by John Creasey
“In short, the ends could justify the means. Is that what he was implying?”
“Yes,” Joyce repeated. “And they’ve killed and tortured to get their own way.”
“They are not the only ones,” Palfrey said, taking her hands. After what seemed a long time he went on: “Did you go down to the lower floor today to watch Merribell work on the prisoners from Euston? The torture methods we use? Have you seen the prisoners since? Have you paused to think what we do for what we believe is right?”
After a long pause, Joyce asked, as if astounded: “Sap, what’s got into you?”
“I don’t know,” answered Palfrey, gruffly. “Philip Carr, perhaps. And the facts. If these people can insulate us against radioactivity, if it can be safely used so that we can have nuclear power for safe usage—Joyce,” he broke off. “Joyce. If there’s a way to find out, then I have to try.”
“Of course you have,” she said gently.
He drew her forward and touched her forehead with his lips – and then quite suddenly and without a moment’s warning even to himself, he slid his arm round her, kissed her full on the lips, and held her very close.
When he drew back, her eyes reminded him of Stefan’s in their radiance.
Stefan Andromovitch stepped out of the British military plane at Moscow Airport, was correctly received by two officers of the Red Army and one civilian whom he knew: Igor Novosky, the liaison officer between the Soviet government and Z5. A large car which resembled a twenty-year-old American Packard was drawn up near the aircraft, and as they walked towards this, Novosky asked: “Where is Dr Palfrey?”
“He will be on the next flight.”
“Why did he not come with you?”
“To lessen any risk of us both dying together.”
“Do you seriously fear attack?”
“Comrade,” Stefan said in his gentlest voice. “I do not fear, but I am always very cautious.”
“I understand,” said Novosky, stiffly.
Stefan sat in the back of the car, and looked about the wide streets, recognising the tall buildings in the distance, the mammoth university and the fine new apartment buildings which were no longer just shells hiding the slums behind, but stood proudly row after row, as if to challenge the far off Western world. It was a long time before they reached the great squares, and a crescent moon shone with mogul splendour on the onion-turreted spires of St Basil’s Cathedral, on the high walls of the Kremlin, on GUM, the palatial department store which stood in Victorian magnificence opposite the tomb which held the remains of Lenin. The car rumbled across the cobbles where marching feet and armoured tanks and death-dealing rockets so often thundered.
This morning there was quiet – peacefulness.
The gates leading into the Kremlin were opened and as the car went through, were closed again by silent guards. A pale moon shone and the stars were dusted as with a mist in the skies; the mist of dawn. The buildings inside the Kremlin walls were in stark outline, mostly dark. Here and there a yellow square of light showed, and street lamps glowed. Stefan, who knew exactly where they were going, sat with his knees pressing against the back of the seat in front, uncomfortable as he always was in cars and chairs made for men of ordinary size.
They passed the great bell, with the huge gap where it had broken when dropped when being delivered to the palace where it was to ring. The bell of peace which had never tolled carried such irony. They swept along past the huddle of churches with their gold onion tops making them look like minarets. They passed the great armoury, now a proud museum of Russia’s past, where even the Tsars were acknowledged. Soon they were within sight of the wall which separated the Kremlin from the Muscva River and, from a high spot, could see the pale surface of the river, wide and calm, as it reflected the growing light of day.
15: The Cunning Saint
The car turned towards a building which was squat and modern, passed through another pair of gates which opened barely wide enough to allow them through and closed so quickly that the rear of the car seemed in danger; but there were inches to spare. Two soldiers, carrying rifles, stood at the foot of a flight of stone steps, and two others by a door at the top. The man with Stefan showed his credentials and the door opened. Stefan got out and stretched himself like a great bear. No one spoke as they went up the steps, and through the open doorway. Beyond were bright lights, two or three little groups of people all eyeing the newcomers intently, but neither Stefan nor his guides – or were they guards? – spoke until they reached a room with iron-studded doors. This was also a relic from a castle long since burned down; beautiful, in an ogreish way. A man in uniform examined their passes, including Stefan’s, then announced them through a microphone built into the wall by the door.
“They may enter,” a man responded, and at once the doors opened and they went into a room with panelled walls, a round table, with chairs all about it, a man sitting in a larger chair than the others, with a painting of Lenin on the wall above his head. There were other paintings – of Kruschev, Voroshilov, even Stalin; of the present Soviet leaders and, opposite the one of Lenin, the heroes of the Soviet Union, including the first astronauts.
The man in the chair was startling to look at; his head and face were clean-shaven, there appeared to be no hair at all. He was dressed in a lounge suit with a high, almost ‘mod’ collar, which made the smooth hairlessness of his face look even stranger. There was nothing remarkable about his features which were rounded, almost childlike; but his eyes, dark blue, had nothing remotely childlike about them.
This was Boris Shakalov, the leader of Soviet espionage in countries of the outside world; a man, who, when he had been in charge of counter-espionage within the USSR, had caused as much fear and trembling as the age-long-dreaded, long-dead Beria.
