He also recalled that during the free-for-all the conference had become, he had been able to see the white-haired agent, Ulanov, look in his direction with a touch of amusement every now and then. Was it possible that Ulanov knew he had been following McVeigh and Kovpak the night before? Was it possible that, despite all his precautions, Ulanov still might have been involved in the attack on him the night before? It was extremely doubtful — one didn’t want to see conspiracies behind every bush — but an even closer eye would have to be kept on the white-haired man, that was evident.
But today the agent who had covered Ulanov the night before in the guise of a waiter, had been replaced by a plain-looking woman who was also cleaning rooms, with the pleased acquiescence of the regular cleaning woman — equally plain-looking, who not only gained a day’s vacation, but was well paid for it. As soon as that ridiculous conference had finally — and in Newkirk’s mind, deservedly — broken up, Ulanov had moved in the direction of the elevators and up to his room. And, at last word, was still there. Newkirk wished he could ask the Special Branch to put a tap on Ulanov’s phone, but he knew this would really be asking too much, despite the solid relationship between their two organizations. Fortunately, this entire business of the Schliemann collection and how it had been taken from the KGB by some smart operator was of little importance; the Russians had undoubtedly by now changed their security system, so he was probably wasting his time. Still, he had his orders, and he intended to follow them.
He came into New Bond Street, his feet still lagging, and considered with a bit of pride the code he had developed with Sonia of Aeroflot, a code that changed with every use of it, the changes given at the meeting the code had been established to arrange. This particular time the name “Kuybyshev” had meant he wished to meet her for lunch at her usual hour, one o’clock. Had it been impossible for any reason, she would have had difficulty understanding his word “Kuybyshev” and would have asked him to repeat the name. The bit about propeller-driven planes indicated where they would lunch; at a certain small restaurant in White Lion Yard they both knew, where he was always sure his reservation request for a quiet booth in one corner would be properly attended to.
He crossed Maddox Street and turned into Lancaster Court, coming almost at once to White Lion Yard and the restaurant. He had himself ushered to the proper booth and sat down, ordering a whiskey and water for himself and a very cold Finnish vodka for Sonia when she arrived, and then leaned back to wait. He only hoped the information he wished Sonia to obtain for him might be of some help, although he knew he was scraping the bottom of the barrel to even think it might. Still, one had to do something. Thank God for airline computer consoles! he thought fervently. Anyone with the physical strength to punch a few keys could ask any information from the idiot machines he wished, and the stupid computer would simply hand it over without a suspicion in the world. In fact, at the push of a button the accommodating moron of a machine even would forget you ever asked for the information in the first place. If only we could program agents that way, he thought, and then changed it slightly. Enemy agents, of course. We’d also have to be damned careful with our own, naturally.
He looked up as Sonia approached, came to his feet as she slipped into the booth and inspected herself in her compact mirror to make sure she had not changed identity on the cab trip from Piccadilly, and sat down again just as their drinks were served. Sonia did not waste time for any gestures of friendship in the form of lifted or tapped-together glasses, but drank her vodka in one steady gulp, after which she rapped her glass on the table. The waiter appeared at once, took her glass in understanding, and waited.
“We’ll order a bit later,” Newkirk said, and smiled across the table. “How have you been?”
“Rushed,” Sonia said, and looked at the waiter in a manner that sent him hurrying to the bar. She did not expand upon her statement until the waiter had returned and hurriedly set her drink down. Sonia took a healthy sip before paying any attention to Newkirk, or expanding on her theme. “This will have to be a very quick lunch. We’re busy, rushed. The British Airways strike, you know.”
Newkirk grinned. “You people never go on strike, do you?”
Sonia was not amused and her expression showed it.
“We people also do not leave a thousand people stranded, sitting up all night at some airport trying to get anything that flies so that they can get home to a job, most of them without enough money to buy milk for the baby,” she said coldly. Sonia certainly did not consider herself an enemy agent; the thought would have been repugnant. She merely gave information to Newkirk, or whoever appeared with the proper identification, in exchange for money, plus an occasional lunch or dinner, or — if the man were attractive enough, which James Newkirk was not — an occasional romp in bed. The information she gave was certainly innocent enough; she was not in the position of having critical information at her command, and she was positive she would have refused to pass any on if she had. If the CIA or anyone else was foolish enough to pay her sums of money for the innocuous data she passed along, well, let them. She could even manage to feel a bit patriotic, knowing that through her the CIA was helping her country’s economy in a way. She hadn’t asked her boss at Aeroflot for a raise in over a year.
“Sorry,” Newkirk said, not a bit sorry, and finished his whiskey and water, rapping the glass on the table. Sonia took advantage of the hiatus in conversation to finish her vodka and place her glass beside Newkirk’s so the waiter could make no mistake. When the waiter had taken their empty glasses and disappeared in the direction of the bar, Sonia picked up the menu, speaking over its top.
“And what do you want now?”
Newkirk did not make the mistake of lowering his menu or looking in the least conspiratorial as he answered her in conversational tones.
“Two men. Their names are Gregor Kovpak and Serge Ulanov. They arrived in England on Aeroflot from Leningrad a few days ago—”
“I know,” Sonia said, interrupting almost contemptuously. “I’m the one who told you.”
“Exactly,” Newkirk said, not a bit nonplussed. “Now I want to know when they are leaving, if they are leaving together or separately, and where they are going. And if either or both of them will be accompanied, and if so, by whom.”
Sonia thought the request was a foolish one, and her tone indicated it. “They both hold return tickets to Leningrad, with an open date.”
“I’m aware of that,” Newkirk said calmly. “I simply wish to know if they change them, or even if they do return to Leningrad, what day they are booked for. As well as the other information.” Sonia merely nodded, and Newkirk continued in the same conversational tone as the waiter returned with their drinks. “And I think I can safely recommend the beef stroganov in this restaurant.”
“In England?” Sonia asked incredulously, as she raised her glass. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the mushroom soup to start, then the steak — the big one, not the small one, medium rare — with mashed potatoes, string beans, and a tossed salad. I’ll have a pint of lager with it. I’ll pick my sweet later with the coffee and a liqueur.”
And how she maintains that fabulous figure on a diet like that, Newkirk thought despairingly, is beyond me; as is the question of how I’m going to present the bill for this meal on my expense account without having it appear we had an orgy. He sighed, put down his menu, and asked the waiter for a clear consomme, a cress salad, and small plate of cucumber sandwiches...