Adrian had spoken in a flat monotone, like a public announcement.
Bennovitch looked at him, his pudgy face creased with frowns, shaking his head like a boxer trying to clear his brain after a flurry of punches. Twice he opened his mouth to speak and twice closed it again, unable to translate his thoughts into words.
‘No … it’s not … I can’t believe it … you’re lying, trying to trick me. Why are you saying this? I’ve helped you all I can. Why are you saying this to me?’
‘Alexandre, I’m not lying. And I’m not trying to trick you either. Viktor says he had been thinking for some time of defecting … that he even considered telling you but he was not sure of your attitude. He says he was being crushed by the regime and needed room to continue his work in freedom.’
Still Bennovitch shook his head, disbelievingly. ‘No. It’s not like that … it’s not true …’
‘He’s being kept in a country house like this, about twenty miles away …’
‘Then let me see him. Let me meet him, right away. Then I’ll believe you. But not until I see him, face to face. Until then, I know you’re lying to me.’
‘Alexandre, believe me, I’m not. I’ll arrange a meeting for you, tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? I’ll see him tomorrow?’
‘On my honour.‘
The Russian’s attitude wavered.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Poor Valentina … poor Georgi …’
The security men guarding Pavel had grown so concerned that they had telephoned London and spoken with Sir Jocelyn. London had got Adrian before he left Bennovitch, and when he arrived at Pulborough, he was given a full briefing. He supposed that Binns would have already told the Premier and that he would be blamed for what had happened. It ceased to matter.
Despite the warning, Adrian was still shocked when he went into the spacious room, overlooking the clipped, tiered lawns, in which the Russian was hunched, as if he were in pain.
Pavel half turned, saw it was Adrian and then looked away again, disinterestedly. His eyes were sore from crying and there were still traces of tears on his face, so white it appeared almost artificially made up.
Although there had been assurances from the security men of room and body searches, Adrian’s first thought was that Pavel had taken poison. It had happened once before and security had been as insistent then. The inquiry had shown they’d missed the hollowed-out cross the defector had worn around his neck, a thing they should have checked within the first hour.
‘Viktor …?’
The Russian ignored him, staring out into the garden.
‘Viktor … what’s wrong?’
Adrian moved nearer, going around in front of the other man. He had both hands in front of him and at first Adrian thought he was holding his stomach and that his fear of poison was correct, but then he saw Pavel was clutching the photograph wallet against him, as if he were afraid someone was going to snatch it away.
‘Viktor … tell me. What is it?’
The Russian looked up at him, distress leaking from him. Adrian saw his nose was running and realized he wasn’t going to do anything about it. The Englishman felt slightly disgusted.
‘Are you ill …? Do you want a doctor?’
Pavel shook his head.
‘I didn’t sleep,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘I forgot. I’m watched pretty well.’
Adrian said nothing.
‘All I could think about was them …’ He gestured towards the pictures in his lap. ‘Do you realize what I’ve done to them, to my children and my wife?’
Seats had been installed in the bay window of the room: Pavel sat at one end and Adrian sat at the other, studying the man, dismissing his fear of poison.
The breakdown of a man known to adore his wife and family, judged Adrian. A man facing complete realization of the terror he’d left behind. Sincere? Or phoney?
‘Do you know what I’ve done?’ repeated Pavel, a man whose mind is blocked by one thought and cannot progress beyond it. ‘Do you know they could actually be put to death?’
Adrian nodded, slowly.
‘But you knew that, Viktor,’ he said, pointedly. There was no reaction at the use of the Christian name. ‘You must have considered that. It must have been one of the first things that occurred to you.’
Pavel made an uncertain movement.
‘Of course I thought about it,’ he said. ‘But I thought … Oh, I don’t know what I thought …’
‘Really?’ queried Adrian. ‘That’s not like you, Viktor. You’re not the sort of man who shuffles a problem aside and hopes some solution will appear, out of the sky.’
The conversation was being recorded, of course. And it would show him to be pressuring a man on the point of collapse. But what if he collapsed? Would anyone sympathize about that?
Pavel began crying, quite quietly, just sitting there with tears making tiny rivers down his face. He looked at Adrian, pleadingly.
Adrian felt embarrassed. And guilty. Bullying did not fit him as easily as it did Ebbetts.
‘Don’t you know what it’s like to love someone?’ asked Pavel. The sobs edged into his voice.
Yes, thought Adrian. Yes, I know what it’s like. And I cried, he remembered.
‘But why did you defect, Viktor?’
‘I told you I’d thought about it for some time,’ said Pavel. ‘I didn’t think I’d really get the exit dossier for Paris. Even when it was granted, I pushed the idea to the back of my mind. It was only in the last day or two that I thought, well, it’s now or never. Even in Paris, I was undecided. I thought of Valentina … of Georgi. And the girl. And then I convinced myself that my reputation would still protect them.’
He looked at Adrian, finally moving his hand across his face. Adrian was glad his nose was clean.
‘I was God in Russia,’ he said. ‘Whatever I said was accepted. I was never questioned or opposed. I thought of what had happened to some of our writers, like Yevtushenko and Solzhenitsyn. They’ve gone against the regime and stayed in the country and because of the fear of world reaction nothing much has happened to them. I knew my defection would cause a tremendous uproar, especially so close after Alexandre’s. I figured that once here, I could give press conferences, make demands and put the spotlight on Moscow, so that no harm would come to my family. I thought that there would be so much publicity about me that the Russians wouldn’t be able to make any move against them, put them on trial even. I even day-dreamed that perhaps I’d be able to insist that they come and join me.’
Adrian frowned at the naivety. Perhaps a spoiled man who had had every wish granted for nearly twenty years might think like that, he conceded. Suddenly a flicker of doubt vibrated in his stomach and Adrian realized he could be wrong and that Pavel’s defection could be genuine.
‘Press conferences could still be arranged,’ said Adrian. ‘Not yet, but they could be set up.’
Pavel snorted a laugh, dismissing the statement.
‘Let’s be serious, shall we?’ he said. ‘Remember how we began our meetings? In complete honesty. I’ve had nearly eight days to review what I’ve done. I’m a traitor now, one of the worst there’s ever been. They’ll do anything, anything to get me. It’s insane for me to compare what I’ve done with what the writers did. And insane, too, to think I can bring any influence against the Soviet Union. Now now. Not any longer. Publicity won’t help now. It’ll cause more harm, in fact.’
He paused, picking at the photograph. ‘They never give up, you know,’ he said, quietly. ‘They consider abandoning the Soviet Union one of the most serious crimes a Russian can commit. There’s actually provision in our criminal statute to try a person who applies for an exit visa to leave permanently.’