Legacy

by Alan Judd

  ‘Looks like he’s on his way back to the embassy,’ Jim said through the half open window. ‘The other car’s on him. Thought we’d better hang about to see if he’d done you in. You look wet. Not raining, is it?’

  ‘Sweat and sun-tan oil.’

  ‘Want a lift home?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Unless you’d prefer to go with your girlfriend. She’s still here – behind us, look.’ Anna’s Maxi was parked about twenty yards up the road. Jim grinned. ‘We won’t take offence. Think he’ll be out again tonight?’

  ‘No, you can knock off now. Thanks for calling me out. It was worth every minute.’

  Jim started the engine. ‘Glad he didn’t top himself. We was praying he wouldn’t. If he had we’d’ve had to spend all night with the police.’

  He waved them off and walked up to the Maxi. ‘You must be soaked,’ said Anna.

  ‘I’ll make your seat wet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Me too if you stand there with the door open.’

  He got in. ‘I didn’t expect you to wait. But I’m glad you did.’

  ‘It gives Hugo a chance to appreciate the joys of washing up. You’d better tell me where you live.’

  He gave directions, not mentioning that Roger might still be there. That would stop them talking. He described the flat he was buying. ‘I’d rather you dropped me – that we went – there. I’d like you to see it, if you’ve time. It’s empty and I’ve got the keys.’

  ‘As long as we’re not too long. But I still don’t see how you can pay for it without a job.’

  ‘I’ll go dishwashing, I guess.’

  The hall light was out, the switch not easily found. He feared they might meet the lady with the eye-patch, then that the flat owner might have fallen out with his girlfriend and, for once, be there. But everything was as he had left it. He showed her round, then opened the windows onto the balcony and stepped out. She leant against the door-frame, her arms folded beneath her breasts, the sleeves of her jumper pushed up. The light caught her blonde hair. Her arms were slender. The rain had stopped but the plane trees were dripping.

  ‘Such beautiful scent after rain,’ she said, ‘even in London. Especially here, with this huge garden. You must buy it, no matter how many dishes it takes.’

  He kept his distance, leaning against the balcony. ‘There’s a scene in Anna Karenina in which Karenin returns home and looks up to see Anna in an upper window, laughing and talking to someone invisible behind her, her arms folded and – unusually – bare. Her bare arms are suggestive of freedom, sensuality, intimacy with whoever is behind her. Someone called it the most erotic scene in all literature.’

  ‘I’d no idea you were such a romantic.’

  ‘Admittedly, Anna’s lover, Vronsky, didn’t do her much good.’

  ‘But you don’t want to be a Vronsky, do you, Charles? Wife of a colleague and all that? I know it goes on but you wouldn’t feel very good about it, would you?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to be a Vronsky. I wouldn’t feel good about it. But.’

  ‘And I’m not married to a Karenin. I’ve no excuse.’

  She turned back into the sitting room and stood, arms still folded, facing him. He followed and put his hands on her shoulders. He could smell her hair now and feel her warmth beneath her jersey. He kissed her on the lips. She neither resisted nor responded. ‘It’s no good, Charles, much as I’d like to,’ she said quietly, from beneath lowered eyelids. ‘I have two children, my marriage is not a positive misery, even if it’s not much else. It couldn’t – we couldn’t – lead anywhere. You do see that, don’t you?’ She looked up, but did not move away.

  He nodded. This seemed far from the game-playing temptress Rebecca had warned him against. ‘No matter what we feel – might feel –?’

  ‘It’s easier for you to feel. There are fewer consequences, fewer costs than if I feel, if I allow myself to feel. Your life is simple. You have no children.’

  ‘That’s the second time someone’s said that to me this evening.’

  She put one hand on his arm and stroked his cheek with the fingertips of the other. ‘I don’t mean that I wouldn’t – don’t – feel anything.’ She leant forward and kissed him, then broke off abruptly. ‘I must, must go. How will you – d’you want me to –?’

  ‘I’ll walk. I need a walk.’

