“Your pardon. Again, I cannot be too precise just now—”
“This is all a little vague for me. I wasn’t told who you are or what you want to tell me. I might add that I don’t like it at all.”
“You will find out soon what I want with you, if you are prepared to trust me, Commander Shaw, and go where I ask you to go. You understand, I cannot talk here. My name I do not propose to reveal. I am sorry, but you will of course understand.”
He stared into Shaw’s eyes.
Shaw lit another cigarette from his own case, passed a hand over his long chin, and stared back. He said coolly, “No, I don’t understand at all. You’re asking one hell of a lot of me — to go along to I don’t know where, with I don’t know whom!”
The man shrugged. “Naturally I see your point of view. But I cannot stress too strongly the importance of this matter. It is quite… vital. Yes, vital. You must trust me.”
Shaw hesitated. He was a fair judge of people and this man undoubtedly gave him the impression of being on the level. He asked, “Can you be just a little more forthcoming?”
“A little, perhaps.” The man seemed to consider, frowning and staring up at the ceiling. A moment later he said softly and with his lips almost motionless as though ventriloquizing, “There is someone who wishes to meet you.”
“I see,” Shaw said casually. “Can’t he come here?”
“It must never be known that he has been in touch with you at all.” The Hungarian’s face came closer as he appeared to be brushing cigarette-ash off his white waistcoat and his voice was a mere whispering breath. “You will, I think, understand better when I tell you that this man is Rudintsev.”
Rudintsev.
In the back of the Daimler Shaw’s mind was still racing over the possibilities. As soon as he had heard the name of Rudintsev he had known he couldn’t possibly let this thing go. Rudintsev was a senior official of the Russian Foreign Ministry and he had been in London for the past week, preparing the way and generally taking charge of the arrangements for the visit of his Minister for the Five Powers’ Conference. What could Rudintsev, of all people, want with an agent of the Naval Intelligence Division?
Shaw had stared back at his nameless contact, questioningly, and had seen the set look in the man’s face. Clearly he wasn’t going to say anything more, seemed to feel he had already said more than was strictly wise. After that the man had obviously assumed that Shaw would be in on this whatever it was, and he’d simply given him his instructions for picking up the Daimler and said that, although he was being fully trusted, the matter was so vitally important that no chances could be taken and when he left the Embassy Shaw would be shadowed by a man with a silenced gun, all the way to Palace Gate. Ten minutes after Shaw had gone, the Hungarian said, he also would leave and would reach a certain house, whereabouts unspecified, ahead of him. Somehow Shaw had genuinely trusted the man but he still hadn’t liked any of it, for there was still the amateurish touch and amateurs tended to slip up and leave everyone else in the cart. But the man had turned away then to chat amicably with some diplomat or other, and Shaw had shrugged and finished his drink, stubbed out his cigarette, and gone down the stairs, across the hall into the autumnal dark of Kensington Palace Gardens, and then his shadow had picked him up. Shaw had been aware of the man passing along behind the trees on the other side of the road — someone else, obviously, who knew him on sight.
The Daimler purred on fast and, so far as Shaw was concerned, in blank and total darkness. He hadn’t the faintest idea where he was; all he knew was that they were going a long way and, in the later stages, swinging round one corner after another, possibly to throw off any pursuit. And they were travelling very fast. But at last the Daimler slowed, swung sharply left, and crunched over gravel. They appeared to be going up a fairly long drive and then the car glided to a stop. A moment later the door opened and he was helped to his feet and, still blindfolded, was taken up a flight of stone steps and into a hall. He was directed to his right and he felt his feet sink into the thick pile of a carpet. Then the material was pulled away from his eyes and, blinking in the sudden glare of electric light, he made out the distinguished, grey-haired man from the Embassy. This man nodded at the two escorts and Shaw heard them go out of the room. As his full vision came back, he saw that the room was a big one and elegantly furnished; and then he saw another man coming in.
He was heavily built and about his own age, maybe a little older, dark and clean-shaven and walking with a slight limp; wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and off-white tie, this man looked a typical ruling-class Russian. In a way, an echo of Khrushchev — except for the face and eyes. These were kindly, humane; those brown eyes were trusting and friendly, though at the moment they were nervous as well, and held a curious look of hope and eagerness. This man would not have the ebullience, the thrust and the egotistical banter of a Nikita Khrushchev, the cold deadliness of a Stalin or a Beria, the uncompromising nature of a Molotov. He was a Russian all right, but he was also a man of peace. Strong, Shaw thought — strong, but with the strength of a good man. Something in him appealed very much to Esmonde Shaw and when the grey-haired man took both their arms in a courtly gesture and introduced them, Shaw stretched out his hand and smiled into Teodor Rudintsev’s eyes.
“They guard you well, Mr Rudintsev,” he said quietly. “And now — forgive me, but I can see you don’t want to delay any more than I do — what is it you want to tell me?”
Rudintsev glanced quickly across at the grey-haired man and then met Shaw’s inquiring scrutiny. He said, blinking a little with nerves, “I think that you are not going to believe what I shall say, and I cannot blame you for that. Also, you will think that I am a traitor to my own country, but this will be wrong. And I assure you most urgently that I shall be speaking the complete truth. Believe you must, my friend, for if you do not, it will be the end of your country and much of Europe as well.”
The voice held conviction and Shaw felt a sudden cold chill in his spine. He said crisply, “Let’s get on with it, then. I’ll soon tell you whether I believe it or not.”
Afterwards, when Teodor Rudintsev himself had left the house, Shaw was blindfolded again and led back to the Daimler with the two escorts and they headed quickly back into London. Within seventy-five minutes Shaw had left the car in the Hammersmith Road and it had driven off. He had memorized the number, but he knew that wouldn’t help much; by the time he got to a phone those plates would be off and the genuine ones back on again. Not that it mattered very much. They could always pick Rudintsev up if they really wanted to, and to hell with diplomatic procedures.
He walked quickly into Gliddon Road and into his flat, an acute anxiety and impatience gripping his guts. For he believed that Rudintsev was absolutely on the square and was to be trusted. The man had clearly been terrified of his own side finding out his movements that night; anyone acting under orders to lay a smoke-screen could hardly feign that precise kind of fear. And more than that — his story, horrifying though it was, had integrity and consistency and urgent conviction.
Shaw delayed to mix himself a strong whisky-and-soda; he needed that badly. Then he took up the receiver of the closed line to the Admiralty. He hadn’t many seconds to wait and when the Outfit’s private exchange came on the wire he said briefly, “Shaw. Most urgent to Chief of Special Services, personal.”
Two
“First things first, Shaw. Before you give me the details, tell me this: why did the feller come to you rather than anyone else?” Latymer’s heavy, pugnacious face seemed to snap at him over the top of pale-pink silk pyjamas and a dressing-gown with a violent Paisley pattern. “I can’t see where the hell N.I.D. comes into contact with diplomats — except by way of collision! Well?”