Shadow of Shadows

by Ted Allbeury

  ‘Of what?’

  Petrov shook his head silently and Lawler said softly, ‘Would you rather I found someone else to take care of you?’

  ‘It makes no difference.’ Petrov’s voice was flat and dull. Lawler reached out and covered Petrov’s hand with his own. ‘Don’t worry, Tolya. Nothing unpleasant is going to happen. You are highly valued. You must know that.’

  ‘We’ll see, my friend. We’ll see.’

  Lawler stood up and walked slowly to the door. ‘Goodnight, Tolya.’

  ‘Da zaftra.’

  ‘Da.’

  4

  Lawler was still asleep when the telephone extension on his bedside table rang the next morning. He looked at his watch as he reached for the phone. It was already 9.30. Silvester was on the line.

  ‘How did you get on last night, Jimmy?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Have you got somebody with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Our friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a good move. Was it difficult?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. I’ll get out of your hair. Keep in touch.’

  ‘OK.’

  Standing at the window in his dressing-gown, Lawler looked out on to the King’s Road. It was a Saturday and the shoppers were out. He watched the doors swinging at Tesco’s and his eyes moved on to Royal Avenue. A Chelsea Pensioner in his walking-out uniform was sitting on the bench and a man in jeans and a plaid shirt was sitting beside him, talking to him. Then he saw the younger man’s eyes look up towards the window. He looked away quickly as he saw Lawler but his face had been visible long enough for Lawler to recognize him. His name was Bridges or Bridger, Lawler couldn’t remember which; but what puzzled him was that whatever his name he was watching the flat, and he was Special Branch. Special Branch were MI5 not MI6. And the two intelligence services never shared services, and seldom co-operated except at the topmost levels. Even at the top the co-operation was limited and grudging.

  He turned as Petrov came out of his bedroom.

  ‘A good night, Tolya?’

  ‘Very good. What do I call you to be friendly?’

  ‘My first name is James. How about some breakfast?’

  ‘I’d like some toast and coffee if you’ve got it.’

  As they sat in the kitchen drinking a second cup of coffee, Lawler said, ‘Where have you been outside London?’

  ‘I’ve never been outside London.’

  ‘Is there anywhere particular you’d like to go?’

  ‘I don’t know anywhere.’

  ‘How about Stratford-on-Avon?’

  ‘Why there? Is it specially beautiful?’

  ‘It’s where Shakespeare was born.’

  Petrov looked pleased and interested. ‘That would be fine. I’d like that.’

  ‘We’ll go to your place and you can pack some clothes.’ OK.’

  Lawler looked across at the Russian. ‘D’you want to bring your girl-friend?’

  ‘Silvester told you, yes?’

  ‘He just said you had a girl-friend.’

  ‘Nothing more than that?’

  ‘He said you had a problem there, but he didn’t say exactly what it was.’

  ‘Could she come with us?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She thinks I’m German. A foreign correspondent.’

  ‘I know. That’s no problem.’

  ‘How long do we go for?’

  ‘A couple of days. We can stay longer if you want to.’

  ‘Is OK I telephone her?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  Lawler pointed to the telephone in the sitting-room, and Petrov dialled a number.

  Her name was Siobhan, and Petrov’s voice as he talked to her was ingratiating, almost pleading, and it was obvious that he was having problems. He eventually put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, ‘She is asking who you are and why you go with us.’

  ‘We want tourists from Germany. I’m from the Foreign Office to show you the English countryside so that you can write a travel piece.’

  It took another five minutes of persuasion before she agreed. She would be ready and waiting in a couple of hours’ time.

  Petrov smiled. ‘She says maybe I am a queer and you too. She often speaks of me like that.’

  ‘I hope she’s very pretty.’

  Petrov’s face clouded. ‘Why do you hope that?’

  ‘A girl who told me that I was a queer would have to be very pretty or I’d tell her to go to hell.’

  Petrov nodded. ‘She is very pretty. Maybe too pretty for me.’

  ‘Are you fond of her?’

  ‘Is “fond” more than to love, or less?’

  ‘Less, but more than just liking.’

  ‘I love her very much.’

  ‘Do you sleep with her?’

  Petrov nodded, and sat down again at the table. ‘This is part of my problem with her. She gives me sex whenever I want. Plenty, plenty of sex. All the time if I want. I ask her to marry me. She says no every time I ask.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She says she is not interested, and anyway that I have no family. She says maybe I want to marry her to get British passport.’

  Lawler smiled. ‘I’ll have to work on her for you. Let’s get dressed or we shall keep her waiting.’

  With a suitcase each in the boot of the car they made their way to Pimlico. Siobhan Nolan lived in two rooms in a house converted into flats, off Lupus Street. Lawler sat in the Rover while Petrov went to fetch her.

  He saw her coming down the stone steps with the Russian and she was much more than pretty. She was beautiful. Slightly taller than Petrov and very shapely. Despite the full bosom and the long legs it was her face that he stared at as they walked towards the car. Big eyes, heavy-lidded, a wide mouth, a neat nose, and long, glossy black hair.

