He looked directly at Adrian. ‘I love that man,’ he said, simply.
‘Look.’ He burrowed into his hip wallet, producing a picture of a narrow-faced, serious-looking man, the photograph the expressionless sort of image taken for official documents. ‘I carry it always,’ said Bennovitch.
Adrian took the proffered picture and studied it hard for several moments before returning it.
‘Such friendships are rare,’ conceded Adrian, who had never known one. He stood up, content with the information, anxious to terminate the interview.
‘You’ll get your wish soon,’ he said. ‘Our scientists are fed up with learning of things at second hand, through me. They want to meet you personally. It was to have been next week, but a slight hitch has developed. But it’ll be soon, believe me.’
The Russian smiled, holding out the official notification. ‘Can I keep this?’
Adrian nodded. Part of the inferiority psychosis or a Russian’s respect of officialdom? He shrugged, dismissing the mental question.
‘I’d like to see you again this week,’ said the Englishman. ‘Maybe Thursday. O.K.?’
The Russian laughed. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Adrian, but the Russian didn’t reply. As Adrian left the room, Bennovitch was staring down at the picture, deep in recollection.
Adrian dumped the Supermarket carrier-bag on the partition dividing the kitchen from the dining area and neatly began stacking his purchases for examination.
Halfway through, he decided he’d forgotten the eggs, waited until the bag was empty to confirm it and then stood, helpless and angry. He checked his list and realized he’d omitted to mark them down in the first place and grew angrier.
Fortunately he’d remembered cornflakes. A light breakfast in the morning. It didn’t really matter. What did?
He stored the supplies away in cupboards that were still new to him and wandered aimlessly around the unfamiliar rooms, reminding himself as he had for the past month that he didn’t like the flat. It was a box, he thought and liked the metaphor, expanding it, a box where he put himself away for the night, for safekeeping and to prevent dust gathering and from which he reappeared in the morning. Nine o’clock. Unlock the boxes. Take out the Adrian Dodds and start the day. Without eggs.
He switched on the rented television set, waited for it to warm up and then punched the selector buttons. ‘Panorama’, Andy Williams and archaeology in Greece. He turned it off again and completed another tour.
He lit the single-bar electric fire, waited expectantly and then grimaced as the smell of disuse rose up with the heat. Adrian looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. Food suddenly occurred to him and he tried to recall the canteen lunch, consciously having to think to remember tepid beef, thin, like tracing paper and just as tasteless.
He opened the cupboards and examined the tins, like an amateur marksman selecting targets at a weekend funfair. Every shot a winner, calories and nutriment guaranteed, roll up, roll up.
Adrian sighed, closing the door. It would have to be heated and then he’d have to wash up and the whole thing was too much trouble. He was suddenly glad he’d forgotten the eggs. Breakfast wouldn’t take so long to clear up, either.
He stared fixedly at the oven, then twisted the taps, experimentally. Gas hissed into the kitchen and then he caught the smell, thick and sweet. But not unpleasant, not like the electric fire. It would be so easy, so very easy.
He snapped the taps shut and went back into the lounge, and sat down on a couch that he’d never encountered in furniture shops, only in cheaply rented flats, with seats that ended halfway along his thighs, so that his legs went numb if he sat too long.
He didn’t have a clean shirt. The thought arrived, unprompted, and he shrugged, examining the one he was wearing. Too late to get to the cleaners now to collect his laundry. Miss Aimes would notice. So what? Damn her.
He snorted, despising himself. Any other man would have brought to mind a better oath than ‘Damn’, like … like … He halted the process, aware it would be unnatural and false to conjure another swear-word. Who on earth was he trying to impress with manly thoughts, anyway? Himself?
Suddenly Adrian Dodds, sitting quite alone in a shabby flat in the Bayswater Road, with its smelling fire and uncomfortable couch, began to cry. At first he dragged his hand across his face, embarrassed, and then realized there was no one in front of whom he had to feel ashamed and so he sobbed on, tears edging down his face and adding more marks to the front of the only shirt he had.
So what?
‘We’ve made quite a fuss,’ recorded Kaganov.
‘Was it wise to threaten the recall of our ambassador in Britain?’ queried Heirar.
‘Essential,’ insisted Minevsky. Then, almost reciting, he went on stiffly. ‘Britain has opened its arms to our top space scientists. We’ve got to make the greatest possible protest.’
He paused and smiled. ‘At this stage, anyway.’
The other two joined in his amusement.
‘Will we carry it out?’ asked Heirar.
Kaganov shrugged. ‘I thought we’d explore the idea before the full committee tomorrow. My idea is to recommend his being brought home for consultation. The Western press would snap at that and say we were making good our threats and we’d still have room to manœuvre him back.’
‘That’ll be important, later,’ said Minevsky.
The other two nodded. Minevsky wondered what it was like in England for Pavel and Bennovitch. No security committees, no K.G.B., no Lubianka prison, no parrot-like propaganda.
He sighed. ‘I bet Pavel and Bennovitch are regretting their defection now,’ he said, for the silently revolving tapes that would be heard by others later. ‘Under detention, ruthlessly interrogated.’
Heirar smiled again, admiring the remark.
‘Are we seeking consular access to Pavel?’ he asked.
‘In two days,’ said Kaganov. ‘We’ve gambled on waiting two days, to get the maximum publicity for our protests.’
Minevsky laughed suddenly and the other two looked at him.
‘What’s so amusing?’ asked Kaganov.
‘I’m sorry,’ apologized the deputy chairman. ‘It was just your choice of the word “gamble”. ’
The other two grinned, sharing the joke.
Chapter Three
The idea occurred to him half an hour after leaving London, so he pulled into a layby and carefully reversed the cuffs, trying to cover the embarrassment of yesterday’s shirt.
He examined the disguise and nodded, satisfied. Not bad, certainly under a jacket. No one would notice. Well, almost no one. Miss Aimes would see it, immediately. Adrian pictured the quick smirk, the half nod of secret confirmation. Perhaps her wig would fall off. He wondered if she washed wigs like shirts … ‘Is your wig whiter than white? If not, use …’
He smiled and pulled out into the traffic again. He had been to the house before and so he was familiar with the route and his mind butterflied, hovering around the forthcoming interview. A preliminary meeting, Sir Jocelyn had said. Let’s assure ourselves completely that he’s the right man. It wouldn’t be difficult, thought Adrian, with the guidance he’d already got from Bennovitch.
He’d be on his way back by three and that was important because Sir Jocelyn was awaiting his return. The baronet would probably suggest his club, but Adrian had already practised the refusal, unwilling to sacrifice the time.
Anita had stipulated eight o’clock.
Adrian recognized the turn just before Pulborough and swung in, slowed by the narrowness of the lanes. Like that in which Bennovitch was hidden, only a few miles away, the house had once been a country retreat, lying deep in easily guarded, wooded grounds and now adopted for its specialized purpose, a prison without bars or warders, a place which kept out people instead of detaining them.