‘Is he frightened?’
‘Very,’ said Adrian. ‘He’s a bumptious man, but he’s very aware of his worth. He’ll only go out for about fifteen minutes each day and then insists that both men with him are armed.’
‘Could we learn everything about the Russians’ space plans from talking to him?’
Adrian pondered the question before answering. ‘No, I don’t think so. He worked as a team …’ He paused, then said, ‘There were times when he was talking when I was reminded of the relationship between you and me …’ and Binns smiled.
‘There is another man,’ continued Adrian, ‘Viktor Pavel. He’s the navigational expert, basically, but he was the leader, the real genius. We’ve known his name for some time, principally in connection with his revolutionary new inertia guidance system, which our scientists want very badly. So there are gaps in what Bennovitch tells us. But the technical staff think they can fill most of it in. Even so, it’ll take time.’
‘How much?’
‘Several months, I’m afraid.’
Binns shrugged. ‘I don’t think that detracts from the catch,’ he said. ‘We’ll learn enough.’
The two men sat for several moments, then Binns said, ‘I was surprised that the Russians still sent such a large delegation to the Paris Air Show. There’s been such a fuss about Bennovitch that I expected them to cancel their contingent completely.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Adrian, ‘since the Americans and the Chinese established their links, the Soviets have been very conscious of “face” and of appearing over-sensitive in the eyes of the rest of the world. To have withdrawn would have created an even bigger surprise than going ahead as if Bennovitch’s defection wasn’t important.’
‘True,’ agreed Binns. ‘Perhaps I’m overlooking the fact that at this moment only about six people, apart from the Russians, really know how important Bennovitch is.’
The secretary brought in tea and both men instinctively stopped talking until she had left the room.
Adrian drank appreciatively. Binns always got Earl Grey sent in from Fortnum’s and his secretary brewed it beautifully. Adrian had tried doing the same, months ago, but Miss Aimes had produced exactly the same taste as she achieved with supermarket tea bags.
‘Heard from Anita?’ asked Binns.
Adrian started slightly at the mention of his wife’s name. Binns had been to the apartment for dinner several times in the beginning, soon after they were married. He’d made no comment when the invitations stopped.
‘I had a letter, about a week ago,’ he said.
‘Oh.’
Binns waited, giving Adrian the opportunity of ending the discussion or continuing it. Grateful for the chance, Adrian went on, ‘She wants to see me.’
‘A divorce?’
‘I think so.’
‘Another man?’
‘No.’
The denial was immediate, a little too abrupt. Binns said nothing.
After a long pause, Adrian said, ‘She appears to have formed some sort of association with another woman.’
Words of civilization, thought Adrian, contemptuously. ‘An association with another woman.’ Pomposity for the sake of appearance. My wife’s gone queer. My wife’s gone queer because I’m inadequate.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Binns.
More civilization, thought Adrian.
There was a hesitation, while Adrian searched for a reply. Then he said, ‘At least under the new divorce legislation it’ll be swept under the carpet and everyone’s pride will be saved.’
‘Hurt?’ asked Binns.
Adrian nodded, without replying.
There was a silence in the room and Binns began regretting that he had raised the subject. The telephone sounded suddenly and both men jumped. Binns sighed, relieved at the escape. The speech impediment registered as soon as Binns picked up the receiver and Adrian sat, feeling sorry for the other man.
Even with the stutter, Binns’s end of the conversation was restricted, but Adrian saw his face suddenly tighten. A nervous tic began to vibrate near his left eye, something which only occurred in moments of crisis.
For several moments after replacing the receiver, Binns did not speak.
‘What is it?’ asked Adrian.
‘There’s been another defection,’ said Binns, and so confused was he that he continued stuttering. ‘From the show … the Paris Air Show … a man surrendered himself to our embassy there and demanded asylum.’
‘What nationality?’ asked Adrian and Binns stared at him, as if it were a stupid question.
‘Why, Russian, of course.’ Then, realizing he alone had the details, he said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s so incredible … unbelievable almost …’
‘But who is it?’ demanded Adrian, impatiently.
‘Viktor Pavel,’ replied Binns, quietly.
At the back of the Kremlin complex, away from Red Square and the onion domes of the tourist pictures, three men of an inner committee sat in a windowless room. It was starkly functional, just fifteen chairs for when the full committee sat, grouped around a rectangular table, without note pads. There was no secretary or minute clerk because every word was automatically recorded and transcribed within thirty minutes, for instant reference by the Praesidium or any security division.
Because they were all aware of the recording devices the committee spoke in stilted, carefully considered sentences, with long pauses for mental examination of every phrase, like school children reciting the previous night’s homework, the conversation always in a monotone and devoid of any emotion.
‘Pavel’s gone over,’ announced the chairman, Yevgeny Kaganov. The other two nodded, rehearsing their reaction.
‘Are the French implicated?’ asked the deputy, Igor Minevsky.
‘No,’ said Kaganov. ‘He went straight to the British embassy.’
‘We’ll have to discipline security,’ said the third man, a Ukrainian named Josef Heirar. He smiled to himself, pleased with the safe response.
‘Already done,’ said Kaganov, briskly. ‘Two men were flown home from Paris within two hours of the British leak.’
‘Publicly?’ queried Heirar.
‘Very,’ replied the chairman. ‘There was a struggle at Orly. One actually tried to escape, pleading for asylum as well. The French were within inches of intervening. The newspapers in the West are full of it.’
Minevsky and Heirar nodded, in unison, as if sharing a secret agreement.
‘What about protests?’ asked Minevsky.
‘Already made,’ said the chairman. ‘In Paris and London. The British ambassador is being called to our Foreign Ministry, as well. We’re also summoning the American ambassador here, secretly, and asking for background pressure to be brought from Washington on the British.’
‘It won’t do any good …’ began Heirar and then stopped, aware of the indiscretion.
‘That’s not the point,’ snapped Kaganov, immediately. ‘And you know it. The Washington protest is important at this stage.’
‘Of course,’ admitted Heirar, recovering. ‘I’d forgotten the point, momentarily.’
It was a bad mistake and the other two stared at him, aware of how it would sound on the recording. Heirar knew, too, and began sweating.
‘What now?’ asked Minevsky, after sufficient time had elapsed to embarrass the third man completely.
‘We wait,’ said Kaganov. ‘We just sit and wait.’
The three nodded, content, except for Heirar, with the recording.
Chapter Two
‘I’m bored.’
Adrian smiled at the immediate greeting from the plump, sparse-haired Russian who sat hunched in the armchair, his glasses reflecting the exhausted sun collapsing over the Sussex Downs.