  Then Petrov opened the rear door and introduced her.

  When her suitcase was in the boot Petrov slid on to the back seat beside her. She was easy to talk to and, with that lovely Irish accent, even easier to listen to. It was hard to imagine her as being difficult. She laughed a lot, and seemed easy to please, and Lawler thought that most men would have settled happily for the lots of sex if she didn’t want to get married. But he knew all too well how Petrov must feel. That need to belong. Someone to love and be loved by. Exclusively, and not shared. For the first few weeks it would be enough just to enjoy that lush young body, but slowly the need to be the only one would become an obsession. So why the talk of going back to Moscow?

  They stopped on the Ml for petrol and coffee, and he checked the Yellow Pages for a hotel in Stratford, and phoned through to book three adjoining rooms.

  It was a pleasant hotel near the Avon and Petrov was obviously impressed. The girl seemed barely to notice what it was like.

  After they were settled in their rooms he walked them over the bridge into the town, and they ‘did’ Holy Trinity Church and Shakespeare’s house on Henley Street. The hotel managed to get them seats at the theatre for Henry V for that evening, and even the girl seemed impressed.

  After the performance they walked back along the river bank, through the gardens and over the bridge, Petrov slightly ahead, holding the girl’s hand. There was a small breeze off the river but the evening air was mild. They looked like any other couple walking home after the theatre. Relaxed and happy and normal. Lawler wondered what the other people strolling along the river bank in the moonlight would think if they knew that the man with the girl was the most important KGB defector since the war. Unhappy with their country and contemplating return to the Soviet Union. A Russian who knew more about what was going on in their country than they did. Who knew which trades union leader was getting a stipend from Prague. Which MP picked up his instructions from Moscow when he bought the seventh LP from the second row in a record shop in Kensington. And maybe which well-respected officer of the intelligence services had been playing footsie with Moscow
for years because twenty million Russians had been killed by the Germans in World War II and the same Germans had smashed his home to rubble and his parents to pulp on an April night in Coventry in 1941. He would know the SIS codes that had been broken by Moscow but were still being operated; and which Cabinet ministers were against the stationing of US missiles in East Anglia. And whether Moscow was intending to let British Leyland survive.

  It was midnight when they finally went up to their rooms, and with the door locked Lawler put a call through to London. The duty officer at Century House traced Cooper, and Silvester called him back twenty minutes later.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Slowly, but he’s very much on edge.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘He seems to have an idea we’re planning to knock him off. He asked if I was the one who was going to do it.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. Why should we want to do that? He’s valuable property.’

  ‘I know, but I guess he doesn’t see it that way.’

  ‘Try and find out more, Jimmy. No wonder the stupid bastard has clammed up if he thinks we’re going to do him in. Anything else?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Nothing significant anyway. Oh yes. He said, “Are they going to try and do another Behar?” ’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’re sure that you heard him right?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘Ask him then. Ask him what he means. Maybe it’s a name, or it’s a mispronunciation of some word he’s seen written down.’

  ‘I’ll leave it for a day or two. He’s just beginning to relax and I don’t want to get him wound up again.’

  ‘I’ll leave it to you. You seem to be doing OK.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘’Night.’

  ‘Ciao.’

  He lay on the bed reading John O’Hara short stories trying not to think of Siobhan Nolan and her long legs and beautiful breasts.

  The bedside light was still on when the phone woke him. The hotel operator sounded half asleep as he told him that there was a personal call for him from London. Lawler asked the time. It was ten past three, and the caller was Silvester.

  ‘Is that you, James?’

  Yes.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Of course I am. Did you think we were having a threesome?’

  ‘Behar. The word Behar. Are you sure that was what he said?’

  ‘Yes.But like you said, it may not be a name,of course. He said, “Are you doing a Behar?’’ He may have picked up some word somewhere and got hold of the wrong meaning.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure I know now what he means.’

  ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘He means George Blake.’

  ‘Who’s George—? Jesus. You mean the guy who got out of the Scrubs and back to Moscow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what does Behar mean?’

  ‘That was his real name. He only called himself Blake after he came to this country.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ Lawler said slowly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why does he associate Blake getting away, with being killed? He said it in the same sentence. Was I the one to kill him? Were we doing another Behar? But we didn’t kill Blake, the bastard got away. And what does “doing a Blake” mean in Petrov’s case? Maybe it’s an odd way of saying will we let him go back. But it doesn’t hang together.’

  ‘All the same I think this is what’s at the bottom of his problem. You’d better fish around those words as soon as you can.’

  ‘I can’t rush in like that, I’ll have to take my time.’

  ‘When are you coming back to London?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Or the next day if he wants to stay a bit longer. He’s enjoying himself down here.’

  ‘We need this information, Jimmy.’

  ‘Adam, I’ll blow it if I don’t go carefully. I’ve only had a couple of nights and a day.’

  Silvester sighed. ‘OK. I’ll leave it to you.’

  Lawler had slept until he heard the knock on the door. He looked at his watch. It was past ten and he called out, ‘Come in.’