He waved to chairs; and as they sat, Stefan stretching his long legs under the table, a man wheeled in a trolley with tea, coffee, biscuits and sweetmeats. Shakalov spoke as if the man were not there.
“Good morning, Comrade Andromovitch.”
“Good morning, Comrade Shakalov.”
“I expected Dr Palfrey to be with you.”
“He will arrive in an aircraft which left England an hour later than mine.”
“Was that a safety precaution?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you think it necessary?”
Shakalov spoke in a clear, pleasant voice, barely opening his mouth, so that the words seemed to escape, rather than be deliberately uttered.
“There is a risk that we will be attacked by agents of The Project.”
“You were not followed once you flew over the East German border,” Shakalov stated. “Could not your friends in Britain and in Nato protect you, also?”
“We do not know for certain what the protection must be against,” Stefan retorted. “In any case, both Dr Palfrey and I carry a great deal of information in our heads; it is surely better to try to be certain that whatever the danger, one of us survives.”
“I will not dispute that,” Shakalov conceded. He sipped coffee and broke one of the flat biscuits in his fingers. “I hope Dr Palfrey’s lateness will not delay a report.”
“It will not, Comrade. In fact between you and me there will be no need for translation, so time will be saved.” As he paused, something that might have been a smile touched Shakalov’s lips. “Have you traced the arrival of the vertical take-off jet aircraft?”
“Yes,” Shakalov answered, and the smile hovered.
“Was it near the valley above Belusha?”
“More precisely, at Hansa.”
“Has the cordon been thrown about the valley?”
“It has,” stated Shakalov, and went on as if with a quirk of humour. “Everything your man Zuka said has been proved correct. One day, Comrade, I shall be interested to know how you persuaded Zuka to serve you instead of the Soviet.”
Stefan sipped coffee, as he responded: “He who serves the Organisation serves the world. He who serves the
world serves the Soviet.”
“That is a very novel philosophy of loyalty,” retorted Shakalov drily. “We must discuss it.”
“Is Zuka still at his post, Comrade?”
“Yes, and will remain there.”
“Did the others with him report the arrival of the jet?”
“No.”
“You might assume from this, that Zuka served the Soviet better than those who saw nothing,” said Stefan, tartly.
“I take your point, Comrade.”
“Has the valley been kept under close observation?”
“Very close indeed,” answered Shakalov.
“Are there indications of where the aircraft landed?”
“Yes.” Shakalov pressed a button close to his right hand. There was a faint whirring noise, and then a screen appeared in place of one of the panels and the beam from a projector shone onto it. All of the men present could see simply by turning their heads. A picture appeared very out of focus, was put into focus and showed a stretch of countryside, sparsely dotted with trees, and grass or scrub showing everywhere. “If you follow the line of the trees,” went on the espionage leader, “you will see a faint but positive outline of a square which covers some fifty feet by fifty. Do you perceive?”
At first, Stefan could not see it, but as he watched the outline appeared, and as he said: “Yes!” with excitement sharp in his voice, a little arrow appeared on the screen tracing the square. Quickly, the arrow moved and traced a second square. It moved again, and Shakalov talked over its jerky movements.
“There are six such outlines, Comrade, and according to your reports from England there were six which opened, with three aircraft taking off from each. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Four arrived here, so there are fourteen others.”
“Yes.”
“Have any been traced?”
“Yes,” Stefan said, and passed on what he knew about all planes heading for Russia, and the pilots’ stories of some being decoys.
“Your other agents are as competent as Zuka,” the shaven-headed man said with reluctant admiration, and his smile hovered again. “Are you satisfied that these aircraft which have landed on what I have called Project Two, are in the valley?”
“Yes,” answered Stefan. “What is more important—” he broke off.
“Whether we can raid the valley without causing them to do what they did in England,” Shakalov said quietly.
“You mean, whether they know we are aware of their presence,” said Stefan.
“Is there a way of being certain?”
“A possible way,” Stefan answered.
“Explain, please,” urged Shakalov.
Stefan Andromovitch hesitated.
A great deal was spinning through his mind, mostly questions, with the main question about the man who sat opposite him. He knew Shakalov as well as anyone could; once, he had worked for him, and for many years he had worked for Z5 at the same time. And he knew that in dealing with Shakalov it was necessary to begin aggressively, not to allow him to take the initiative. But it was possible to push too far; he could be as adamant as the Berlin Wall, as immovable as a mountain. The problem was to judge when to ease the pressure and allow him to take the initiative, or at least, defer to him. Shakalov beckoned the man with the trolley for more coffee, then motioned to Stefan; and a gesture of outward courtesy could indicate a toughening of resistance. So could the further relaxing of the other’s lips into a smile.
“Or perhaps you prefer to wait for your leader Palfrey to explain,” he said, taunting.
“Comrade,” said Stefan, leaning forward earnestly. “You know that I am the deputy leader of Z5, that Dr Palfrey and I have been friends and associates for over twenty years, and—” he spread his large, beautifully shaped hands over the table, palms downwards; and his smile was broader than Shakalov’s, his eyes wide with innocence and simplicity – “you also know my allegiance to Z5.”
