She was interrupted by the return of Roscoe Hammond. He had a short stocky man in tow, whom he introduced as, “Toby Fly, our expert on covert operations.”
Toby Fly walked with a peculiar rolling motion that hinted at some old leg injury that hadn’t entirely healed. He was a jolly man with a little mustache and an obvious eye for the youthful Miss Carver. “Pleased to meet you, Rand. Ah, I see you’ve been introduced to our Polly. Hands off her, now! I saw her first.”
“I’m a happily married man,” Rand told him with obvious sincerity.
Fly gave him a wink, then settled down to business. “You’re Hastings’ man in Concealed Communications, aren’t you?”
“Was. I’ve been retired nearly five years now.”
“That long? No wonder our paths never crossed.”
“You’d be wise to stay out of his path,” Polly Carver warned. “He likes to pinch.”
“Not men, I don’t!” Toby Fly chuckled. “You’re safe, Rand.”
Another man entered, somewhat younger than Hammond and Fly. He wore glasses and a studious look, but his broad shoulders and wide chest hinted that a muscle man might lurk beneath the casual white sweater and slacks. “Mark Temple — Professor Mark Temple — our Russian expert.”
“Hello, Rand. I believe we met once at a symposium up at Cambridge, just after you retired. Good to see you again.”
Rand remembered the man then. He’d seemed brilliant but slightly pompous in spite of his youth, and Rand hadn’t realized then that he was part of the intelligence community. “Yes, I remember your theories on Soviet expansion in the Middle East. You proved to be quite a prophet.”
“It’s my specialty,” Temple replied, accepting the praise. Then he told Hammond, “We might as well start. Olimski won’t be joining us for lunch.”
The name stirred Rand’s memory. “I thought Olimski defected years ago. He can’t be your mysterious guest.”
“No, no,” Hammond assured him. “Olimski is the fifth member of our debriefing team. We find it wise to have a previous defector present to put the subject at his ease. You see, I’m permanently assigned in charge of operations here. We use the estate as a worldwide communications center and as a jumping-off place for certain covert operations. The debriefing area is in the other wing, quite separate. We don’t have that many defectors these days, but it’s still a good place to bring them. Gets them away from the press until we have a chance to talk.”
A light lunch was served and they ate for a bit before Rand asked, “Just who is the defector?”
Hammond exchanged glances with the others. Then he replied, “Anton Lifnov.”
“Our biggest prize in years,” Toby Fly said. “You know him, don’t you, Rand?”
“I met him once in Moscow,” Rand admitted. “But it was quite casual. I can’t imagine why he’d ask for me to be here.” Lifnov was a middle-aged cog in the Russian intelligence machinery — a bureaucrat of no special importance who would now achieve his moment of glory as a defector to the west. Rand met the man briefly following some trouble in Moscow a few years back.
“He came here a week ago,” Roscoe Hammond continued. “Flew in by way of Dublin, accompanied by one of our people who arranged the defection. Claimed he had valuable information which he would sell us in return for money and a new identity in the west.”
“He came alone?”
“Yes. His wife died recently. Apparently he decided to make a new start. I went by the book and assembled a debriefing team: Temple, our Russian expert — Toby Fly, covert operations — Olimski, a previous defector — and Miss Carver, our language expert. Anton Lifnov arrived and met with us all — and would say nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He refuses to discuss his former position or anything about his life in Moscow,” Polly Carver confirmed. “All he talks about is our weather.”
“But he said he had information.”
Mark Temple took up the conversation. “So he did. But whatever it is, he won’t tell us. We tried to reason with him but he would say nothing. Finally we asked him if there was anyone at all he would speak to.”
“He thought about it for a full day,” Toby Fly said. “Then he came up with your name, Rand. We knew you used to be one of Hastings’ people, so we phoned him.”
Rand finished the last of his lunch and sipped a cup of cool coffee. “Interesting. Well, I suppose as long as I’m here I really should see him as soon as possible.”
Hammond played nervously with his napkin ring. “Before you do, I think it would be wise if you spoke with Olimski. I’d hoped he would join us, but he’s been keeping pretty much to himself. Polly, could you take Mr. Rand up to Olimski’s room, please?”
“Certainly.” She patted her mouth with a napkin and pushed back her chair. “Let’s go up now.”
They left the three men still at the table and Rand followed her up the broad front staircase to the second floor. The sound of typewriters from the remodeled wing barely penetrated here, and by the time they reached the upstairs hall the thick carpeting deadened all sound. “The atmosphere around here is quite relaxed,” Rand observed.
“We’re all like children on holiday,” she admitted. “It’s such a treat after being cooped up in a London office.”
Rand noticed a locked door which seemed to lead to the far wing of the house. “Is that where Lifnov is?”
“Yes. You’ll see him soon. It’s kept locked for his own protection. He’s not a prisoner.” She paused before another door and knocked.
A voice from inside responded with a single word. “Enter.”
Rand knew Olimski from newspaper photographs at the time of his defection. He was a mountain of a man, with a smooth bald head and piercing dark eyes. He rose from his chair now and bowed slightly, a motion which seemed incongruous in someone so large. “Excuse me for not joining you at lunch, Polly,” he said in heavily accented English. “I was doing some writing.”
“This is Mr. Rand, the man Anton wished to see.”
“Ah!” He didn’t smile and Rand was unable to read his thoughts. “So you will succeed where all of us failed?”
“I’ll talk to him,” Rand said. “That’s about all I can promise. What do you think the problem is?”
Olimski shrugged his massive shoulders. “When I first came here I had my doubts too. Did I do the right thing? Could I ever go back to my countrymen? One gets over them. One learns to start a new life.”
“Is there anything I should know before I see him?”
“Only that you must go slowly with him. Remember, the Russian nature is a devious one at best. Do not judge him by your English standards.”
Rand thought he could understand why Olimski did not mingle with the others. “You don’t much care for the British, do you?”
Another shrug. “I will not speak ill while I am a guest in your country. Certainly if your people were all as charming as Miss Carver here there would be no problem.”
“Would you like to be with me when I speak to Lifnov?”
Polly Carver interrupted. “Anton especially requested that he meet with you in private, Mr. Rand.”
“Very well.” He held out a hand to the Russian. “Nice meeting you, Olimski. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to talk after I’ve heard what Lifnov has to say.”
At the door Polly Carver paused. “Will you be joining us for the evening meal?” she asked Olimski.
He hesitated, then said, “Yes, certainly. I will be down very soon.”
She closed the door behind them and led Rand down the hall. “A difficult man. I try to make allowances, but I find him hard to work with.”
“Did you know him before this week?”
“I was a member of the team that debriefed him following his defection three years ago.”