  She paused at the door. ‘Perhaps, one day. When I let you do the washing-up. And when you’ve found your other sock.’

  He listened to her footsteps fading on the stairs and, distantly, heard the front door close.

  11

  The next day Charles shaved and resumed his suit for a meeting with Hookey in Brooks’s. ‘More tactful to meet you here than in the office,’ Hookey said. ‘MI5 are touchy about your resignation. Seem to doubt it for some reason.’ He grinned. ‘So it’s better you don’t pop in and out of the office every day, especially my office which is mystifyingly construed as a nest of conspiracy and subversion. Then there’s Hugo. He’s increasingly convinced he’s being kept out of something, unfortunately. Ought to know by now that this sort of thing happens all the time in the office. He could be indoctrinated into Legacy but the list is long enough already and he doesn’t actually have to know, as things currently stand. We learned that lesson with Blake in Berlin. Saw all sorts of stuff he shouldn’t’ve just by casually asking one of the girls if he could glance at what was being circulated “when everyone else is finished with it”. I might have to arrange a posting for Hugo, something to distract him. But that’s my problem. What’s yours?’

  Charles described what had happened, outlining his idea for what he called Operation Compromise. Hookey heard him out, then poured coffee. ‘And your friend agreed all this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I daresay in his state he would be more suggestible.’

  ‘You think it won’t work, then?’

  Hookey raised his eyebrows. ‘No idea. It’s far-fetched, awkward to stage-manage, chancy, but that’s perhaps why it could work. Anyway, doesn’t matter what I think. The die is cast, he’s gone back, doesn’t sound as if he’ll jump ship or jump anything else in the near future. All we can do is give it our best and stick with him. Now, I’ve a little news for you.’

  There was a change to the delegation’s itinerary. At the end of the week instead of London sightseeing as proposed, they wanted to go to King’s Lynn where Russian timber ships regularly docked. ‘Can’t imagine they really want personally to convey fraternal greetings to their seamen, inspect dockyard facilities for their wretched ships and whatever, but so they say. I’ve my own ideas about that. Anyway, permission’s been granted and they’re going by minibus tomorrow. Bloody long journey for a day trip, but they’re not taking the train because they want to spend the night in Suffolk on their way back. Place called Southwold, on the coast. D’you know it? Where I was brought up. Doubt that that’s why they’ve chosen it, but you never know. Then they drive down to Stansted at sparrow’s fart the next morning and fly home. I’ve discussed this with MI5, who’ve got a lot of other demands on SV at the moment, and we wondered whether a change of plan on our part might be permissible for the last couple of days. I wanted your opinion.’

  Charles’s signalling arrangements with Viktor were planned to culminate at the airport as the delegation left. There, contrary to every other day of the week, Viktor was to signal positively that all was well rather than signal only if it wasn’t. His cue was to be the sight of Charles. This positive signalling arrangement had been criticised as unnecessary, possibly inconvenient and therefore potentially dangerous by Hookey, but it was what Viktor had wanted.

  ‘Now, airports are good places for snatches if he needs to be snatched,’ said Hookey. ‘We control the environment, can direct who is where and when and so on, but SV are very pushed and it means widening the circle of knowledge. Anyway, your new arrangements, your Operation Com promise, somewhat supersede this. As I recall, the original arrangement was that you woul
d appear either at the airport or at some other convenient spot shortly before. Could that reasonably include dinner in the Swan at Southwold, where the delegation is staying?’

  Charles agreed it could; what was important, under both plans, was that he showed himself. He felt it important for the future, too; what in arms reduction talks might be called a confidence building measure.

  ‘Good. Just as well you agreed because the Swan is a busy place and I got Maureen to book you in under your alias. So long as you’re happy to do it on your own, with no SV to help out. Well, not quite on your own. Rebecca’s booked in too, under alias. A couple look much more natural, even if you are in separate rooms’ – he raised his eyebrows again – ‘and you’ll need someone to handle the emergency comms just in case he signals he wants out. Phone is okay most of the time, of course, but it’s bound to go through the hotel switchboard and if we have to act we’ll be on to you throughout the night. Rebecca is trained on the Dogsbody emergency comms system and will bring a set with her. She’ll have an office car and she’s Legacy indoctrinated, as you know. Good girl, Rebecca. More useful on something like this than half a dozen Hugos. Just as well your course is on leave. She should put in for promotion. Try and persuade her. Meanwhile, your friend will have his missus with him, won’t he? Interesting to see how they get on. Nice place, Southwold. You’ll like it.’

