‘Tell me about these refugees whom you’ve taken in from the street. What’s that all about, eh?’ His expression was mild but the headmasterly threat lay beneath it.
‘Gennady Egorkin, ambassador. And a protégée of his called Nadezhda Pankova.’
‘So Eric told me. I’ve heard of him, of course. Quite a reputation. The question is, what the hell are they doing in your flat, almost as guests of HMG?’
‘That’s not exactly the case, sir. Both Eric and I have made the unofficial nature of their presence very clear to them. They more or less threw themselves on my mercy on Friday evening. After the reception, as a matter of fact. They’d escaped from their hotel when their minders weren’t watching – I certainly don’t have to tell you how it is with the Russians. Egorkin probably saw this as his last chance of getting out.’
‘With your connivance.’
‘No connivance at all, ambassador. Absolutely none. But what else could I have done? Told them to throw themselves on the mercy of the Americans?’
The ambassador gave a little grunt. Maybe that was the moment when the tide turned, that small grunt at the mention of possible rivalry by the Americans. ‘I don’t want them brought into the embassy, is that clear? I’ve been on to the P.U.S. and he’s adamant. Hasn’t spoken to the minister yet, but I’m sure he’ll be in agreement too. We don’t want a word of this to get out. We haven’t seen them and we haven’t given them shelter. If so much as a whisper gets into the embassy, the news will be all over Prague in half a day. You know that as well as I do. Chervonenko will be issuing diplomatic protests left, right and centre and we’ll be accused of kidnapping two of his citizens and trying to destabilise a fraternal socialist country. For all I know he’ll claim we’re trying to start World War Three. The waters of Prague are muddied enough at the moment – we don’t want even more shit stirred into them.’ The word was shocking on the ambassador’s lips. He gave a wry smile. ‘And in the meantime, you and Eric had better work out how to get them out of the country without anyone knowing.’
‘We’ll sort something out, sir.’
‘I suppose Saumarez will be involved, won’t he? He usually is in this sort of thing.’
‘He is the expert, sir.’
Another grunt, this one tinged with displeasure. Sam shifted in his chair but the ambassador clearly hadn’t finished. ‘And then there was that business at the reception.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that.’
‘Made a bit of a scene, didn’t she?’
‘I suppose Miss Konečková did speak with First Secretary Dubček in rather frank terms. But the circumstances…’
‘We’re all very tense at the moment, I know. Still, you’re a diplomat, aren’t you? And she’s, well, she’s a local, isn’t she? Not a good idea, really. You bring a local gal to a diplomatic bun fight and it causes all sorts of trouble. Believe me, it’s always better to play at home. Especially here behind the Curtain, you never know what you’re letting yourself in for. Or us, come to that.’
‘I can assure you that I am most sensitive to security issues.’
‘Of course you are, old chap. Of course you are. I wouldn’t think for one moment you’d—’
‘And I’ve had Harold Saumarez check her out.’
‘Have you, indeed? That’s a good thing. Clean as a whistle, I expect. But still, you don’t want to let her take your eye off the ball.’ He looked faintly embarrassed. ‘If you see what I mean.’
‘Of course I won’t. But as a matter of fact, I’m going to ask her to marry me.’
For a moment the ambassador looked startled. ‘Good lord.’ Then diplomacy papered over the surprise with a broad smile, as though the idea of marriage changed the whole complexion of the affair. A bit of casual sex with a local girl was suddenly transformed into an aspect of statecraft. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful news, Sam. Wonderful.’
‘For your ears only at the moment, sir. I haven’t even asked the lady yet.’
Suddenly all smiles, the ambassador came round the desk with his hand outstretched. ‘I must congratulate you, Sam.’ Angling metaphors replaced cricket metaphors with noteworthy fluency. ‘I’m sure you’ll land the catch successfully, old fellow. Let me know when you’ve popped the question and we can celebrate properly. Meanwhile, what about a glass of sherry?’
‘That’s very kind, sir. A small one.’
The ambassador busied himself with decanter and glasses at a side table. He’d got an amontillado or a fino. Which would Sam prefer? Had them shipped out by Berry Bros. & Rudd. Cut glass – Bohemian, of course – and amber liquid. They sipped.
‘Now tell me about the girl. She seems quite a force of nature. I gather her father was a victim of the show trials.’
‘Yes, he was. Lukáš Vadinský.’
‘So I gathered. Can’t have been easy for her.’
‘She’s certainly had a pretty hard time of it. Only got to university by taking her mother’s maiden name. She’s still a student but she also does some journalism. A bit of radio as well.’
‘You must bring her round to the residence to meet Margaret.’ He frowned. ‘She does speak English, doesn’t she?’
‘Very well.’
Relief. ‘Good for her. And good for you, old chap. And good to know that in these troubled times it’s still matters of the heart that rule.’
Sam returned to his office feeling that some kind of victory had been achieved, a diplomatic coup without having had to marshal arguments to support it. But marriage to Lenka? He’d voiced the idea before he’d even thought about it. Did that mean the idea had already been there, lurking beneath the level of the conscious? So did he mean it? And if he did mean it and if he were to ask her, what the devil would she say? The phone rang. It was somebody from the consular department with some damn-fool story about a TV programme they were making on the Charles Bridge – a British pop group or something. Was he interested in watching? This afternoon. The Moody Blues. He recalled that Lenka had already mentioned it. She knew someone in television who was organising it. Was he interested in taking part? Of course he wasn’t.
‘Of course I’m not,’ he told the person from the consular department. ‘Isn’t it economic affairs? Exporting British pop music to the world, or something?’
Then a messenger came in from communications with a telex from London that had just come through, something about a report of troops being moved up to the East German–Czech border. Did the embassy have any confirmation of this?
He sighed. There had been reports of troop movements both inside and outside the country ever since the spring manoeuvres. Half the bloody Warsaw Pact had been sniffing round Czechoslovakia for months now, like dogs round a bitch’s arse. He passed the telex on to Eric Whittaker, along with a suggested anodyne response that mentioned neither dogs nor bitches. Then he went through whatever else there was on his desk and closed down for the day. He was taking Lenka out for dinner, to the restaurant overlooking the river at Barrandov where they had had lunch on their first date. There was a certain tension between them over the Russians and over that weekend jaunt to the castle that he’d been forced to miss. He’d make it up to her, tell her that he loved her. Maybe, if things went well, he’d even propose to her. The idea shocked him. Could you shock yourself? Apparently it was possible. Mrs Lenka Wareham. How did that sound? Of course, here she’d become Paní Lenka Warehamová or something equally hideous. But it wouldn’t be here, would it? It’d be a posting to somewhere undistinguished, as a counsellor probably; or if he got lucky, something good for the curriculum vitae, such as Washington or Paris. Moscow would be the obvious one, with his knowledge of the language, but surely they’d not post him to Moscow with a citizen of a Soviet Bloc country in tow.