‘I don’t have any doubt either,’ said Belov. ‘But there’s not enough here to do anything about it: certainly insufficient for me to go to Chebrikov himself.’
It was more than just lack of evidence, Yuri guessed. Belov was unwilling to become linked to an attack that might misfire: headquarters survival politics about which his father had lectured him before his posting to Afghanistan. Exasperated and not caring that it showed, Yuri said: ‘So no action is taken against him! He goes on doing what he likes, to whom he likes! Someone you think to be paranoid!’ What sort of nightmare would he be coming back to, if he were brought back from New York with Kazin still in control?
‘Nothing can be done against him: nothing that is sure to succeed,’ said Belov, confirming Yuri’s thoughts.
‘There is,’ insisted Yuri, as the idea came.
‘What?’
Yuri found it easy to explain and Belov was nodding, in growing agreement, before he finished.
‘Yes!’ said Belov, excited. ‘Yes, it could succeed that way!’
Their contact procedure was arranged before Kapalet’s transfer from Paris and Wilson Drew responded instantly the Russian initiated it, hurrying early to the Museum of Early Russian Art at the monastery on Pryamikova. Despite the American being ahead of time, Kapalet was already watching, although the need for self-protection no longer existed as it had in Paris.
He approached Drew in an icon room dating from the time of Peter the Great and said: ‘Very different from France.’
‘You can say that again!’ complained Drew. He thought Moscow was the pit of all pits.
‘I’m not enjoying it either,’ said Kapalet, which was true.
‘Is it always going to have to be this sort of place?’
‘We’d be far too obvious in any restaurant.’
‘You got something about Latin America or the Caribbean?’ asked Drew eagerly. There were daily demands from Langley and there had been six separate messages from the Crisis Committee when he’d advised them of the contact summons in advance of the meeting.
‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to help about that: not immediately anyway,’ said Kapalet. ‘But I think I’ve got something better.’
‘There couldn’t be anything better,’ said the American, disappointed.
Kapalet gazed around, apparently to check that they were unobserved, and handed Drew the plastic carrier he held.
‘What is it?’ asked Drew.
‘Part of an internal security investigation,’ disclosed Kapalet, as he had been instructed by Belov. ‘It’s creating absolute pandemonium at headquarters. It’s all in Russian, obviously, so you’ll have to get it translated to make your own assessment. I think it’s dynamite.’
Dynamite was actually the word Langley used in the cable of congratulation to Drew, within twelve hours of the dossiers arriving in the diplomatic pouch. The cable also said he’d been promoted two grades, which meant a salary increase of $2,000 a year. Drew conceded Moscow had some advantages, after all.
John Willick knew himself well enough to accept he would not have the courage unaided, so he queued at various liquor stores, hoarding the vodka. He bought the cheapest, because he guessed he’d need a lot, and when he tried it before the real attempt, a sort of rehearsal to ensure everything would go right, its harshness caught his breath, making him cough. Which in itself was a useful test because it meant he’d have to take his time, drinking it.
He chose a Friday night because there was no debriefing on a Saturday, so no drivers would be calling for him. There were six bottles and he lined them up like pins in a bowling alley, starting from the left. The alcohol burned at first, making his eyes water, but it was easier once he became accustomed to it. He didn’t feel drunk at all after the first bottle and worried he might not have collected enough, but his head began to go before he reached the end of the second, so he knew it would be all right. He began to belch so he stopped drinking for a few moments, not wanting to risk losing the effect by vomiting.
Willick decided he was ready halfway through the third bottle. He felt quite rational – knew exactly what he was doing – but there was no nervousness, none of the usual snatch in the guts.
He’d bought the rope on another shopping expedition, thick, heavy-duty stuff that he’d tested to carry his weight by hanging from it by his hands, looped around the curtain support which was high enough for the purpose. He’d assembled it and prepared the knots before he’d started drinking and moved the chair over now, needing it to climb up. He tugged, needlessly, ensuring the strength again and slipped the noose over his head, hesitating at the very last moment. And then he kicked the chair away.
He was even unsuccessful in killing himself properly. He’d tried to get the knot behind his ear, the way he’d thought it was done, but it slipped around so his neck didn’t break, killing him instantly as it should have done. He choked to death, instead. It took twenty minutes for him to die, ten of them conscious and in agony.
38
From the moment he entered the now familiar debriefing room at Langley, Levin was aware of an apparent but inexplicable attitude between the three men with whom he had spent so much time. Lightness was the word that came to his mind, but he dismissed it because it had to be wrong.
‘We’ve made some assessments, from what you’ve told us. Compared it against the defection of Willick,’ announced Myers.
Levin wondered how Willick was being treated in Russia. Cautiously he said: ‘I’m glad if I have helped.’
‘You’ve been invaluable,’ said Crookshank.
‘And we’re anxious for you to go on helping,’ said Norris.
Levin controlled any reaction. He said: ‘Of course.’
‘We are offering you the position of a contract consultant with the CIA,’ announced Myers. ‘In effect you will be permanently employed.’
Levin was not concerned at his difficulty in immediately replying because they would expect him to be surprised. Forcing himself to speak, the Russian said: ‘I would be delighted to accept.’
‘And we would be delighted for you to be with us here at Langley,’ said Crookshank, critic-turned-supporter.
‘Welcome to the CIA,’ endorsed Myers.
‘I hope to be very useful here,’ said Levin, a remark for his own enjoyment, the only celebration he could allow.
‘What will it involve?’ asked Galina, that night, when he made the announcement back in Connecticut.
‘Moving to the Washington area, I suppose,’ said Levin. ‘Being able to get a house of our own, instead of living like we do here: in a goldfish bowl.’
Petr, who was in the same room as his father, accepted it was time that he made his move. Which he did the following day. It coincided with Yuri Malik’s arrival at Kennedy Airport, after a circuitous flight through Canada.
Petr’s escape went as smoothly as he had known it would. He waited thirty minutes after being deposited at school and then complained of feeling unwell. He rejected the offer of the school recalling his car and was walking up Litchfield’s North Street before the hour was out. The lack of public transport was a minimal problem, because the first lift he picked up was going all the way to Naugatuck and from his map and timetable Petr knew there was a station there. He caught a train just after eleven, settling in a corner seat, bunched with excitement at what he had already done and in expectation of what he would soon be doing. Would they have him make some immediate public denunciation of his father? Or want to interview him at length first, to find out what had happened since their defection? Whatever, the boy decided: he’d do whatever he was asked. And enjoy it. God how he was going to enjoy it! His voluntary return showed he had no part in the defection and certainly Natalia hadn’t: important to make it clear that his mother was not involved, either. He could remember how bewildered she had been, that night at the Plaza. Only his father: his father the bastard. Puffed with imagined importance, boasting of some consultancy or job with the CIA: soon to be taught a lesson, though. His father would know something to be wrong, when he wasn’t there to be picked up from school that evening. Served him right. Bastard.