an apron and he had to have just broken in and chase me around and then have me from behind on the bathroom floor. Got knocked about a bit. I could do without all that.’
Her fingers shook slightly as she lit a cigarette. Her skin was blotchy and the smear of make-up on her cheek now looked like cover for a bruise. ‘Perhaps you need a break,’ Charles said kindly.
She exhaled and nodded. ‘If I had the money I’d have a few months off in Cornwall. There’s a bloke down there who wants to marry me – well, he will when I tell him he does – and then I’d be all right. I wouldn’t have to work no more. Trouble is, I can’t afford to stop working, what with school fees and all that. After all, it’s all for the kids. That’s why I do it.’ She looked truculent and near to tears, as if he had contradicted her. ‘That is why I do it, you know. For the kids.’
The telephone rang. He sipped his tea, ignoring the milky lumps. She was suddenly welcoming and coquettishly French, although the call was brief. ‘It’s him,’ she said afterwards, ‘Viktor. He’s coming round now. He’s in a call-box round the corner.’
Charles put his cup and saucer in the sink and ran the tap. ‘He mustn’t know I’ve been here. Find out when he returns to Helsinki, as he calls it, and anything about his movements between now and then. Try and arrange for him to call again at a definite time and don’t press for money.’
‘Last thing I feel like now, seeing him. I want double time for this session.’
‘Okay. But don’t press him for money. Promise? It�
�s very important. Tell me about it over lunch tomorrow?’
‘Providing you pay me for that, too.’
She was squeezing all she could out of his need to get away quickly. That was all right so long as it enabled him to do what he planned. ‘Fine. Go easy on him.’
After using the peep-hole to ensure that Viktor wasn’t already at the door, he crossed quickly to the other side of the street, leaving it as Viktor approached the flat.
Around the corner, in the same street as his own, he spotted Viktor’s car squeezed carelessly between a Mercedes and Jaguar. He sat in the Rover, weighing the pros and cons. He was some way from Viktor’s and facing the other direction, but he could see it in the mirror. It was not ideal and he wished he had a copy of the manuscript, but this could be his only chance.
He walked back to Viktor’s car, stuck the manuscript beneath the windscreen wiper, then returned to his own. There was no one in sight and no obvious interest from any of the houses. If it rained he would have to go and buy something to get a plastic bag for the manuscript, but he didn’t want to abandon his watch. Viktor was most unlikely to stay all night. He had probably been on another out-of-town expedition, combined with or covered by a run, and was tagging this unofficial element on to the end. The Residency would expect him to report when he got back, so he couldn’t be too late.
Charles settled down to wait. He could read The Times by the street light but there were few pages that day because of more print union trouble. He resolved, as he often had, to carry a book with him everywhere, all the time.
From a movement in the mirror he realised he had missed Viktor’s arrival. Viktor was standing beside his car, studying the pages he had taken from the windscreen. He broke off to look up and down the street, then returned to them. Then he slowly got into his car. He had been with Claire about forty minutes.
