He was pleasantly surprised by the apartment. The American term, he remembered from the Kuchino teaching, was a studio, which meant there was only one main room in which the corner-placed bed was covered to resemble a couch or sitting area during the day. The covering was a blaze of reds and greens and browns on a flamboyant Mexican rug, which fitted the supposed occupation of the apartment. On top was a disorder of cushions and around all the walls were travel photographs and covers of the publisher’s magazines: the titles had been removed to make easier the framing. There was a colour television with what proved to be an ineffective indoor aerial when he tried it, a couch with two matching chairs arranged in viewing positions and another bright and vari-coloured Mexican rug occupying most of the wood-block floor. A sideboard contained a small bureau, with a selection of both plain notepaper and envelopes and others in the name of Amsterdam magazines: on the bottom shelf was a small portable electric typewriter. A side cupboard contained glasses and on top there was a tray with a selection of liquor, all American. Yuri poured himself a Wild Turkey and continued the examination. Between the chairs and the couch was a small coffee table. Again there was a selection of the Dutch titles, the most recent one of a month ago, and there was also a stack of Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler publications. Yuri flicked through them, interested: an exposure to Western pornography had naturally been part of his training and he had enjoyed the sessions more than some of the other instructional sessions. In Hustler there was a legs-apart view of a girl who looked remarkably like Inya: it would make for an interesting comparison, later. He arranged the magazines back as they were. Part of the cover for a lived-in ambiance? Or was Granov a masturbator?
There was an adequate kitchen, with a man-high refrigerator that contained some milk he immediately poured away down the waste-disposal-equipped sink, some bread going stale and a single stick of limp celery. In the freezer section there were four ice trays which he emptied and refilled and a frozen TV dinner, veal. He threw that away as well. There was some tinned food, mostly chilli, and a bottle of already ground filter coffee. He found the coffee-making machine, and the filters in an adjoining cupboard, and in another cupboard a teapot, a jar of tea and several pots of preserves.
The bathroom was small but adequate, the shower mounted over the bath which had been badly cleaned after its last use. Yuri, who was a fastidious man, found some cleansing powder in the closet beneath the basin and scoured the bath and basin and then poured some bleach into the toilet bowl. In the bathroom cabinet there was a razor, shaving soap, ordinary soap and an assortment of medicinal aids, things like headache tablets and Band Aids. As with the bath, the razor had not been washed clean after its last use: dried soap and bristles were caked around the blade. He threw everything into the plastic-lined wastebin, not so much offended by Granov’s dirtiness as by his carelessness: the stubble detritus, for instance, could have been forensically linked to the man if the apartment had been discovered by any counter-intelligence agency, confirmation of his presence together with the inevitable fingerprints. Yuri paused at the reflection, realizing that his prints would be all over the place: maybe there wasn’t that much cause to be critical of the rezident.
Back in the main room he sat in one of the easy chairs, whisky cupped in front of him between both hands, aware of the murmur of noise from the surrounding apartments. From one came the sort of screams he associated with quiz shows and there was some music, traditional jazz, from somewhere else.
‘Mr Bell,’ he said, ‘welcome to America,’ and smiled at the indulgence of talking to himself. Almost at once the smile went. The American posting was not a problem: the problem was whatever was going on in Moscow.
Yuri was extremely careful with his departure precautions. In the bureau he put a page of the plain notepaper half over the letterheaded sheets, so no search could be made without disturbing it, and on the magazine table he placed Hustler again half covering the Dutch magazines. He wedged a corner of the raucous bed-covering just beneath the mattress, as if it had been caught there during the making, and in the bathroom he lodged a fold of the shower curtain against the bath edge, confident both would be disturbed if the apartment were searched. Back at the bureau he put the British passport in the name of William Bell in the top drawer with its edge against the left-hand side of the drawer, but did not immediately close it. He was reluctant to leave the identifying document bearing his photograph but accepted it was too dangerous to carry it with him during his supposed normal duties at the United Nations. A safe-deposit box would be more secure, but that would restrict him to banking hours and he might need to move at once if he were activated for his KGB role. At the door he stopped, professionally examining it. There were three separate locking devices, including a deadlock, and when he slightly opened the door he realized that its edge and the complete surround of the frame were metal ribbed: the effect was to fasten the locks and bolts from one steel base to another, making it impossible to jemmy open. Maybe a safe-deposit box wasn’t necessary after all. He smiled with satisfaction at the solid sound of the locks engaging.
‘They’ve withdrawn Dolya,’ announced Bowden.
‘It would have been obvious I’d identify him,’ said Levin. ‘What about Onukhov or Lubiako?’
‘They’re still here.’
‘What are you going to do to them?’ asked Levin. He was confused by the way Bowden was conducting the debriefing: there had been an insistence on the names of the UN agents but no questioning at all about there being a spy within the CIA.
‘They’re boxed in,’ assured Bowden. ‘Neither of them can scratch their arse without us being aware of it.’
They wouldn’t have been warned by Moscow, Levin realized. It was going to be a shock for both of them if they were seized in incriminating circumstances. Levin did not feel any particular pity: he hadn’t liked either of them. He said: ‘Maybe they’ll lead you to something.’
‘There’ll be the usual bullshit about diplomatic immunity. Or maybe the retaliatory seizure of some of our guys from the Moscow embassy, for a swop.’
‘So you’re going to let them run?’
‘It’s the obvious thing, isn’t it? At least we’ll get their American sources and be able to prosecute.’
‘I suppose it is,’ agreed Levin. Moscow would have allowed for that, he guessed.
‘Just three?’ asked Bowden doubtfully.
‘Just three.’
‘Kind of disappointing that you can’t finger more, Yevgennie.’
‘You know the way espionage is conducted!’ said the Russian, happy at the way the feigned indignation came out. ‘Boxes within boxes, everything compartmented.’
‘Still would have liked more.’
Why not start asking about the CIA then, thought Levin. He said: ‘I’ve promised always to be honest. I’ve named the three I know to be KGB. I’m not going to start giving names just to make myself appear more valuable.’
‘OK, OK,’ retreated Bowden. He paused and said: ‘There’s been a request.’
‘Request?’
‘From the Soviet mission. Consular access,’ said the American. ‘They want to meet you. Talk.’
‘Meet me!’
‘Easy!’ said Bowden, reassuring. ‘It happens every time. They make a formal request for an interview: try to persuade you to go back, I guess. It’s regulations that I have to tell you. Because it’s an official diplomatic approach we’ve got to respond in an official diplomatic way.’