Adrian felt tears coming and fought them, coughing repeatedly to explain the way he spoke.
‘God only knows,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps I’m wrong and Ebbetts is right and I deserve to be replaced because I’m no longer any good.’
Binns looked away, recognizing the emotion and wanting to spare his assistant. What the hell do men come into this business for, he thought. But Adrian had changed his mind. His doubts were wavering and that was a factor to be considered and so he’d have to tell the Prime Minister. But not now, not tonight. He could wait until the morning. It wouldn’t make any difference now.
‘By the way,’ said Binns. ‘There’s been a complaint.’
Adrian looked at him curiously.
‘The maintenance department,’ continued the Permanent Secretary. ‘They say you’ve defaced the window-sill of your office.’
‘It’s chocolate,’ said Adrian.
‘Chocolate?’
‘There was a pigeon. I put chocolate biscuits out for it.’
‘Oh.’
‘It won’t happen again,’ promised Adrian. ‘The pigeon’s gone away.’
Chapter Nine
Pavel had been lodged overnight in north London, in a large house on the outskirts of Islington. Adrian collected him at nine and in the back of the curtained Rover they went out along Western Avenue towards Northolt, where the helicopter was waiting.
Pavel said nothing.
He hadn’t even spoken when Adrian got to Islington, just given a brief nod of recognition and then allowed himself to be hurried into the vehicle, a man completely resigned to being moved from one spot to another at the will of others. There was no fight in him now, no arrogance or conceit. He was completely drained of everything, everything except his secrets.
Adrian had been to the office early, studying with Binns the reports of the two men who had attended the meeting between the embassy official and Pavel.
It was a lengthy, twenty-page typescript, sectioned into question and answer. Adrian read it twice, the second time analysing it sentence by sentence, briefing himself for the later meeting with the scientist.
Binns had sighed, throwing his copy on the desk.
‘What do you think?’
‘Brilliant,’ Adrian had judged, immediately.
‘Brilliant?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a document where one man has so successfully left another with a greater sense of his own guilt. That man isn’t just an official at their embassy. He’s a psychiatrist. And a good one.’
‘That’s exactly what I felt,’ Binns had replied.
Adrian had experienced a stir of pleasure, knowing that they’d reached the same conclusion.
Binns had continued, ‘It was wrong exposing Pavel to that interview, if we want to keep him.’
‘You know how I felt about that. And that the meeting with Bennovitch should be postponed,’ Adrian had warned, urgently. ‘If Pavel, after last night, is thrown together with Bennovitch, then it’ll be another day wasted.’
‘I know. I’ve already warned the P.M. I said just that.’
‘And?’
‘He’s ordered that the meeting go ahead.’
Adrian had sighed. And he’d be blamed. Whatever went wrong, Ebbetts had already established the scapegoat, the sacrifice to defeat if defeat occurred.
Adrian had anticipated the mood that Pavel would be in, but the depth of remorse and despair surprised him.
Adrian, who had visited the British embassy in Moscow and knew the city, smiled out of the car and tried small talk.
‘The English traffic,’ he said. ‘Different from what you’re used to.’
Pavel didn’t even bother to grunt a response.
‘We’re going to see Alexandre,’ Adrian persisted. ‘It won’t take long, by helicopter.’
The car cleared Wembley and picked up speed along the dual carriageway. Adrian relaxed, relieved that the car, an ideal target in the slow-moving traffic, was no longer so vulnerable.
‘Alexandre is looking forward to it,’ he pressed on, trying to break down the barrier.
Slowly Pavel turned to him. He’d stopped crying so much, but his complexion was grey and putty-like. If I touched his face, thought Adrian, the finger-mark would stay.
‘He wouldn’t tell me,’ said Pavel. His voice was flat and unsure, like a man speaking for the first time after a long illness. ‘I asked him. I kept on asking him and then I pleaded and he looked at me and his face didn’t move, not at all. He just shrugged.’
Adrian didn’t reply. He’d seen the typescript, the incessant question from the defector repeated over and over again: ‘My family. What’s happened to my family?’
Adrian expected tears, but Pavel seemed to have progressed beyond that now. He sat in the far corner of the car.
‘They’ve arrested them, haven’t they? They’ve arrested them and put them on trial. They’re going to die. They’re going to die because of what I’ve done. I’ve killed them.’
Adrian sensed the growing hysteria and spoke quickly, anxious to halt it.
‘Stop it, Viktor. We don’t know that. You’re guessing.’
‘I don’t have to guess. I know.’
They paused at the gate to the R.A.F. station, identified themselves and then swept into the restricted section, where the Westland Whirlwind waited under guard.
Again, moving like someone mentally retarded, entirely dependent on others, Pavel was led from the car, seated and belted into the helicopter and then obediently lowered his head, while the flight sergeant fumbled with the regulation helmet. Adrian had to wear one, too, and sat in the machine feeling stupid and self-conscious.
The protection prevented conversation and so they sat side by side in the helicopter, just looking down. To prevent Pavel knowing where he was being taken, the helicopter flew directly west, down to Dorset, over the neat fields set out like a giant stamp collection, before turning south out over the Channel, so there were no landmarks, and then retracing its route to the east. It crossed the coast again at Hastings and looped Pulborough to where Bennovitch was being held.
Pavel struggled from the machine, hobbling with cramp and for the first time Adrian realized how old he was. Fifty-nine, thought Adrian. Fifty-nine and just five days ago he seemed ageless. Now he looked like a senile old man.
He stood waiting for instructions beneath the helicopter, which drooped, like a huge insect caught in the rain.
Adrian put an arm around his shoulders and gently propelled him towards the house. The Russian approached docilely, without comment. Adrian felt he would have walked just as unquestioningly away from the house if he had been ordered to, so little interest was he taking in what happened to him.
As they got nearer, Adrian isolated the elegant room where all his debriefings with the other Russian had taken place and then he saw Bennovitch, his head barely above the window-sill. He was standing quite motionless, still not completely convinced that it was Pavel who was being brought to him.
When they were very close, Bennovitch’s face cleared and a half smile formed. He tried a hesitant wave, shyly almost, as if he expected to be rejected for what he had done. Pavel made no response and Bennovitch’s face settled into a frown of uncertainty.
Adrian touched the older Russian’s arm, then gestured towards the window. Pavel’s eyes focused and Bennovitch saw he had been recognized and he smiled again, more hopefully this time.
Adrian glanced back to his companion, like a father encouraging a reluctant son to acknowledge a birthday aunt. And remained staring at Pavel. Never had he seen such a look of sadness on a man’s face. The look lasted a few seconds, then faded.
They hurried in and Bennovitch burst into the hall before Pavel could take off his light Russian-style summer raincoat. They both stood there, in the high-ceilinged, timbered hall, with its wide, baronial stairway lined with shields and swords of forgotten battles, just looking at each other.