By the end, the tears were rolling down her cheeks. I reached over and covered her hand with mine. She looked up, smiled and gave a great shudder. Then she brought out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
"I'm sorry. The song is very sad."
"I could hear that."
"It reminds me of many things."
"Anna," I said instinctively.
"Why have you never married?"
The question seemed to jerk her back to the present. She raised her eyebrows and said, "Married? I am married. My son is ten years old."
I stared at her in amazement.
"You never told me.
"Why should I?" She looked amused again.
"That's nothing to do with my professional career.
"No, but.. Where is your husband?"
"In Petersburg. He manages a bank there. We drifted apart years back."
"And your son?"
"Mitya? He's at school here in Moscow. He lives mostly with his aunt, my sister."
"Where's he tonight?"
"Who?"
"Mitya."
"With his aunt."
"And your husband?"
"In the north."
She was looking at me steadily.
"Geordie," she said.
"I've sent a message to your people at Balashika to say you'll be there in the morning. You're coming back to my apartment, to spend the night with me.
"Fantastic!" I took a deep breath. These revelations seemed to be the cue for me to open up. God knows what it was that made me decide to confess. Now that I'd disconnected Apple, there was no need or logical reason to reveal anything. Yet I knew in my heart that I had to do it. Otherwise, my conscience would never let me rest. It wasn't as if I'd reached this conclusion under the influence of alcohoclass="underline" all this I'd worked out earlier, when I was stone-cold sober.
"Listen," I said, looking round our little cubicle.
"I don't suppose the KGB have got this place bugged."
"Of course not!" She grinned mischievously.
"You're probably the first foreigner that's ever come here. It wouldn't be worth their while."
"Then I've got something to tell you.
In the next few minutes I went overboard. I dived in headlong and told her all I knew about Apple and Orange. My mind was moving at incredible speed. I was vaguely aware of waiters removing plates and bringing tea, but I ignored them and rattled on, spilling secrets left and right. Even as I talked, I knew I was betraying my mates, the Regiment, my country, and that I was probably bringing my career in the army to a rapid end. But the accumulation of guilt had become too great to bear, and the act of freeing myself from it brought a feeling of fantastic liberation.
I finished on a high, amazed at my seW but exhilarated.
Throughout my performance Anna had watched me as if half hypnotised She kept absolutely still, with her eyes fixed on me; yet after a while I realised that she was registering neither surprise nor anger. As before, her predominant expression was one of faint amusement.
When finally I came to a halt, she said, "You need some cognac," and signalled to the waiter, who brought two small glasses and a bottle.
"Armenian brandy," Anna announced.
"Your famous Prime Minister used to say it was the best."
"Tony Blair?"
"Don't be ridiculous! Winston Churchill. Cheers!"
We clinked glasses, and I drained mine straight down.
"Aren't you furious with me?" I asked.
"Why should I be?"
"For having double-crossed you all this time."
"You weren't being very clever about it."
"You mean you knew what we were doing?"
"Not exactly. But we knew you had some secret agenda."
"How?"
"Every time you went to the Embassy you were followed."
"Jesus! But not into the churchyard?"
She shook her head.
"We lost you there."
"What about that time we went up to the university and we got chased?"
"Those were some of our people."
"Were they hurt?"
"One was killed."
"I'm sorry.
I poured myself some more brandy.
"But when the bomb was lifted that wasn't you?"
"No that was the Mafia all right. But Geordie the Americans will realise that Apple isn't responding to signals. In fact, they must already know something's wrong. What if you get an order tomorrow, telling you to go down and check the device?"
"I'll tell my people at home it's impossible. I'll say the churchyard's been compromised, that the head of the shaft is under guard."
Her eyes were holding mine.
"Listen," I said.
"What were you doing that day you came poking your nose into our lap-top?"
She threw back her head and laughed.
"That! A throwback to my old habits, I suppose: a little private espionage. Of course I was curious to find out more about what you were all doing.
"But you never got into the program?"
She shook her head.
"What'll you do now?" I asked.
"Now I've told you?"
"Nothing." This time it was her hand that took hold of mine.
"We'll keep this between us. If you've killed the bomb, that's it.
There's no point telling my bosses. They'd only go mad and stir everything up again on the international front. By the way can I have some more of that?"
She pointed at the bottle. I started and apologised, filling her glass again.
"Besides," she said, 'it's not as if our own consciences are all that clear."
I stared at her.
"What the hell do you mean by that?"
"Compact nuclear devices," she said teasingly.
"CNDs. They are not the exclusive property of the West."
"You mean… you don't mean you've done this to us already?"
"That's rather a crude way of putting it."
"Are you saying there are CNDs buried under London?"
"Not necessarily buried."
"How many, for God's sake?"
"I'll have to check, but I think the last count was five. I acted as liaison officer on an operation in 1993, when two went in."
Suddenly I felt punch-drunk not intoxicated, but rather as though I'd taken too much punishment.
"I don't know what to say," I began feebly.
"Don't say anything. That's enough talk for tonight."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Ryan was born in 1961 in a village near Newcastle. At the age of sixteen he attached himself unofficially to "C' Squadron of 23rd Special Air Service, the territorial regiment based at Prudhoe, in Northumberland.
Over the next seven years he covered hundreds of miles of moor and mountain on training exercises.
In 1984 he joined 22nd SAS, the regular Regiment, and completed three tours which took him to many parts of the world on operations and exercises. He also worked extensively in the counterterrorist field, serving as an assaulter, sniper, and finally Sniper Team Commander on the SP or Special Projects team.
For his escape from Iraq in January 1991 he was awarded the Military Medal. He left the SAS in 1994, and now lives and works in America.
He is the author of three bestsellers, The One That Got Away (1995), Stand By, Stand By (1996), and Zero Option (1997).