Faithless (21 page)

             
The woman came back with the water and explained how the machine worked. With a smile she left him alone. He put on the headphone, clicked the on switch and watched while the tape spooled from the reel that was a third full to the empty one. There was a click, a hiss of static and then a voice spoke in an educated Russian voice. It was a ten minute clip of someone describing a holiday trip to Odessa. John had little trouble translating it and wrote it down in his undisciplined handwriting. He finished long before the end of his allotted time and went over the handwriting to make it more legible. Then he sat and looked at the machine and the wall until the woman came back for him.

             
She asked if he were finished and she then led him through to a larger room where three men in suits sat. One was Clayton, the others said their names but as they were probably false, John didn't bother remembering them.

             
They asked him questions about his studies and about his course.

             
"Durham's a lovely city. My brother studied law there," said the dark haired man with a cultured public school accent. "He was in the boating club. Do any rowing?"

             
There were days when John had hired out a rowing boat at Lochrin Basin in Edinburgh to impress Karen so he nodded. "I wasn't on University Team though."

             
"We can't all make it to the Varsity Team," laughed the fair-haired man with a cultured public school accent.

             
"Planning to marry?" said the dark haired man.

             
"I'm hoping to. Just wanted to get myself established with a job."

             
"Very sensible," said Clayton.

             
The door opened and the woman came in with an envelope that she handed to Clayton. She smiled broadly at John. Clayton opened the envelope. "The results of your language test," he said.

             
"Ah," said John.

             
Clayton smiled broadly. He handed slip of paper that had been in the envelope to his colleagues. The dark haired man smiled broadly. The fair-haired man smiled broadly. "Well done, John. 100%!"

John blushed. "Ah good."

              "So you're a good linguist. Excellent. What about Russia in general? It's important for people doing this job."  They didn't explain what the job was.

             
"Yes," said the fair-haired man. He looked at a piece of paper with handwritten notes in front of him. "For example, would you give your lady host at a dinner party yellow roses?"

             
John smiled. "No, yellow flowers are bad luck. Whereas in Britain they mean friendship."

             
The fair-haired man coughed. "I didn't know that. In Britain I mean. The other is on the note. Very interesting."

             
John nodded. "My girlfriend has a book on the language of flowers."

             
The dark-haired man now spoke up. "And what do Russians eat as their Christmas dinner?"

             
"Well, of course they don't celebrate Christmas in the Soviet Union. The Orthodox have a special supper on Christmas Eve - which is in January of course. Because it is still a fast, it is a meal without meat. They start with
kutya
a kind of sweet porridge.""

             
Clayton nodded. "Impressive - you know your stuff." He turned to the dark-haired man and said, "These questions are a bit generic aren't they?"
              The dark-haired man nodded. "We use them for all the linguists."

             
"Anyway," said the fair-haired man. "I wanted to ask you about Marxism. You must have come across it in your studies."

             
John said, "Well of course it is the Soviet Union and I did study Soviet Literature, so I am aware of it."

             
"Appeal to you much?"

             
"The dictatorship of the Proletariat?"

             
The dark haired man nodded fervently. "Indeed."

             
John paused. "I'm not keen on dictatorship of any kind."

             
The three men shot glances at each other and smiled. It was the right answer. They wanted to employ a good Russian linguist and they wanted nothing to complicate that for them.

             
"Of course. What about your politics? Are you much of a marcher - a protester?"

             
"I haven't been no."

             
"Good, good. Would you say you are political?"

             
John shrugged. "I vote Labour. I hope that isn't a problem."

             
Mr Clayton shook his head vigorously. "No, of course not. The Labour Party is a democratic party. There isn't an issue there."

             
"Do you mind waiting outside while we have chat, John?"

             
John shook his head. He got up.

             
"I'm sure Mary will get you a cup of tea."

             
"No, I'm fine. I'll read the paper."

             
"Jolly good. Shouldn't be long."

They took about fifteen minutes, which John didn't know whether it was a good or bad sign. He didn't read the paper, but instead stared at his hands and his shoes. He didn't care which way the interview went, he told himself.  If he failed that would solve a problem and he wouldn't have to explain to his mother and Karen why he hadn't taken the job. When Clayton came out to beckon him in, he had a broad smile on his face. The two other men had gone but Mary was sitting at the table.

             
"Right John," said Clayton. "You know you did very well at the language test."

             
John nodded. "Yes. You said earlier. Thank you."

             
"And you interviewed well."

             
"Thank you."

             
"I wondered if I should tell you a little more about the job?"

             
"Well that would be a good idea I think.

             
Clayton laughed. "Of course. I sometimes think we are a little too hush hush for our own good.  Would you like a cup of tea now?"