  Hookey sat back, clasping his hands across his chest. ‘Bit early for a pink gin. Must stick to the not-before-noon rule or we’ll all go the way of empire. No, but this Southwold excursion is intriguing. Most unlike Soviet delegations to make last-minute changes. Indecision is a national characteristic, flexibility isn’t. Papers are full of this anti-nuclear demo at the Sizewell nuclear power station this weekend. Not a million miles from where you’re staying. You know they’re targeting nuclear sites, all these long-haired weirdos and earnest useful idiots. Useful to their Soviet paymasters, that is, though to be fair to them they’ve no idea they’re in receipt of CPSU funds channelled by our KGB friends. Perfectly sincere, well-meaning people, most of ’em. Understand their point of view. Just wrong, that’s all. It may be professional paranoia but I can’t help wondering whether there’s a link with the delegation’s last-minute proximity. I wonder if they’re planning some little drama, by way of a publicity stunt?’ He slapped his thighs and stood. ‘Anyway, can’t sit here gossiping all day. The bureaucratic process demands one’s corporeal presence, if not one’s soul. And you’ll be looking for a new job, eh?’ He laughed. ‘Bloody lucky if you find one that’s as much fun as what you’re about to do.’

  On the drive up to Southwold they passed indications of the scale of the forthcoming demonstration: road signs, a coach plastered with stickers, police patrols. The town itself, however, was small and relatively isolated, up the coast and well to the north of Sizewell. It evoked for Charles memories of family holidays in the 1950s though the 1930s might have been more appropriate. There were rows of terraced cottages built for fishermen and the workers at Adnams brewery, the town’s only industries. Grander eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses, many facing the sea across large open grass spaces, testified to periodic influxes of wealth. There was a small hospital, a school, enough shops for living, enough pubs for comfort and two bookshops. The dominant buildings were the Perpendicular wool church, the brewery and the red and white lighthouse. The Swan hotel offered modest grandeur and was comfortable, spacious, friendly and a little shabby, in an acceptably lived-in way. They had single rooms at the back.

  ‘The best are the doubles at the front,’ said Rebecca. ‘I looked in. You look straight down the high street to the sea.’

  ‘It’s only about a hundred yards from us at the back, anyway.’

  ‘I know but you can’t see it.’

  ‘D’you want to move, then?’

  ‘They’re taken. Maureen told me.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll knock some walls down for you.’

  ‘They’ll need a new floor if I drop this thing.’

  Dogsbody was concealed in an overnight travelling bag with a shoulder-strap. It was heavy. Meant to be slung over the shoulder as for a carefree weekend, it was dangerous to walk rapidly with it. Setting it up needed a sturdy table and privacy. Charles lowered it to the floor of the wardrobe in Rebecca’s room, where she put her other bag on top of it.

  ‘Presumably security branch would say you’re supposed to have it with you at all times,’ he said.

  ‘If security branch want to provide a pack mule, they can. Anyway, who takes a travelling bag into dinner? Especially one that would shatter all the glasses if you dropped it on the dining room floor.’

  After taking tea in the horizontal armchairs of the bow-windowed drawing room, they wandered through the town and along the sea-front. It was quiet, with no road near the beach, a row of well-anchored huts, grey featureless sea and no amusements to encourage trippers. To the south wind-blown dunes sheltered marshy flats dotted by horses and cattle. Beyond was the narrow harbour mouth and the rigging of fishing vessels. Beyond that, on the blurred bulge of the coast, was the grey mass of Sizewell. The Russian delegation was due at about six.

  ‘Could Southwold be a Legacy site?’ mused Charles. ‘Hookey suspects something. But why should they want one here?’

