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‘Please tell me what’s going on. Why am I here? Where is my husband? What has happened to my daughter? Am I under arrest? What am I supposed…’ The man held up both his hands to halt her flow of questions.

‘Please, first things first. Let me introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Colonel Petroff of the Committee for State Security; as for your husband and daughter, they were escorted to the airport yesterday and will now be back in England.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Oh dear, Mrs Davenport, I think you must know the answer to that question.’ Marianne said nothing, though she felt a huge surge of relief that Edward and Izzy were safe – assuming, of course, that she was being told the truth. ‘Let me give you a start then,’ the colonel continued, ‘it seems you were an associate of the American spy Larry Anderson, who operated under diplomatic cover and who has now been expelled from the Soviet Union.’

‘I knew Mr Anderson but I didn’t think that he was a spy.’

‘Indeed. It seems though that you were meeting him on a regular basis?’

‘Yes. I met him at an embassy party soon after I arrived here. He gave me useful tips about living in Moscow. He was quite often at the university and I would have a coffee with him.’

The colonel looked at her quizzically. ‘And?’

‘Well, we talked about life in Moscow and reminisced about America.’

The colonel made a show of examining some papers in front of him. ‘It seems that on several occasions you were seen to pass a newspaper to Anderson which he took away with him. Why would that have been?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. Perhaps there was something in it he was interested in.’

‘In the newspaper – or would that be within the newspaper? Please take care what you say, Mrs Davenport. Lying to an officer of the State Security is a serious offence in this country.’

Marianne thought quickly. I have no reason to protect Larry so why not own up…

‘I sometimes gave him samizdats which were circulating around the university.’

‘Wrapped in a copy of Pravda or Isvestia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Marianne shrugged.

‘Come, come, Mrs Davenport. You did so because you knew that these are illegal documents produced by enemies of our state.’

‘I knew that they were not approved of.’

‘Not approved of – is that how you would describe it? This was an illegal activity in breach of the undertaking you gave when you entered this country.’

‘I didn’t think of it like that.’

‘But you admit handing him illegal publications?’

‘Well, I handed him these papers occasionally – but he could have got them from other people. There are plenty around.’

‘But in fact, he got them from you.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘And sometimes from other agents. Would that be the case?’

‘I was not an agent.’

‘No? You were just a friend then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing more?’

‘No.’

The questions continued all morning; Marianne was repeatedly asked about her conversations with Larry: who did he ask her to meet; what issues was he concerned about? She tried to give answers that she thought would satisfy the colonel. She explained in general terms his interest in Jewish members of the university who might be thinking of applying to emigrate, but she tried as far as possible to avoid mentioning names. Why am I behaving like this? she wondered. I don’t have any obligation to these people. Why am I behaving as if I really was an agent who didn’t want to betray her contacts? It nevertheless seemed instinctive to try to avoid getting others into trouble if she could prevent it.

The colonel was unfailingly polite, if frequently sarcastic when he thought her answers inadequate. When he announced that the interview was over she asked, ‘So what happens now? When can I leave?’

‘We need to evaluate what you have told us. Answering correctly and telling the truth will speed up the process. Have you been telling the truth, Mrs Davenport?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

‘Good,’ he said, smiling at Marianne in a way she found rather disturbing. ‘You will be escorted back to your room now.’

Later that day, as Marianne lay on her bed pondering the interview, she thought that she had perhaps made a foolish mistake. Why had she not told them that Larry had been her lover? Didn’t that explain her meetings in a way which was less prejudicial to her own position? After all, a love affair is just that. It explains everything. Also, they probably already knew. If they had been watching him they must have been aware of their many meetings at the Minsk Hotel. She hadn’t told them, she supposed, out of an instinct for denial and secrecy which an adulterous affair gives rise to; and the fact that she had lied about it to her husband. Perhaps she was also trying to avoid giving them any information that they could then use against her. God, what a sink hole I have got myself into, she thought. She felt disgusted with herself. She resolved that when she was summoned for her next interview she would admit to her relationship with Larry.

Unfortunately, the opportunity for a pre-emptive confession did not arise. The next day she was confronted by a different man; a short stubby figure with thick black hair who immediately addressed her in Russian. ‘I am afraid I don’t speak English like our esteemed colonel, but I understand you speak excellent Russian. Is that so, Mrs Davenport?’

‘I can speak Russian, yes,’ Marianne replied. The man stared at her, saying nothing for a few seconds. Marianne opened her mouth to speak but she was cut short.

‘Clearly you are a woman of many talents. Tell me, do you let all your friends fuck you?’

‘I am sorry, I…’

‘I am reading from the transcript of your evidence yesterday,’ the man continued. He then proceeded to read in slow, halting English:

‘Colonel Petroff: “You were just friends?”

‘Davenport: “Yes.”

‘Colonel Petroff: “Nothing more?”

‘Davenport: “No.”’

Continuing in Russian, he said, ‘You lied yesterday, and the Colonel is very disappointed with you. That’s why I am here today. He does not want to waste his time when you are lying to us.’

Marianne tried to explain. ‘I am very sorry. It’s true that Larry Anderson and I were lovers. It’s just become an instinct to be secretive about it.’ Then, with a flash of what seemed like inspiration, she said: ‘Perhaps you are married yourself – perhaps you have been unfaithful to your wife and have instinctively lied about it…’ The man’s fist came down on the table with a violence that she had not expected, causing his cup and saucer to fly into the air and crash on the floor. Standing up, he came around to Marianne and put his face close to hers.

‘Don’t try to be smart with me, you sleazy bitch,’ and as he spoke he slapped her hard across the cheek and then, as her face turned in response to the blow, he flicked the back of his hand up into her face where it made a hollow clunk as it collided with her nose. Marianne recoiled in pain.

‘You hit me,’ she said in a small voice which might have belonged to an eight-year-old girl, expressing surprise that a well-known playground bully had suddenly turned on her.

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ the man said. ‘If I’d hit you, you would be on the floor with your face in a pool of blood. We are trying to be nice to Americans now – inviting them to our country even when they regularly betray our trust. But don’t push me – otherwise that fine nose of yours will never look the same again.’

Marianne was shaken by this sudden eruption of anger. She tried to blink away the tears as she wiped a small trickle of blood from her upper lip. The questions now began again, covering the same ground only this time the interrogator was a lot more aggressive.