When he was a couple of kilometres short of the town, he caught sight of a stretch of water to his left; it looked like a large lake, and it gave him an idea.
Easing his speed, he turned up a rough track to the left of the road, bumping and lurching heavily over the uneven ground, until he was on the shore of the lake, and under cover of thick bushes and trees. Switching off the engine, he stripped off all his clothes and had an invigorating swim which washed away all the filth of his night journey through the tunnel. After this he dried out in the climbing sun and a light breeze and then he dressed himself in clean clothing, putting on the grey suit. The uniform and the windcheater rig he secured tightly round the Kalashnikov and then he threw the whole bundle far out into the lake.
It went in with a splash and, with the weight of the sub-machine-gun, disappeared at once.
Shaw climbed back into the van, turned it, and drove again down the track to the road, turning left for Petroslav and driving at a normal speed now. Soon he was in the maze of streets, approaching the centre of the town. He pulled into the roadside in a busy street, switched off the engine, and got out. Leaving the van without looking back he set off, carrying his grip, along the street until he was well away from the vehicle. Then, and only then, did he ask his way to the railway-station, speaking in Russian.
He felt, as he walked off briskly towards the station, that he hadn’t done too badly so far. But, when he reached the station, he found that the MVD had mounted one of their checks.
Nine
They were standing at the barrier between the ticket-hall and the platform — two sallow, grim-faced men with revolvers at their belts, backed up by a couple of troopers of the Red Army with Simonov carbines, and Shaw was conscious of their eyes watching him all the time he was buying his ticket through to Moscow. The booking-clerk asked to see his papers and he pushed his British passport through to the man, who seemed perfectly satisfied.
He took Shaw’s roubles and issued a ticket.
Shaw approached the barrier, whistling flatly between his teeth, his eyes watchful but his face calm. He smiled at the stony faces and asked with casual interest, “Do you always guard the railway-stations like this?”
The men stared at him and one of them asked, “English?”
“Why, yes! Name of Alison. I’m on the staff of WIOCA It’s all here.” He handed his passport over and the man took it.
The Russian said, “WIOCA?” There had been an immediate change in the attitude of both the MVD men; they seemed to have relaxed a little and Shaw realized that Latymer had been dead right when he’d talked of the respect the Russians had for the workers’ organization. But it wasn’t altogether an open sesame, for the first man stuck his fist forward, holding up Shaw’s passport, and demanded, “Mr Alison, where did you enter the Soviet Union?”
“Through Czechoslovakia. I was checked in in the Uzhgorod area.”
The man grunted and opened the passport, looking keenly at Shaw and studying the photograph. It seemed to satisfy him. Then he leafed through the document, glanced at the visa and the entry stamp for Uzhgorod so neatly made by Carberry’s forgers.
He said, “That is in order.” He glanced down at the entry once again and said, “You entered Soviet territory three days ago. What have you been doing since then, Mr Alison?”
Keen eyes looked into Shaw’s and he shrugged. “Getting here — that’s all. I wanted to take it slowly, and see all I could.”
“This is your first visit to Russia?” The man could see that it was the first for some time anyway, by the absence of any other Soviet stamps, and Shaw nodded. “How did you come here, Mr Alison — to Petroslav?”
Shaw said, “By road. That was the best way to see the country, I thought.”
“No doubt. What did you see — which way did you come?”
“Mukachevo, Beregovo, Khust, Bolekhov.”
“And now you go to Moscow?”
Shaw said politely, “That’s the general idea, if you’ll let me through.”
“You may proceed, Mr Alison.” The MVD man handed back the passport and stood aside. “I hope you will enjoy your visit to the Soviet Union’s great capital city.”
As Shaw walked away he felt the stickiness in his palms It was to say the least of it unlikely that an English WIOCA man, decently dressed, fully documented, properly checked in via Czechoslovakia, able to detail his route, would be connected in the strait-jacketed official mind with a fracas at Khamchevko in Hungary, with a Russian-uniformed man who had tied up a woman on board the Smolensk Express, or with the windcheater and corduroys of Gorsak’s “brother-in-law.” Nevertheless, he felt he had had a pretty benevolent slice of luck to get through the MVD
As the Moscow train pulled out a little later he felt fully confident that he had covered his tracks adequately, though there would be some wonderment in official quarters, perhaps, when the abandoned van was found. It would be a long shot to connect it with him, however — and, as always, dead men told no tales. He had no qualms when, during the journey, his passport was examined once again in a snap check by armed guards aboard the train. Undoubtedly WIOCA was a big help.
On arrival in Moscow early next day Shaw made his number at the WIOCA office, which was in an impressive building not far from the British Embassy. He was shown up immediately and ushered into the office of the man called Chaffinch of whom Latymer had spoken. Chaffinch was a pleasant, chubby man of around fifty with a pinkly bald head — a man who looked as if normally he would smile a lot, but who was far from happy now. He and Shaw talked for some minutes about how London was looking and about Shaw’s impressions of Russia so far, and Shaw sensed the man’s nostalgia, his consuming anxiety, his fears perhaps for a family in England. Then Chaffinch said quietly, “I know all about you, of course, Commander. There’s someone else who’s been expecting you and wants to meet you, so we won’t talk real business till he gets here. Excuse me.” He picked up a telephone and said, “Get me the Embassy, please, Miss Pullman. Mr Hart.” After a short wait he said, “Ah, Hart. Those books have come — the ones you asked for. Yes. Good — then we’ll expect you as soon as you can make it.”
He hung up, his hands shaking and his face puckered with worry. Only a few minutes later there was a knock at the door and a messenger showed in a tall man in his late thirties with thin, sandy hair and a bow tie. He had rather cold blue eyes and the suave, well-polished look of a diplomat. Chaffinch introduced him as Hart, but no mention was made of his function within the Embassy.
Hart, who seemed the efficient sort but under an assured manner was as worried and nervy as Chaffinch, got down to things right away. Pulling up a chair he said, echoing Chaffinch, “We know all about you, so you needn’t bother with any explanations.” He gave Shaw a straight, hard look. “I suppose I don’t need to tell you that it’s highly irregular for our people to be mixed up in your sort of game, Shaw. We’ve only agreed to come into this as a result of great pressure from top sources — and because of the extreme gravity of the situation. But you’ll understand, of course.”
“Yes. Your part in it is only unofficial — I know that. By the way… have you gathered how I got into Russia?”
Hart said, “As a matter of fact — yes. We do gather things one way and another, but let me repeat, that doesn’t make us into agents.”
“Quite. But I’d like to know how you assess my chances of keeping in the clear.”
Hart pursed his lips. “It’s hard to say. I gather the trail’s very confused. You and Gorsak handled it very nicely between you—”
“You know about Gorsak, then?”