Pavel had been brought there the previous night, by a roundabout route from the house in London where he had been kept for the twenty-four hours since his helicopter flight from the NATO headquarters in Brussels. Adrian knew the men whose responsibility it was to keep Pavel alive, but nevertheless went through the regulation procedure of identification, even having his fingerprints taken and matched against the records already at the house of those half dozen people who were to be allowed access, once all other checks had been passed.
The routine was followed without any half cynical ‘I’m sorry, but …’ smiles from the men appointed to guard Pavel. The second Russian defector had been allotted the highest security risk rating, ensuring a permanent guard of twenty men, two in constant attendance except for debriefings, even for lavatory visits.
Pavel was breakfasting when Adrian arrived and the Englishman watched him through one of the observation points fitted into every room. The scientist ate solidly, unconcerned at the security men who sat near the door, silently observing the meal.
Eggs, thought Adrian. Yellow, crisply fried eggs and toast, with the choice of preserves or marmalade. His stomach felt empty and echoed its hollowness with a belch, which he subdued. He turned away from the observation point, embarrassed.
‘It’s like watching an animal feed, at the zoo,’ he said to the man who stood alongside. The security official shrugged. ‘Your department fixed the classification,’ he said. ‘We just do as we’re told and hope to Christ nothing goes wrong.’
Adrian didn’t reply. He stood in the hallway until the breakfast was cleared and then gave the scientist ten minutes before moving into the room. The Russian looked up, acknowledging a new face.
‘Good morning,’ said Adrian, smiling, his accent perfect.
Pavel smiled and ducked his head in appreciation. ‘I speak English,’ he said.
‘As you wish,’ responded Adrian.
‘But I wish my English were as good as your Russian.’
Adrian smiled at the compliment. ‘Perhaps I have more practice.’
‘Perhaps.’
Adrian half turned to the security men, who rose together. One nodded and said, ‘Think we’ll take a break.’
He spoke in Russian, too, and Pavel laughed, aloud. ‘Perhaps I should start awarding marks.’
Adrian sat in a deep leather armchair bordering the fire, studying the other man, marking the contrasts with Bennovitch. Pavel was medium height, but quite thin, unlike his squat, rotund partner, and the fastidiousness showed. He appeared quite relaxed, hands cupped in his lap, nails clean and well manicured, his suit crisp and pressed and better cut than that of Bennovitch, showing almost Western tailoring. The eyes were blank and unrevealing behind the spectacles, the receding hair separated by a parting that was ruler-straight.
‘You must be one of the important men,’ said Pavel. ‘What would the word be — quizmaster?’
Adrian felt he was being laughed at. He smiled at the irony. Unusual confidence, he thought. Normally there was more uncertainty. He shrugged, adopting the diffident attitude so necessary to question arrogant men who made mistakes because they thought they dominated the interview.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he replied. ‘I’m just convenient because I speak languages.’
‘How many?’ asked Pavel, immediately.
Unusual again, thought Adrian. He’d used the dismissive ploy several times in the past, but never been challenged on it. As a rule they were nervous, concerned only with questions revolving around their own safety.
‘Quite a few,’ he said, still modest.
‘But how many?’ There was an edge of impatience in the query, showing a man used to questions being specifically answered the first time, without prevarication.
‘Twelve,’ replied Adrian, immediately. Let him dominate the interview, initially, just to gather more confidence.
‘Chinese?’
The question was a surprise until Adrian remembered the boy on the Chinese border. ‘Mandarin and Cantonese, and one dialect.’
Pavel nodded, as if the answers had solved some secret questions.
‘Are you worried about Georgi?’ asked Adrian, shifting the initiative.
Pavel smiled. ‘Georgi? You know of my son?’ Then without awaiting an answer, he said confidently, ‘Alexandre has been talking.’
Adrian wondered whether to disclose that the fact had come from the Moscow embassy and decided against it. Let him think Bennovitch was being co-operative.
‘He’s very fond of you,’ said Adrian. ‘He refers to you almost as a father.’
Clever, thought Adrian. So far he’s effortlessly avoided the only question.
‘Is Alexandre happy?’
Adrian shrugged again, still allowing the control to slide away from him.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Any more than you are now or will be for some months yet. There’s too much uncertainty and anxiety yet for there to be any enjoyment apart from the exhilaration of getting away.’
It had been a tenet of his psychology training to be as honest as possible with any interviewee. The moment the subject caught the questioner in a basic dishonesty, any hope of co-operation disappeared. Pavel nodded, accepting the attitude.
‘Does it get better? How long does the uncertainty last?’
Adrian thought he saw a gap in the confidence and moved to widen it.
‘It depends on the person,’ he said.
‘I feel guilty,’ admitted Pavel suddenly, and Adrian stepped in, accepting the opening.
‘That’s inevitable,’ he said, ‘and it’ll be more difficult for you than it was for Alexandre. He only left a sister. And being your wife, she was protected. But now she isn’t. Neither are Georgi or Valentina.’
Adrian had spoken purposely, trying to shatter the man’s demeanour, accepting the frowns that the abrupt questions and statements would later cause among the people who argued that there should be as few reminders as possible of the difficulties that a defection caused an émigré’s family. Pavel was going to be difficult, perhaps the most difficult yet. The reaction is worth the risk, judged Adrian.
‘You’re not taking any notes,’ said Pavel, suddenly.
‘No.’
‘So everything is being recorded?’
Adrian sighed. It was going to be the most difficult.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Funny,’ mused Pavel. ‘I knew it was done in Russia, but I never imagined it being done here …’
‘… It’s for convenience,’ broke in Adrian. It was important to establish a guide to this drifting conversation. ‘Notebooks or unspeaking shorthand writers in the corner of a room unsettle people, make them aware that every word is being noted. A tape recording is a convenience, that’s all. We make no secret of it. I could have lied.’
‘But that would have been pointless, wouldn’t it?’ said Pavel. ‘And endangered any confidence growing between us.’
Adrian frowned, unsettled by the other man’s knowledge. Where had a space scientist learned psychology? Pavel stared around the elegant breakfast room. ‘There are observation points, of course.’
Adrian hesitated, momentarily, feeling himself blush. He decided to maintain the honesty and said, ‘Of course.’
He paused, then added, ‘It’s a protection device, for your safety …’
Pavel’s ridicule cut him off.
‘Hah! That was a mistake,’ snorted Pavel. ‘So far you’ve been honest with me and I’ve recognized it. But that was stupid. I came to England in the dead of night, by helicopter from the Continent. So no one in the world knows exactly where I am except the people you choose to know. It’s not my safety you’re worried about at the moment.’