“I do, indeed, Comrade.” There was something near a threat in Shakalov’s voice.
“So—” Stefan spread his fingers, as if drawing attention to the shape of the nails and the silky hairs on the backs of them and the backs of his hands and wrists, “you will understand my diffidence when saying that he remains an Englishman and I a Russian and there are gaps in our understanding.”
“Yes,” replied Shakalov, “this I can believe.”
“This Andromovitch is a shrewd one,” the Russian said to himself. “He has the face of a saint and the mind of a Machiavelli. He must have, or he would not have been able to serve two masters for so long. Now he has decided that he needs my help. It will be fascinating to find out in what way.”
“Dr Palfrey,” Stefan said, “has rare courage.”
“A great many men have courage,” retorted Shakalov. “Both friends and enemies. In what way does Dr Palfrey express his courage over this affair?”
“He is persuaded that among the leaders of The Project there may be men who could be turned to the benefit of mankind,” said Andromovitch.
“They all appear more likely to be enemies of society,” retorted Shakalov, roughly. “Is it courage or folly to hold such an opinion?”
“It is courage to wish to visit them and find out what he can of their motives.”
Shakalov sat upright, so sharply that it was clear that he was impressed.
“To visit them at their plant in Hansa?”
“Yes,” answered Stefan.
“Alone?”
“No, Comrade – with me and also with the one agent of Z5 who has been inside one Project plant and escaped.”
“Ahhh,” breathed Shakalov. “Philip Carr?”
“You also are well informed.”
“What can Dr Palfrey seriously hope to achieve by such a visit?”
“Find out whether there is a way in which we – the world and every nation in it – can come to terms with The Project and whatever the leaders are planning.” When Shakalov did not speak, but sat bolt upright, staring as if he were trying to read Stefan’s thoughts, Stefan went on: “If we are allowed to come away, then there will be the possibility of discussions on a high level. If we are not—” Stefan shrugged. “Then obviously The Project will be proved a threat which must be contained.”
He sat back, stretched his legs beneath the table to his fullest, touched Shakalov’s foot, which was quickly withdrawn. The silence lasted for a long time. Stefan became aware of the breathing of the two men, in Shakalov’s service, who had brought him here. The beam of light from the projector faded; the faint whirr of the machine died away, the panel slid back into position.
At last, Shakalov stirred. “And you wish me to recommend this to the Presidium?”
“Your approval is the only hope of their agreement,” Stefan replied.
“I must be very careful,” Shakalov warned himself. “If I recommend this and it fails, I will be blamed.” He broke off in his thinking, watching Andromovitch, who sat so calmly, so peacefully, his gentle voice inviting him, Shakalov, to take steps towards his own downfall. “First – is it a sensible move? . . . Second – will the Presidium accept a proposal from Palfrey? . . . Third – if they go and do not return, is the position any worse?”
“Comrade,” said Stefan, into the other’s reverie.
“Yes, Comrade?”
“Will you permit me to make a suggestion?”
“You have not been backward in making suggestions!”
“The urgency of the matter is so pressing,” murmured Stefan apologetically, and he spread his hands again. “If you were to present this proposal as emanating from you, it might well have a greater chance of acceptance than if it were known to come from Dr Palfrey.”
Shakalov’s lips turned down, and he paused again.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “he is a man of a simplicity which outreaches the cunning of most men. He proposes that I should take all the credit if it is successful, and the blame if it should fail. But would t
here be blame? Can anything different be done?” He probed into the possibilities while Stefan Andromovitch sat like a statue by Michelangelo, radiating goodwill, innocence, integrity. He thought: “Andromovitch doubtless knows that the President is at the other end of a telephone, expecting to hear from me.”
“Comrade,” Stefan spoke again when he felt sure that the silence had lasted long enough.
Shakalov stirred, as if out of a stupor. “What is it, Andromovitch?”
“It is a matter of urgency,” Stefan reminded him. “If the men in The Project are given ample time to be sure of your surveillance then they may act before you have reached a decision.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if with apology. “The urgency is not of my making.”
“No,” admitted Shakalov, after another, briefer pause. “It is certainly not of your making. If you will excuse me, Comrade.” He pushed his chair back, and bowed stiffly from the waist, and as Stefan rose, turned towards the door, turned back almost at once, and then added: “Perhaps you would like to go to meet Dr Palfrey’s aircraft, while this matter is under consideration.”
“I would like that very much,” Stefan said. “You are very kind, Comrade.” He also bowed.
A few minutes later he was led out of the room and when he reached the gate, the sun was already high in the east, shining with savage splendour on the gold of the turrets and the steeples, giving a glory of light and life and colour. As the car turned out of the Kremlin into Red Square, dozens of people were moving about, a crowd of students stood close to Lenin’s tomb, while the many-domed cathedral seemed to be aflame. A queue of people was filing towards the big department store which looked like some huge government department building.
The white buildings of the University rose high, clear, imposing; and now the streets about it were crowded with students, young men and women laughing and talking together as they came off the grey buses, and off bicycles, even a few private cars and trucks. As all this fell behind him, Stefan heard the droning of aircraft in the sky.
