Jane Williams returned with the drinks and the appointments diary. Lady Billington held up the animals. ‘Take them out dear, will you?’
Sighing, the secretary carried both animals out into the corridor. She returned picking fur from her skirt.
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.
She said to Lady Billington. ‘You could fit it in tomorrow.’
Charlie thought she made it sound like agreeing to a hack being shod.
‘Come for sherry,’ invited Lady Billington, sipping her gin.
The cats were clustered at the door, awaiting readmission when he left. Jane Williams showed him out. At the drive, Charlie said, ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘I doubt it,’ she said, determined upon the last word.
Charlie sneezed, not managing the handkerchief in time.
Alexander Hotovy had stressed his wife’s health when he made the request and had been given permission to travel to London airport to meet her on her return from Czechoslovakia. He sat in the rear of the car, confident neither the driver nor the escort who accompanied him would discern the excitement that was throbbing through him. It wouldn’t be so easy with Lora: his wife knew him too well. He’d rehearsed the whispered warning for when they embraced, so she would not question him until they got somewhere secure to talk. Dear God, he prayed, let her be well enough to accept it without challenge. In a day – two at the most – they would all be safe.
The vehicle circled the roundabout and sped beneath the huge welcoming sign above the tunnel leading into the airport. Hotovy smiled at it briefly. That’s what he was being welcomed to: a new life. A new life without restrictions or suspicion or worrying about an indiscreet word or thought. Freedom! His hands were wet with sweat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them under the pretence of blowing his nose.
Safeguarded by the CD plates, the car parked on the double yellow lines outside the European arrivals building and Hotovy got out. He walked with deliberate slowness into the terminal, staring up at the indicator board for the flight from Prague.
‘You are Comrade Hotovy?’
‘Yes,’ In his surprise, Hotovy answered before he realized that the question had been asked in Russian. There was a man either side of him and as he turned he saw three more close behind. ‘What do you want?’
‘Look there, please,’ said one of them politely.
About a hundred and fifty yards along the concourse Hotovy saw his two boys being led into the building. There were three men and a woman with them. They went to the desk handling the Aeroflot flight. Tickets and boarding passes were handed to them without any checking formalities.
‘You’re not going to make a fuss, are you?’ said the man.
‘No,’ said Hotovy.
It was two hours after the Aeroflot departure that Clarissa Willoughby arrived at Heathrow. With the porter trailing her she went straight by the check-in counter for the Nice flight to the ticket desk.
‘I’d like to change my flight,’ she said to the clerk.
The man in the grey suit, still with his umbrella, busied himself among the magazines at the bookstall. He found he read a lot in his line of business.
8
General Kalenin would have preferred more time to assemble the material but he was confident he had forgotten nothing. He arranged it before him on the desk top, checking against the carefully prepared list, for the final scrutiny. The medal ribbon designated a Hero of the Soviet Union and was accompanied by a long official citation made out in Charlie Muffin’s name. There was a Soviet identity card, with a picture of Charlie and an authorization, again with a picture, for admission to the restricted concessionary stores. The passport contained Charlie’s picture and was date-stamped for the relevant countries where the Britons had been killed. There was five thousand dollars in cash and several congratulatory cables, two referring to the assassinations in Delhi and Ankara. The longest document was the briefing about Rome. It ran to two full pages and Kalenin concentrated upon that most of all, because it had to complete the entrapment.
He summoned the courier to take it to the Foreign Ministry for inclusion in that night’s diplomatic pouch to London, shrugging into his topcoat while he waited. He followed the messenger from his office but descended in the private lift directly into the basement where the car was waiting in an area of guaranteed absolute security. The journey to Kutuzovsky Prospect took only minutes and Kalenin dismissed the driver for the evening.
It was one of the largest apartments in the government complex, too big for his solitary needs but awarded to him because of his rank. The size enabled Kalenin to devote an entire room to his hobby. From habit he went immediately to it, staring down at the contoured papier-mache layout and the positions of the miniature tanks with which he had been recreating the Battle of Kursk in the most recent war game. It was over a fortnight since he’d abandoned it. Normally he would have invited Alexei Berenkov to complete it with him, but had decided against it tonight.
Reminded of his guest, Kalenin went back into the main room and opened two bottles of Aloxe Gorton to let them breathe. Berenkov preferred French to Russian wine and Kalenin enjoyed using his official position to indulge his friend. He lit a low heat beneath the bortsch and added meat and dumplings when it began to steam. He had just completed laying out the caviar and smoked fish when the bell sounded.
Berenkov entered as exuberantly as always, enveloping Kalenin in his burly arms. The only legacy of the man’s British imprisonment was the white hair. The cowed apprehension of his immediate return had disappeared and under Valentina’s care all the weight had been restored. He looked like a bear, thought Kalenin. But elderly and docile, the sort that live in children’s fairy stories.
‘Valentina is sorry,’ said Berenkov, repeating the apology of their telephone conversation earlier in the day. ‘I think Asian flu is the best weapon the Chinese have.’
‘Tell her I hope she’s better soon,’ said Kalenin. ‘But I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.’
For the caviar and fish there was vodka. Before they began eating they touched glasses, toasting Russian-fashion.
‘That sounds intriguing,’ said Berenkov, heaping his plate with fish.
‘It’s Charlie Muffin.’
Berenkov stopped eating, ‘What about him?’ There was a sadness of anticipation in his expression.
Berenkov had the highest security clearance for his appointment as senior lecturer at the spy college on the outskirts of Moscow, so Kalenin recounted in detail the Rome exposure and what he intended to do to save it. Berenkov sat hunched forward, huge hands cupped around his vodka glass, his food temporarily forgotten.
‘He couldn’t have been better for our purpose,’ said Kalenin. Charlie Muffin had been responsible for trapping the other man and Kalenin knew that, during the debriefing which followed, a professional respect had developed between them.
‘How did you find him?’
‘In America, about a year ago,’ said Kalenin. ‘He was involved in the insurance protection of a Tsarist stamp collection. I’ve had him under observation ever since.’
‘A convenient coincidence.’
‘The British will be completely convinced.’ Kalenin brought the bortsch and wine to the table. Berenkov poured, sniffing the bouquet appreciatively.
‘What do you think of the plan?’
Berenkov made an uncertain rocking gesture with his hand. ‘It seems good.’
‘Kastanazy is being purged.’ Kalenin needed to confide fully. ‘I expect him to be dismissed any day.’
‘Will you get the seat?’
Kalenin smiled. ‘It’s a possibility.’
Berenkov raised his glass. ‘To your success.’
‘Thank you.’
Berenkov put down the glass and said guardedly. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Charlie Muffin.’