  It was Siobhan Nolan in a white woollen dress, and she walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The sun was bright and she was smiling as she walked over to the bed.

  ‘Come on, my boy. Everybody’s up.’

  ‘Where’s Tony?’

  ‘Gone down to the river to feed the swans. He got some bread from the kitchens.’

  She bounced down on to the bed, smiling as she looked at his face.

  ‘Who were you dreaming of, honey?’

  Lawler smiled. ‘How many sisters have you got, Siobhan?’

  ‘Two. D’you want one?’

  ‘Only one?’

  She laughed, and then said softly, ‘What am I going to do with that guy?’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Tony.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Tony?’

  ‘He wants me to marry him.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know a goddamn thing about him. He’s got no relations. He says he’s a journalist. But he’s not. He’s a phoney.’

  ‘So why do you sleep with him?’

  She shrugged. ‘I like what he does.’

  ‘Would you like him any more if you knew he wasn’t a phoney?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about the other guys?’

  ‘He told you?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘So how’d you know?’

  ‘Every guy who sees you looks at your face, your boobs and your legs, and then mentally has you. You know this, but you don’t react. It takes more than one man to give a girl that much self-assurance. You know that you’ve only got to lift an eyebrow and they’ll come running. And you know that because when you want to, you do lift an eyebrow.’

  She smiled. ‘So what?’

  ‘So Tony’s in love with you. It’s not just bed. He wants more than bed.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A wife, a home, some loving, some kids maybe.’

  ‘I’m not ready for that, Jimmy. I’m only twenty-two next month.’

  ‘When will you be ready for that?’

  ‘Who knows? Next year, maybe. Or the year after.’

  ‘Do the others mean that much?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you like any of them better than Tony?’

  ‘I never go with them twice. I’ve told him that. They don’t mean a thing. They’re not interested in me except for bed and it’s the same for me.’

  ‘So Tony’s a bit ahead in the race for Siobhan Nolan?’

  ‘Sure he is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘God knows. I guess I like him in a funny sort of way. He’s kind. He cares about me. I’m not just a screw.’

  ‘He’s not phoney, kid. Not the way you mean it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do. Leave it at that.’

  ‘You’re not just a guy about tourists, are you?’

  ‘That’s a rhetorical question.’

  ‘What’s a rhetorical question?’

  ‘A question where the person already knows the answer.’

  She laughed, and then said softly, ‘D’you want to do it to me?’

  ‘That’s another rhetorical question.’

  ‘It isn’t. I don’t know the answer.’

  ‘You do. The answer’s always going to be the same whoever you ask. So the answer is yes, I do want to. But I ain’t going to all the same.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it would make Tony unhappy and he’s unhappy enough right now.’

  ‘He wouldn’t know.’

  He looked back at the big brown eyes. ‘People in love always know. You’ll know when your turn comes for that.’

  ‘You’re a funny fella, Jimmy, aren’t you?’


  ‘In what way?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  ‘You talk like my old dad. But he’s going on fifty.’

  ‘I take that as a compliment, little girl.’

  She smiled. ‘It is.’

  ‘You’d better go and find Tony and see if he wants to go back or stay another day.’

  ‘I’ll have to go back today anyway.’

  ‘OK, see what Tony says.’

  Petrov was torn between the few extra hours with the girl on the journey back and the peace of the small town. But when the girl promised she’d see him the next evening he stayed. They drove her to the station on the far side of the town. When they were back at the hotel Petrov was restless, and Lawler suggested that they walk down to the river bank. Petrov seemed to like the river.

  They crossed the footbridge to the Boat Club and walked up-river to the small islands opposite the Golf Club. The Avon was much narrower there and they sat on the bank watching the brown cygnets with their proud parents struggling to get out of the river on to the far bank.

  ‘Is there a reason why it’s called the Avon? Does it mean something?’

  ‘It comes from afon which is the Welsh for river.’

  ‘Welsh is from Wales, yes?’

  ‘Yes. The Avon ends up in the River Severn in Gloucestershire on the borders of Wales. I suppose you could class the Avon as a Welsh river if you were a Welsh nationalist.’

  ‘When we are back in London maybe you take me to see the Karl Marx mausoleum.’

  ‘Sure. It’s not actually a mausoleum. Just a grave with a statue on top. A plinth and a sculpture of his head.’

  ‘His body is not preserved for people to see?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Is there no respect at all for him in this country?’

  ‘Why should there be?’

  Petrov shrugged. ‘He was a great man. He changed half the world.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Tolya. Genghis Khan changed half the world. You’ve lived in a Marxist state. And you didn’t like it.’

  ‘Ah yes. But that was men, not Marxism.’

  ‘It always is men. That’s why Marxism doesn’t work. Marxism and all the other isms would be great if it wasn’t for the fact that people are people. Karl Marx was typical.’

  ‘How was he typical?’

  ‘He was typical of the very class he hated. The petty-bourgeois. And as a man he was both a hypocrite and a first-class bastard.’