“I can assure you, colonel, that, unlike St. Peter, there will be no need for me to deny anything. I saw Babakov for what he was. And in any case, an Englishman’s word is his bond.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said the colonel, as he accelerated on to the motorway and put his foot hard down. Within seconds the indicator was touching a hundred miles an hour. Harry clung on to the dashboard as the colonel nipped in and out of the traffic, and for the first time since he’d set foot in Russia, Harry was genuinely frightened. As they passed the Hermitage, the colonel couldn’t resist asking, “Have you ever visited the Hermitage, Mr. Clifton?”
“No,” said Harry, “but I’ve always wanted to.”
“Pity, because now you never will,” said the colonel as he overtook a couple of lorries.
Harry only began to relax when the airport terminal came into sight, and the colonel slowed to sixty. He hoped his plane would take off before the first editions hit the streets, otherwise he might still be on that train to Siberia, and as he couldn’t hope to get through customs for at least a couple of hours, it might be a close-run thing.
Suddenly the car swung off the road, through a gate held open by two guards, and drove onto a runway. The colonel dodged in and out of the stationary aircraft, with much the same abandon with which he had treated the cars on the motorway. He screeched to a halt at the bottom of an aircraft’s steps, where two guards, who had clearly been waiting for him, sprang to attention and saluted even before he’d got out of the car. Marinkin leaped out, and Harry followed him.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” said the colonel. “Just be sure you never come back, because if you do, I’ll be at the bottom of the steps waiting for you.” They didn’t shake hands.
Harry walked up the staircase as quickly as he could, knowing he wouldn’t feel safe until the plane had taken off. When he reached the top step the senior steward came forward and said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Clifton. Let me take you to your seat.” Clearly he was expected. The steward guided him to the back row of first class, and Harry was relieved to find the seat next to him was empty. No sooner had he sat down than the aircraft door was slammed shut and the seat belt sign switched on. He still wasn’t quite ready to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Is there anything I can get you once we’ve taken off, Mr. Clifton?” asked the steward.
“How long is the flight?”
“Five and a half hours, including a stopover in Stockholm.”
“A strong black coffee, no sugar, two pens, and as much writing paper as you can spare. And could you let me know the moment we’re no longer in Russian airspace?”
“Of course, sir,” said the steward, as if he got this sort of request every day.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate as the plane began to taxi to the far end of the runway in preparation for take-off. Anatoly had explained to him that he knew the book off by heart, and had spent the past sixteen years repeating it to himself again and again in the hope that one day he would be released, when it could be published.
As soon as the seat belt sign had been switched off, the steward returned and handed Harry a dozen sheets of BOAC writing paper and two ballpoint pens.
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough for the first chapter,” said Harry. “Can you keep up a regular supply?”
“I’ll do my best,” said the steward. “And will you be hoping to catch a couple of hours’ sleep during the flight?”
“Not if I can possibly avoid it.”
“Then may I suggest you leave your reading light on, so when the cabin lights are dimmed, you can go on working.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like to see the first-class menu, sir?”
“Only if I can write on the back of it.”
“A cocktail perhaps?”
“No, I’ll stick with the coffee, thank you. And can I say something that’s going to sound incredibly rude, but I assure you it’s not meant to be.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Could you not speak to me again until we land in Stockholm?”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Other than to tell me when we’re no longer in Russian air space.” The senior steward nodded. “Thank you,” said Harry, then picked up a pen and began writing.
I first met Josef Stalin when I graduated from the Foreign Languages Institute in 1941. I was on a conveyor belt of graduates being awarded their degrees, and if you had told me then that I would spend the next thirteen years working for a monster who made Hitler look like a pacifist, I would not have believed it possible. But I have only myself to blame, because I would never have been offered a job in the Kremlin if I hadn’t come top of my class, and been awarded the Lenin Medal. If I’d come second, I would have joined my wife Yelena, taught English in a state school, and not been even a footnote in history.
Harry paused as he tried to recall a paragraph that began, For the first six months...
For the first six months, I worked in a small office in one of the many outer buildings within the red wall that encircled the 69 acres of the Kremlin. My job was to translate the leader’s speeches from Russian into English, without any idea if anyone ever read them. But then one day two members of the Secret Police (NKVD) appeared by my desk and ordered me to accompany them. I was led out of the building, across a courtyard, and into the Senate, a building I’d never entered before. I must have been searched a dozen times before I was allowed to enter a large office where I found myself in the presence of Comrade Stalin, the General Secretary of the Party. I towered above him, although I am only five foot nine, but what I remember most was those yellow eyes boring into mine. I hoped he couldn’t see that I was shaking. I learned years later that he became suspicious of any state employee who wasn’t shaking when they first appeared before him. Why did he want to see me? Clement Attlee had just been elected as the British prime minister, and Stalin wanted to know how it could be possible for such an insignificant little man (Attlee was an inch taller than Stalin) to replace Winston Churchill, whom he admired and respected. After I’d explained the vagaries of the British electoral system to him, all he said was, “That’s the ultimate proof that democracy doesn’t work.”
A steaming hot coffee, Harry’s second, and more sheets of paper of different sizes and shapes were supplied by the silent chief steward.
Sebastian took a cab to the High Court shortly after eleven. Just as he had been about to leave his office, Rachel had dropped the morning post and three more thick files on his desk. He tried to tell himself that things would return to normal next week. He couldn’t put off much longer telling Ross Buchanan that he intended to go to America and find out if he had the slightest chance of winning Samantha back, although he wasn’t even sure she would agree to see him. Ross had met Samantha on the Buckingham’s maiden voyage, and later described her as the best asset he’d ever let go.
“I didn’t let her go,” Seb had tried to explain, “and if I could get her back, I would. Whatever the cost.”
As the taxi made its way through the morning traffic, he kept checking his watch, hoping he’d get there before the jury returned.
He was paying the cabbie when he spotted Virginia. He froze on the spot. Even with her back to him, it couldn’t have been anyone else. That confident air of generations past, the style, the class, would have made her stand out in any crowd. But what was she doing hiding away in a back alley talking to Desmond Mellor of all people? Seb didn’t even realize they knew each other, but why wasn’t he surprised? He would immediately tell Uncle Giles and leave it for him to decide if they should let Emma know. Perhaps not until after the trial was over.