‘Yes,’ agreed Braley. ‘They would.’
Ruttgers, he thought, looking at the mild little man, was a rare sort of bastard. It was right to be frightened of him.
(8)
General Valery Kalenin entered the Leipzig Convention Hall at precisely 11.15 a.m. on March 11. Harrison noted the exact time, determined to prepare an impeccable report to Cuthbertson on his first absolutely solo operation. A bubble of excitement formed in his stomach and he bunched his hands in his pockets, trying to curtail the shaking.
The Russian was in plain clothes, a neat, fussy little figure who appeared to listen constantly, but say hardly anything. The deference towards him was very obvious, Harrison saw.
The General moved in the middle of a body of men, three of whom Harrison had seen during the previous two days at the Fair. The recognition annoyed him: he hadn’t isolated them as secret policemen. One had got quite drunk at the opening ceremony and Harrison had marked the three as relaxing communist businessmen. The episode would have been a ploy, he realised now, a clever attempt to tempt people into unconsidered words or action. The mistake worried him. Charles Muffin would have probably recognised them.
Kalenin appeared in no hurry, hesitating at exhibition stands and closely examining products. Any questions, Harrison noted, were usually addressed through one of the other people in the party, so avoiding direct contact.
Harrison’s entry documents described him as an export specialist in the Department of Trade and Industry, enabling him free movement to any British exhibition. Impatiently, he shifted between the stalls and platforms, accepting the nods and smiles of recognition; with the obedience instilled by his army training, he had dutifully followed instructions and befriended those businessmen providing his cover.
‘Let Kalenin take the lead’ – He recalled Cuthbertson’s orders, watching the agonisingly slow progress of the Russian party, but holding back from direct approach. It would have been impossible to achieve anyway, he thought: there needed to be an excuse for the meeting to prevent surprise in the rest of the party.
At noon, by Harrison’s close time-keeping, Kalenin was only two stalls away, lingering with the Australian exhibitors. The Briton imagined he detected growing attention from the diminutive, squat man at the approach to the British section. Harrison positioned himself away from the first display, an office equipment stand, remaining near an exhibit of farm machinery. It comprised tractors and harvesters, among which it was possible for a man to remain inconspicuous, Harrison reasoned.
At the office equipment stall, Kalenin abandoned for the first time the practice of talking through the men with him, instead posing direct questions to the stallholders.
‘Wants to show off his English,’ commented the salesman by Harrison’s side. The operative turned sideways, smiling. The man’s name was Dalton or Walton, he thought. Prided himself as a wit and had spent the previous evening telling blue jokes at the convention hotel.
‘Any idea who he is?’ floated Harrison.
‘Looks important from the entourage,’ guessed the salesman.
Harrison went back to the Russian party, detecting movement, but the farm machinery salesman was ahead of him, beaming.
‘Reminds me of a T-54,’ Kalenin said hopefully, pointing to a combine harvester and looking to his companions in anticipation. There was a scattering of smiles and Kalenin appeared disappointed at the response.
‘But more useful than a tank, surely, sir,’ intruded Harrison, seeing the blank look on the stallholder’s face.
Kalenin stared directly at him, gratefully.
‘Do you know tanks?’ asked the General. ‘They’re a hobby of mine.’
‘Only of them,’ said Harrison.
‘A man of peace, not war,’ judged the Russian, smiling.
‘A man whom my country much admires, once remarked that through trade there will be peace, not war …’ tried Harrison, quickly, wondering if the man would remember quoted verbatim what he had said at the American embassy reception. If Kalenin missed the significance, he would have to be more direct and that would be dangerous in such an open situation.
Harrison was conscious of a very intense examination. Please God, don’t let him misconstrue it, thought the Englishman.
‘A wise comment,’ accepted Kalenin.
He had remembered, decided Harrison. He felt very nervous, aware that the attention of the entire party was upon them and that the tractor salesman was desperately attempting to edge back into the conversation, believing Kalenin to be a trade official. The man thrust forward a square of pasteboard, eagerly.
‘Bolton, sir,’ he introduced. ‘Joseph Bolton.’
‘And a remark my country remembered,’ over-rode Harrison, desperate not to lose the opportunity. He was attempting to reduce the sound of his voice, so it would not be heard by the others.
‘Perhaps there should be a wider exchange of views between the two?’ suggested Kalenin.
‘They’re looking forward very eagerly to such a possibility,’ responded Harrison. Elation swept through him. The last time he had experienced such a sensation, he remembered, was when he had collected his Double First at university and seen his parents, who had been separated for ten years, holding hands and crying.
He’d done it, he knew. In four minutes of apparently innocuous banter, he had brilliantly achieved what he had been sent to do.
Kalenin turned to the salesman, accepting the card at last. None of the others would have suspected anything, decided Harrison. It was perfect.
‘Show me the engine,’ said Kalenin, then immediately proceeded to ask three technical questions showing his knowledge of machinery. The visit was consummately timed, assessed Harrison, admiringly. The Russian allowed exactly the proper amount of attention before disengaging himself to move back into the group.
‘It was a pleasant meeting, sir,’ said Harrison, walking with him towards the edge of the stand. ‘Perhaps on another occasion?’
‘I don’t know,’ countered Kalenin. ‘I’m leaving Leipzig tonight.’
The Russian spoke in the short, precise sentences of a dedicated man who had learned English in a language laboratory.
‘It would be nice, possibly, to extend the conversation,’ said Harrison, dangerously.
‘Yes. I’d like that,’ replied Kalenin, already moving on.
Harrison stood, savouring the knowledge of success, watching the party involve themselves in other displays. From no one came a backward glance that would have hinted suspicion.
‘If you’d spend less time getting in the bloody way, I might have made some progress there.’
Harrison turned to the annoyed salesman: Bolton, he remembered.
‘He took your card, Mr Bolton,’ pointed out Harrison.
‘You damned D.T.I. men are all the same,’ went on Bolton, unmollified. ‘Out for a bloody social occasion. Some of us live by selling, not as parasites off the taxpayer.’
Harrison was conscious of the amused attention of the adjacent stalls and smiled. Nothing could upset him after the preceding fifteen minutes.
‘He devoted more time to you than any other English exhibit,’ offered Harrison, moving away.
‘For sod all,’ echoed behind him.
Harrison spent the afternoon preparing a verbatim transcript of the encounter, sipping frequently from the duty-free whisky he’d bought on the outward journey and which he felt he deserved, in celebration. Charlie Muffin, whom everybody had considered so damned good, couldn’t have done as well, he convinced himself, belching and grimacing at the fumes that rose in his throat. The whole meeting had been magnificent; it didn’t matter if the others with Kalenin had heard every word. To anyone but the two of them, it was just a meaningless exchange of pleasantries.