‘No,’ agreed Adrian, back into character again. ‘No, it wasn’t.’
Yes, he thought, yes it was. The sickness had disappeared, but he still wanted a lavatory. Badly.
Chapter Seven
Binns looked grey and his eyes were red with strain. Adrian realized as he walked into the other man’s office the morning after their meeting with the Prime Minister that the Permanent Secretary had not slept.
‘I’ve read everything,’ began Binns, tapping the grey folders on the desk before him. ‘The histories, Bennovitch’s complete debriefing and your assessment, the debriefing of Pavel, all the protests and assessments by our experts and all the reports from the security officers guarding both men.’
The speech impediment was still there. So the gap remained between them. Adrian waited for Binns to continue. The Permanent Secretary’s mouth moved, trying to create the words, and Adrian experienced the usual impulse to help, half forming the words ahead of the other man.
‘You’re wrong,’ Binns finally managed.
Still Adrian said nothing, realizing that Binns had spent a sleepless night trying to justify the suspicions he could not prove. Perhaps, still, the older man wanted the relationship to continue. The hope fluttered momentarily and then died. There was the department to consider, as well, and Adrian had brought that into disrepute.
Binns seized one folder, and from the crimson marking below the ‘Strictly Limited’ classification Adrian saw it was a collection of reports from the twenty men entrusted with Pavel’s safety in Sussex.
‘Shall I tell you something about your confident defector?’ said Binns, the sarcasm lost because of the speech difficulty. ‘Have you any idea how scared he is?’
‘Scared?’ queried Adrian.
‘Yes, scared. Do you know he refuses to go outside during the day, for exercise, so frightened is he for his own safety. It doesn’t even matter that the men prove to him that they are armed.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Adrian.
‘Always it has to be at night and even then he doesn’t allow himself outside the security of the house for longer than fifteen minutes. Being so self-confidently aware of his worth is a two-edged sword as far as Pavel is concerned. He’s equally aware of his value to the Russians and how much they’d like to silence him. That man won’t have another completely relaxed moment for the rest of his life.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Adrian. The visit to Binns was unexpected, the demand made in a curt telephone call to his uncomfortable flat by the secretary who could brew Earl Grey tea. Before, reflected Adrian, Binns had made such calls himself. And now there wasn’t any tea, either.
‘You wanted to see me,’ he reminded.
‘Yes,’ said Binns, discarding the folders. He stopped a yawn with difficulty. ‘Something else has arisen.’
‘What?’
‘We should have anticipated it, of course,’ said Binns, refusing to be hurried. ‘But I’d overlooked it because of the pressures.’
‘What?’ repeated Adrian.
‘The Russians have officially sought consular access.’
‘Oh,’ said Adrian. He had thought about it on the first day, a routine move in cases of defection, but, like Binns, had forgotten it.
‘It’s normal,’ said Binns pointlessly.
‘I know.’
‘The procedure is formulated.’
‘I know that, too.’ Adrian found himself growing annoyed at the other man’s attitude. He’d imagined their friendship deeper than this.
‘Pavel will have to be told. The choice whether or not he sees anyone from his own embassy will be entirely his. We must exert no pressure.’
Adrian sighed at the recitation of the standing instructions which had to be learned during the first month in the department. His dismissal really had been decided.
‘Do you want me to tell him today?’
‘I think so. He should be given every opportunity.’
Adrian smiled at the remark, the sort that Sir William Fornham would have made. Play up, play up and play the game, he mused. Those who cheated were called rotters and those who did what was expected, according to the public school dictum, were jolly good chaps. Adrian thought that the confessions of Kim Philby, whose background the security services had not probed because one gentleman does not question another from the same social stratum, had eradicated such attitudes.
‘Make it quite clear,’ lectured Binns, ‘that the choice is his. If he wants to see his people, then we’ll co-operate.’
‘He will,’ predicted Adrian and Binns looked up, startled.
‘What?’
‘I said he will,’ repeated Adrian.
‘What makes you so sure?’
Adrian hesitated. What the hell?
‘An impression I have — but one I’m not allowed to consider in my reports,’ he said. He immediately regretted it. There was no pleasure in scoring off Binns. If their friendship had died, it was only from one side.
‘Humph,’ said the older man, upset by Adrian’s reaction.
‘I suppose,’ said Adrian, ‘that if Pavel agrees, the meeting will be in the Foreign Office?’
‘Yes,’ said Binns. ‘He’ll be brought up overnight, so they won’t be able to establish where we’re keeping him from the travelling time.’
‘When do you want Pavel and Bennovitch brought together?’
‘As soon as possible,’ said Binns, officiously. ‘You heard the P.M. Time’s the important thing. That’s all that matters now.’
‘Do you agree? asked Adrian.
‘What?’
The question embarrassed the Permanent Secretary.
‘Allowing for your disagreement with me over my doubts on Pavel, do you think we should abandon the established routine, one that has shown nearly a hundred per cent success in the past, and hurry the debriefing?’
‘It’s a special case,’ said Binns. ‘I think we’ve got to adjust our handling to suit the circumstances, and the circumstances dictate speed.’
Adrian nodded at the reply, defining Binns’s reluctance.
‘It’s good to know you haven’t lost complete faith in me,’ he said.
Binns stared at him, but did not reply.
Adrian drove fast, angrily, into Sussex, knowing it was stupid and would achieve nothing, but doing it just the same. He wondered when they’d take the Rover away, with its extra-powerful engine, the car that Anita could never understand their being able to afford, believing his job to be that of a costing accountant at the Ministry of Social Security.
He began creating a mental fact sheet, listing his qualifications for future employment. Age — 35. Height, 5′8″. Education — Triple First in modern languages at Oxford, after five years at Eton. Previous experience? — the Official Secrets Act would apply here, so he’d have to hide behind the Social Security lie again, directing any reference inquiries to the department that covered such gaps when a specialized person such as himself was declared no longer employable. Salary expected — minimum of £3,000. Qualifications — none, except the ability to communicate perfectly in twelve different languages and a basic knowledge of psychology. Prospects — nil.
He could try translation, he supposed. Or some job at an airport where his peculiarity might be useful. Or a circus sideshow, he concluded bitterly.
Bennovitch was happy to see him, the truculence of their last meeting completely gone.
‘My friend, come back to see me,’ he announced, waddling across the room. He seized Adrian’s hand, then refused to release him after the greeting, leading him over to the high-backed couch.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘I’ve looked forward to this day.’
Adrian recalled the whining of three days ago, the complaints of boredom with only Adrian to talk to, and felt his diagnosis of Bennovitch’s mental state was being proved more and more by the pendulum of his emotions. He wondered how many years of work the Americans could hope for before Bennovitch had a nervous breakdown.