For the past decade Armstrong had been making regular trips to Moscow, and in exchange for the exclusive foreign rights to the works of Soviet scientists he had continued to carry out little tasks for Tulpanov, still able to persuade himself that he wasn’t doing any real harm to his adopted country. This delusion was helped by always letting Forsdyke know when he was making such trips, and occasionally by delivering messages on his behalf, often to return with unfathomable replies. Armstrong realized that both sides considered him to be their man, and suspected that Valchek was not a messenger on a simple errand, but was being sent to find out just how far he could be pushed. By choosing the Savoy Grill, Armstrong hoped to convince Forsdyke that he was hiding nothing from him.
Armstrong arrived at the Savoy a few minutes early, and was guided to his usual alcove table in the corner. He abandoned his favorite whiskey and soda for a vodka, the agreed sign among agents that no English would be spoken. He glanced toward the entrance of the restaurant, and wondered if he would be able to identify Valchek when he walked in. Ten years ago it would have been easy, but he had warned many of the new breed that they stuck out like sore thumbs in their cheap double-breasted suits and thin gravy-stained ties. Since then several of the more regular visitors to London and New York had learned to drop into Savile Row and Fifth Avenue during their visits — though Armstrong suspected that a quick change had to be made on Aeroflot flights when they flew back to Moscow.
Two businessmen strolled into the Grill, deep in conversation. Armstrong recognized one of them, but couldn’t recall his name. They were followed by a stunning young woman with another two men in her wake. A woman having lunch in the Grill was an unusual sight, and he followed her progress as they were guided into the adjoining alcove.
The head waiter interrupted him. ‘Your guest has arrived, sir.’
Armstrong rose to shake hands with a man who could have passed for a British company director, and who obviously did not need to be told where Savile Row was. Armstrong ordered two vodkas.
‘How was your flight?’ he asked in Russian.
‘Not good, comrade,’ replied Valchek. ‘Unlike you, I have no choice but to fly Aeroflot. If you ever have to, take a sleeping pill, and don’t even think of eating the food.’
Armstrong laughed. ‘And how is Colonel Tulpanov?’
‘General Tulpanov is about to be appointed as the KGB’s number two, and he wants you to let Brigadier Forsdyke know he still outranks him.’
‘That will be a pleasure,’ said Armstrong. ‘Are there any other changes at the top that I should know about?’
‘Not at the moment.’ He paused. ‘Though I suspect Comrade Khrushchev will not be sitting at the high table for much longer.’
‘Then perhaps even you may have to clear your desk,’ Armstrong said, staring at him directly.
‘Not as long as Tulpanov is my boss.’
‘And who will be Khrushchev’s successor?’ asked Armstrong.
‘Brezhnev would be my bet,’ said his visitor. ‘But as Tulpanov has files on every possible candidate, no one is going to try to replace him.’
Armstrong smiled at the thought that Tulpanov hadn’t lost his touch.
A waiter placed another vodka in front of his guest. ‘The general speaks highly of you,’ said Valchek once the waiter had disappeared, ‘and no doubt your position will become even more influential when his appointment is made official.’ Valchek paused while he checked the menu before making his order in English to a hovering waiter. ‘Tell me,’ he continued once the waiter had left them alone, ‘why does General Tulpanov always refer to you as Lubji?’
‘It’s as good a code name as any,’ said Armstrong.
‘But you are not a Russian.’
‘No, I am not,’ said Armstrong firmly.
‘But you are also not English, comrade?’
‘I’m more English than the English,’ replied Armstrong, which seemed to silence his guest. A plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of him.
Valchek had finished his first course, and was cutting into a rare steak before he began to reveal the real purpose of his visit.
‘The National Science Institute want to publish a book commemorating their achievements in space exploration,’ he said, after selecting a Dijon mustard. ‘The chairman feels that President Kennedy is receiving far too much credit for his NASA program when, as everyone knows, it was the Soviet Union that put the first man in space. We have prepared a document detailing the achievements of our program from the founding of the Space Academy to the present day. I am in possession of a 200,000-word manuscript compiled by the leading scientists in the field, over a hundred photographs taken as recently as last month, and detailed diagrams and specifications for Luna IV and V.’
Armstrong made no attempt to stop Valchek’s flow. The messenger had to be aware that such a book would be out of date even before it was published. Clearly there had to be another reason why he had traveled all the way from Moscow to have lunch with him. But his guest chatted on, adding more and more irrelevant details. Finally he asked Armstrong for his opinion of the project.
‘How many copies does General Tulpanov expect to be printed?’
‘One million in hardback, to be distributed through the usual channels.’
Armstrong doubted whether such a book would have a worldwide readership of even a fraction of that figure. ‘But my print costs alone...’ he began.
‘We fully understand the risks you would be taking with such a publication. So we will be advancing you a sum of five million dollars, to be distributed among those countries in which the book will be translated, published and sold. Naturally there will be an agent’s commission of 10 percent. I should add that it will come as no great surprise to General Tulpanov if the book does not appear on any best-seller list. Just as long as you are able to show in your annual report that a million copies were printed, he will be content. It’s the distribution of the profits that really matters,’ added Valchek, sipping his vodka.
‘Is this to be a one-off?’ asked Armstrong.
‘If you make a success of this—’ Valchek paused before choosing the right word ‘—project, we would want a paperback edition to be published a year later, which we of course appreciate would require a further advance of five million. After that there might have to be reprints, revised versions...’
‘Thus ensuring a continuous flow of currency to your operatives in every country where the KGB has a presence,’ said Armstrong.
‘And as our representative,’ said Valchek, ignoring the comment, ‘you will receive 10 percent of any advance. After all, there is no reason why you should be treated differently from any normal literary agent. And I’m confident that our scientists will be able to produce a new manuscript that is worthy of publication every year.’ He paused. ‘Just as long as their royalties are always paid on time and in whichever currency we require.’
‘When do I get to see the manuscript?’ asked Armstrong.
‘I have a copy with me,’ Valchek replied, lowering his eyes to the briefcase by his side. ‘If you agree to be the publisher, the first five million will be paid into your account in Liechtenstein by the end of the week. I understand that is how we’ve always conducted business with you in the past.’
Armstrong nodded. ‘I’ll need a second copy of the manuscript to give to Forsdyke.’
Valchek raised an eyebrow as his plate was whisked away.
‘He has an agent seated on the far side of the room,’ said Armstrong. ‘So you should hand over the manuscript just before we leave, and I’ll walk out with it under my arm. Don’t worry,’ he continued, sensing Valchek’s anxiety. ‘He knows nothing about publishing, and his department will probably spend months searching for coded messages among the Sputniks.’