  She leant against the rails. ‘Only if they didn’t need to service it from the embassy. It’s way outside the travel limit. They’d need agents to do it. Or visiting delegations.’ She looked at the town lighthouse which, in the fading light, had begun its leisurely flashing. ‘George Orwell lived here. Well, his parents did, he was here some of the time. He lost his virginity to the gym mistress at the girls’ school we passed on the way in.’

  ‘Hookey was brought up here, he told me. Didn’t mention his virginity, though. I wonder where they did it? Hard to be private in a place like this.’

  She nodded at the marshy flats. ‘Down there, according to the book I read. Shrouded in a cloud of mosquitoes, I expect.’

  ‘How long till the meeting?’

  ‘Thirty-five minutes.’

  They wandered back along the promenade. ‘What happens to you after the course finishes?’ Charles asked.

  ‘I’ve been offered New York. No one’s supposed to know, so don’t spread it around.’ She looked seawards. ‘I’m trying to make up my mind about it. I’d like New York. It’s also nice to be offered it so soon after my last posting.’

  ‘Something to keep you here, though?’

  ‘You’re not giving up on that, are you?’

  ‘Worried about your future, that’s all.’

  The high windows of the church caught and intensified the last of the daylight. There was no one visible when they arrived, twenty minutes before it was due to be locked. Rebecca remained by the open door, reading a pamphlet and watching the approach. Charles walked slowly through the limewashed luminosity towards the hourglass pulpit, his steel-tipped heels ringing with sedate purpose on the stone. Michael, the area Special Branch officer, was examining the carving on the choir stalls. He was a ruddy-faced, cheerful man who looked and sounded like a farmer.

  ‘The hotel manager is an old friend, very helpful,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve done him a favour or two over the years. Krychkov is in 26, Rhykov along the corridor in 27. This key will do both. Keep it till they’re gone, then put it in an envelope addressed to the manager and leave it at the desk. Don’t give it to him personally. Ring me if there’s anything else I can do but only on the direct line. It takes a while to get out here, remember.’

  They walked in step up the north aisle, beneath the heavenly host. ‘Not often we’re honoured by Russian visitors,’ Michael said. ‘Interested in just these two, are you?’

  ‘Yes, pair of villains. We want to see what they’re up to here.’

  ‘Well, my weekend’s already gone for a burton thanks to this Sizewell business. I have to mark the register on the usual suspects, professional agitators on a day away from the mines. Could do the lis
t now. I might be out of touch for some time but otherwise any distraction would be very welcome.’

  ‘I’ll see if we can do anything.’

  Michael looked across at Rebecca. ‘Your service usually seems to do a pretty good line in distractions, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  At dinner that night they had a table near the door. The Russians – the six delegates, Viktor and his wife, Tanya, and an embassy driver – occupied two tables by the windows. Tanya was a short, dark-haired woman with a round, kindly face, who said nothing. Viktor wore his suit which, compared now with those of the delegates, looked relatively well-cut and sophisticated. The other men were all short, stocky and uneasy, either trussed in their suits or lost in them. Necks were evidently unfashionable in Soviet society, heads apparently hammered directly into shoulders or screwed in through nuts disguised as shirt collars. Krychkov, the oldest present, had a grizzled peasant’s face that, in another life, might have been kindly. As it was, he looked dour and suspicious. Rhykov was younger, smoother and more rounded, as though the awkward bits had been sanded off. He, too, looked wary of his surroundings, but more interested.

  ‘You can always tell Russians abroad,’ said Rebecca. ‘Not just their looks and their clothes but their uncertainty at table. They watch for someone to take a lead, even what to choose. Not used to choice, I suppose.’

  ‘Our friend is like that. Each time we’ve eaten he’s had what I’ve had. Like me with Hookey.’

  ‘But how much more sophisticated he looks in comparison. That’s a thing about KGB officers posted abroad. They’re more western, better off, more experienced, they’ve seen more. It makes it more difficult for them when they go back, spouting the party line and not believing it.’