What was that for?
Was Andreyev on to Treece?
There was a very nasty thought, if anyone ranking as high as Treece in the British Foreign Office security branch should be bowled out actually inside Russia, then the Ambassador in Moscow might just as well start packing his bags and burning the secret correspondence. Yet at the same time, there was still something bothering Shaw about Brigadier Treece. Maybe it was just the man’s folly in coming into the field at all.
The Komsomolsky Hotel, where the Press party were staying, was not so grand as it’s name might have implied, and indeed was no great shakes at all; the amenities of provincial Russia, despite the importance of this area, could scarcely be spoken of in the same breath as those of Moscow — indeed Shaw had found this out a long time ago, when he’d been on another job in the Kola Peninsula. Nevertheless, the hotel had a bar which was still open, and, while Virginia and some of the women of the party went to their rooms, most of the newspaper-men descended upon this bar in a body to have what threatened to become a series of nightcaps. Among them was Treece, who with apparent casualness, maneuvered himself close to Shaw and managed to knock against his arm in the crush and send his glass flying — an ancient trick, but effective.
Treece apologized profusely. “I’m awfully sorry, old man — awfully sorry. Clumsy of me… let me buy you another.”
“Thanks very much,” Shaw said promptly, enjoying the moment. Treece didn’t look like the sort who would ever buy his agents a drink in the ordinary way. “You were a little hamhanded, weren’t you, old man…” A fresh glass of vodka in his hand, Shaw smiled cheerfully and said, “Your very good health. What’s your paper, by the way?”
“My paper?” Treece looked surprised, then gave a slight belch and jerked his head sideways at his shoulder-straps. “That doesn’t say War Correspondent, does it, old man?” He laughed loudly; it was almost a guffaw and a few of the nearby drinkers glanced at him. “I’m not on any paper — no such thing! Embassy in Moscow.”
“Ah — my apologies! All very hush-hush, I’m sure.”
“By no means. I’m simply by way of being temporarily attached to the attache, if you follow me — extra military attache, to be precise. Nothing much in it except a rather super and unexpected holiday, really.” Treece waved a hand around. “Should be damned interesting, y’know, to have a look round before all the VIP flap starts when this feller Kos… Koschevo flies in the day after tomorrow.”
Shaw murmured, “Kosyenko.”
“Oh, really — that his name?” Treece looked utterly bored. “Hard to get the names right, I find, don’t you? Curious country…”
They chatted away for a few minutes, and then Treece announced he was ready for bed. Taking Shaw’s arm he went towards the staircase, talking loudly and self-importantly about a house he’d bought recently in Belgravia. He was pretty good at putting on the pompous-ass act, and by the time, they had parted, each to his own room, he and Shaw had established their joint images as firm, if very recent, buddies.
Ten minutes later, after Shaw, on a bug-hunt once again, had disconnected a minute microphone from inside a false bedpost, Treece was back. He asked if Shaw could lend him some shaving-soap for the morning. “Left mine in Moscow,” he said apologetically. “Don’t know if you use an electric shaver, of course?”
“I do, but I carry a steam one in case of accidents. Come along in — old man.” He held the door wide and Treece entered. Shaw shut the door behind him. “I was rather hoping you’d come back, Brigadier,” he said quietly. “I’ve a thing or two to tell you. It’s safe enough to talk — now.” He held up the tiny microphone.
“Good,” said Treece. “I thought you might have something to discuss, after I saw you with that KGB feller. Let’s have it.”
Shaw gave him a full report on his conversation with Andreyev. He said, “I’d advise warning the Embassy if possible, so they can back all the guff I gave Andreyev. No doubt I can leave that to you, Brigadier. And there’s something else. After you’d left Jones’s flat there was an anonymous phone call — for him.”
“Anonymous?” Treece’s moustache twitched, and there was a gleam in the bulbous eyes.
“Entirely so, but I fancy I recognized the voice.” Shaw pulled off his tie. “I believe it was Wicks.”
Treece was rocked. “Wicks? One of those two… now, what the devil would he be doing, contacting Jones — hey?”
“That’s just what I’d like to know myself, Brigadier.”
“I’ll find out, don’t worry!” Treece’s face was darkly flushed. “Jones never said anything to me about that — or haven’t you told him?”
“Yes,” Shaw answered. “I told him at Bykovo — just to see his reaction. I didn’t learn anything, though. I saw him talking to you afterwards, and he could have told you then. Of course, he may not have thought it important. You see, I… didn’t mention to him that I thought it was Wicks.”
Treece looked him in the eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked with a touch of truculence. “You’ve got suspicions of Jones?”
Shaw shrugged. “Nothing so definite as a suspicion, at least not until I know more about the phone call.”
“Well, you can leave that to me, Shaw! I’ll deal with it, and also pass back the tip about what you told what’s—‘is-name, Andreyev. Anything else of importance?”
“Not really of importance. I wanted to ask—”
Treece nodded brusquely, impatiently. “I dare say it’ll keep. I’ll get to bed. I’m dog tired…”
Shaw let him out. If Treece was tired, it was his own fault; maybe another time he’d stay in London where he belonged. Shaw closed the door, yawning himself. The hotel was at least clean and the bed looked comfortable and it was acting as a magnet to him now. After locking the door and checking the window, he turned in and slept soundly until he was awakened by a tap on the door. As a chambermaid came in, he rolled over and glanced at his wristwatch. 9 am. When the curtains were drawn back he saw that the sky was dark and heavy and the rain was still teeming down. There was a vivid flash of lightning in the sky, closely followed by a heavy clap of thunder that seemed to shake the very bed where he lay.
It was, he thought dourly, a fitting welcome to the Chalok River and its industry of human destruction.
Twenty-seven
The day was flat — an anti-climax, with the Press people hanging about in bunches in bar and lounge, glooming at the weather, at the wind and rain that beat at the windows and spluttered down the chimneys. They talked, argued, gesticulated; bursts of ribald laughter alternated with serious harangues from the knowledgeable fellows. All were waiting-waiting for Kosyenko; this was the lull before the storm of feverish activity that would characterize the three days to come, the tearing about in fast cars and the copious scribbling in notebooks, the constant flashes from the photographers, as they all accompanied the great man, the Russian father-figure, on his tour of inspection.