It had been going on too long, he realised — this need for the sedative of work. He had lost, he knew, the sense of perspective, now that the date for the final weapons trials on the Mig-31 was so close. It was nothing, it seemed, but a last-minute panic — grabbing up the bits and pieces of his job like scattered luggage. All the time afraid that he had forgotten something.
He was afraid to leave his office at that moment, because he knew his body could not yet assume its characteristic arrogance of posture. He would be recognised in the corridors of the Centre as a worried man; and that might prove an irretrievable error on his part.
He had known about the security leaks at Bilyarsk for years — about Baranovich, Kreshin and Semelovsky — and their courier, Dherkov the grocer. Over such a period of time as the Mig had taken to be developed and built, it was impossible that he should not have known.
But, he and his department had done nothing about them, nothing more than reduce the flow of information to a trickle by tightening surveillance, preventing meetings, drops, and the like. Because — he suddenly dropped his head into his hands, pressing his palms against his closed eyelids — he had gambled, out of fear. He had been afraid to recommend the removal of vital human components from the project, and afraid that even if he did then the British or the CIA would suborn others whose existence would be unknown to him, or put in new agents and contacts he did not know. Better the devil you know, he had told Priabin when he made the decision, trying to smile; and the young man had gone along with him. Now it seemed an eminently foolish remark.
The price of failure had been absolute, even then. Disgrace, even execution. He tried to comfort himself by thinking that whatever the British and Americans knew, it was far less than they might have known…
His narrow, dark features were wan and tired, his grey eyes fearful. He had had to let them continue working, even if they were spies. The words sounded hollowly, as if he were already reciting them to an unbelieving audience, even to Andropov himself…
PART ONE
The Theft
One
THE MURDER
The walk from the British Airways BAC-111 across the tarmac of Cheremetievo Airport seemed interminable to the slightly-built man at the end of the file of passengers. The wind whipped at his trilby, which he held in place, jamming it firmly down with one hand while in the other he held a travel bag bearing the legend of the airline. He was an undistinguished individual — he wore spectacles, heavy-rimmed, and his top lip was decorated with a feeble growth of moustache. His nose was reddened, and his cheeks blanched, by the chill wind. He wore a dark topcoat and dark trousers, and anonymous shoes. Only the churning of his stomach, the bilious fear, placed and defined him.
It was only because it was the express practice of the KGB to photograph all passengers arriving on foreign flights at Moscow's principal airport that he, too, was photographed with a camera equipped with a telephoto lens. He guessed that it had happened, though he could not have said at what point in his walk across the tarmac, his head bent in an attempt to keep the flying dust from his face and eyes.
The sudden warmth of the disembarkation lounge struck him, tempted him to turn down the collar of his coat, remove his hat, and brush at the brown hair. He slicked it away from his forehead, so that with its evident white seam of a parting it belonged to a man unconscious of fashion. At that point, he was photographed again. In fact, it was as if he had posed for such a study. He looked about him, and then moved towards the customs desk. Around him, the human tide of any international terminal flowed, attracted his attention. Delegations filed through, and his eyes picked out the flamingo colours of African national costume. There were others — Orientals, Europeans. He became an item in that vast congress, and the cosmopolitan familiarity of an airport lounge settled his stomach. If anything, he appeared very cold, and more than a little airsick.
He knew that the men who stood behind the customs officials were probably security men — KGB. He placed his airline bag between the screens of the detector, and his other luggage came sliding towards him on the conveyor belt. The man did not move — he had already anticipated what would happen next. One of the two men standing with apparent indifference behind the customs men, stepped forward and lifted the two suitcases clear of the belt.
The man watched the customs officer fixedly, seeming to ignore the security man as he opened each of the suitcases, and urgently, thoroughly, ruffled through the clothing they contained. The customs official checked his papers, and then passed them to the controller at the end of the long counter. The ruffling of the clothes became more urgent, and the smile on the KGB man disappeared, replaced by an intent, baffled stare into the well of each suitcase.
The official said: 'Mr. Alexander Thomas Orton? What is your business in Moscow?'
The man coughed, and replied: 'As you can see from my papers, I am an export agent of the Excelsior Plastics Company, of Welwyn Garden City.'
'Yes, indeed.' The man's eyes kept nickering to the frustrated mime of the security officer. 'You — have been to the Soviet Union several times during the past two years, Mr. Orton?'
'Again, yes — and nothing like this has happened to me before!' The man was not annoyed, merely surprised. He seemed determined to be pleasant, a seasoned, knowledgeable visitor to Russia, and not to regard the insults being levied at his possessions.
'I apologise,' the official said. The KGB man was now in muttered conversation with the customs officer. The remainder of the passengers had already passed through the gate, and spilled into the concourse of the passenger lounge. They were gone, and Mr. Alexander Thomas Orton was feeling rather alone.
'I have all the correct papers, you know,' he said. 'Signed by your Trade Attache at the Soviet Embassy in London.' There was a trace of nervousness in his voice, as if some practical joke which he did not understand were being perpetrated against him. 'As you say, I've been here a number of times — there's never been any trouble of this kind before. Does he really have to make such a mess of my belongings — what is he looking for?'
The KGB man approached. Alexander Thomas Orton brushed a hand across his oiled hair, and tried to smile. The Russian was a big man, with flattened Mongol features and an unpleasant aura of minor, frustrated, power about him. He took the passport and the visas from the official, and made a business of their scrutiny.
When he appeared satisfied, he stared hard into Orton's face and said: 'Why do you come to Moscow, Mr. - Orton-'
'Orton — yes. I am a businessman, an exporter, to be exact.'
'What do you hope to export to the Soviet Union, from your country?' There was a sneer in the Russian's voice, a curl of the lip to emphasise it. There was something unreal about the whole business. The man brushed his oiled hair again, and seemed more nervous than previously, as if caught out in some prank.
'Plastic goods — toys, games, that sort of thing.'
'Where are your samples — the rubbish you sell, Mr. Orton?'
'Rubbish? Look here!'
'You are English, Mr. Orton? Your voice… it does not sound very English.'
'I am Canadian by birth.'
'You do not look Canadian, Mr. Orton.'