             
"I think I would yes."

             
"Mary do you mind? Mine's with two sugars. John do you take sugar?"

             
"No, thanks."  Mary got up to go and make the tea.

             
"Well John, the job is about translating - mainly from conversations on tapes. Sometimes some written material."

             
"Sounds fine."

             
"Long hours sitting with headphones on, I'm afraid and typing up translations."

             
"I don't type."

             
"Don't worry about that. We'll teach you. We have a typing school," said Clayton. He continued. "The job is very sensitive. You wouldn't be able to discuss what you have heard outside, even to your girlfriend, even when she becomes your wife."

             
"I guessed that."

             
"The material is related to the defence of the realm."  Clayton looked serious.               "We have deadly enemies you know. The Cold War is serious and could develop into a Hot War at any time. It's important that we know what they are doing to hurt us and they are very cunning."

             
John could see this wasn't a game for Clayton.

             
"This is a Ministry of Defence building and we wrote to you on Ministry of Defence paper, but we aren't the Ministry of Defence."

             
"Oh?" said John.

             
"No, this is the Security Service - better known as MI5. Would you be interested in working for us?"

             
John said, "Can you give me some time?"

             
Clayton frowned slightly. "Of course. It's best to think these things through. In any case I couldn't offer you a job right away. We have to do some background checks into your people. I'm afraid it is quite intrusive. We will speak to your University Tutor and your old teachers. We will speak to your family and make enquiries in your local neighbourhood about you and your beliefs and politics."

             
"It does sound intrusive."

             
"Yes, John but it is very necessary. We can't have any cuckoos in the nest. Unfortunately we have paid too high a price in the past for just taking men at their word. Just because they were our kind."

Two nights later, John was out at the Chinese restaurant in Silver Street in Durham. Karen and Billy Frankton were with him, eating Chow Mein and drinking Tsingtao beer.

             
"So, you gonna take this job then?" said Frankton, forking noodles into his mouth.

             
"Dunno. Don't want to really," said John, inexpertly manipulating the chopsticks Karen insisted he try so he appeared sophisticated.

             
"Well you should," said Karen. "You have to think of the future."

             
"Working for the fascist regime?" Frankton snorted and gulped more Tsingtao.

             
"Billy, you're such a poser," said Karen. "You just spout phrases from billboards and student demo posters." She turned to John and pointed to the door, "The real world's out there. You need money. You need a job." She looked at Frankton, "I haven't noticed anyone else offering him a job."

             
John said, "I was thinking of applying for an MA in medieval Russian literature."

             
Karen rolled her eyes. "What kind of fantasy world do you live in?" she said, "Take the job John."

             
"Don't take the job John, remember your ideals," said Frankton.

             
"Ideals my arse," said Karen. "Ideals fuck the world up. Your loyalty should be to the people you love not some stupid ideas."

             
"I'll think about it," John said.

             
"Think about me," she said. "What does your mother say?"

             
"She says I should take it."

             
"If the women who know and love you say you should, surely that should count?"

Ever since his mother had got him into the Heriot School and before, she wanted him to leave the narrow world she'd grown up in. For her it meant no coming home covered in coal like his stepfather and grandfather; no more tin baths; No coughing up coal dust. No ice on the insides of the window. No outside toilet and your kids wearing clogs because they couldn't afford leather shoes. No newspaper as toilet roll. No more poverty. She persuaded him to write back to them.

MI5's inquiries turned out well. His mother and stepfather were pillars of the community and had never uttered a subversive word. No one mentioned James Fee. John had gone to the right kind of school and was sufficiently non-descript while there not to elicit any negative comment from the masters. Similarly at Durham he did not get arrested; he did not join any dubious political society like Amnesty International or the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.  Fortunately he was not gay. All was well. And two months later John started his job as a Russian linguist in the A2A section of transcribers that was housed in MI5's headquarters at Leconfield House on Curzon Street in Mayfair.

March 1985, London:
The meeting in K4's office in Gower Street came to an end. The names of those present - along with their titles - K4, K3, K3/3, K4A/4 and their MI6 guest SBO1/B were inscribed in the Indoctrination List and Leonov was given the code name MOUNTAIN LION.

             
"He'd probably like that name," said Philip. They came out of the door and Philip squeezed John's arm. "Pip pip! See you later. I've an appointment with a man about a dog," and he set off athletically up the stairs to K3's offices.  SBO/1 and K3 - both SIS officers - made their way off towards the lift.

At that point one of their colleagues entered with a stranger. They looked up. Tim from K8 said, "Hi guys. You're the only two in the office. I've brought Joe round. He's our newe
st secondment from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service."