Faithless (36 page)

             
Vinogradov nodded. "I am Head of Line PR so political reporting is my area. So you should believe what I tell you. Moscow is terrified that America is preparing a nuclear first strike. This is true. We remember Barbarossa, when Hitler caught us unprepared. Russia will not let that happen again."

             
"But it is Moscow that has the aim of world domination for Communism. America just wants peace," she said.

             
For the first time Vinogradov laughed. Then he lit another cigarette. "You say that as if you believe it. America is an imperialist power. It wants to dominate so that no other country can challenge what it does. But I don't care about that. The only hope is in a democratic united Europe from the Atlantic to Siberia from Murmansk to Malta which can stand against imperialism whether Soviet or American. That is why I am talking to you British and not to the CIA. Even Gorbachev has said that after the Second World War the USA was drawing up plans for Nuclear strikes on the USSR. These would be used to cow opposition to their rule. Even in the War, there was no military need for the nuclear strikes on Japan - especially the Hiroshima strike. But America did it to tell the world that it was top dog. They have done it before, history shows that. If they felt they could get away internationally with it they would destroy Moscow.  But to do that they need to portray the USSR as the aggressor. And this is what Moscow believes they are preparing for now."

             
"So they really believe that President Reagan is using his "Evil Empire" propaganda to soften up the international community to the extent that America will be able to launch a nuclear strike on the Soviets?" said John.

             
"Exactly, yes."

Vinogradov talked for two hours and then Ailsa left to contact the other watchers to make sure the area was clear before he emerged from the house. He shook John's hand before he left and said "Do not fail me."

             
After he had gone, Ailsa returned to the flat. "What do you make of all of that?" she said.

             
"Well the KGB Residency stuff didn't really tell us about anyone we hadn't already identified by other means. Apart from the driver and we weren't totally sure which cypher clerk was KGB. But it's nice to have it from the horse's mouth. What about you?"

             
"Well that was very interesting. I hadn't realised the Sovs were so paranoid. It just seems like a poker game about missiles to us but they are really concerned the Yanks are going to nuke them."

             
"And their finger is hovering nervously above their own button to get in first."

             
"Very scary. We could all be dead next week. Anyway, I'm going to rush back and knock up a CX report about this. It will make me look very good and clever." She smiled.

             
"What about him - his motivation?" asked John.

             
"It seems confused. He didn't ask about money and I didn't push it. I will next time," she said. "Not sure what all that stuff about his wife means - though he was pretty insistent about it."

             
"Maybe he loves her?" he said.

             
"Well there's a thought," said Ailsa. " Anyway he hates the KGB Resident. Some kind of chip on his shoulder maybe? Hasn't risen the way he thought he should. But then again maybe he's an idealist."

             
"They're always dangerous."

             
She nodded. "Yes. He reminded me of you."

August 1985, London:
John and Ailsa met Vinogradov every two weeks in the same safe house in Fitzrovia. There would always be two of them there doing the de-briefing, John for MI5 and Ailsa for MI6. The weather varied. Sometimes they had to open the window because of the heat. Sometimes the window was streaked with London rain.  Sometimes he accepted a glass of water; always he smoked, one cigarette after another, filling up the ashtray. The material he provided them was useful but not startling. It provided confirmation of hints given by other sources; it gave a drip drip drip of the policy thinking in Moscow Centre. Vinogradov told them about telegrams arriving from Moscow requesting ongoing security information - how late were civil servants working in the Ministry of Defence? Any unusual military movements - or a lack of movements indicating soldiers were being deployed elsewhere? Moscow seemed on edge; watching the West's trigger finger - wanting the KGB to read Thatcher's mind. There was also some work going on supporting the British Communist Party - providing backdoor funds, directing their activities in the name of world revolution, the CPGB bowing down to big brother CPSU in return for cash. Vinogradov was able to provide information on KGB agents in the South African Communist Party who were working within the African National Congress. This was fed back to MI6, who would then share it with the CIA who would then give it to the South African National Intelligence Service who would kill them. New laws had just been passed in South Africa giving the army and police the right to arrest and detain black people without the need for a warrant and with no time limit. Presumably South African Intelligence would find these tit-bits useful in their war on terror.

At each meeting Vinogradov kept asking for the letter from the Foreign Secretary promising to rescue his wife and children in the event he was executed. At each meeting Ailsa told
him that it would take time - that there were lengthy bureaucratic processes to be adhered to. Being Russian, Vinogradov was familiar with this idea and accepted it grudgingly. And then towards the end of July Ailsa was able to supply the letter. It was typed on luxury heavy weight light blue bond paper with the Foreign Office crest at the top. It was signed at the bottom in blue ink by the Foreign Secretary himself and it thanked Vinogradov for his services to the United Kingdom and told him that the Queen had personally authorised him to pass on her gratitude. It named Vinogradov's wife and two children and undertook to make them safe in the unlikely event of any unforeseen untoward incident. Vinogradov took the letter in both hands. John watched him as his eyes moistened. John did not look at Ailsa.

             
"It is everything I hoped," said Vinogradov. "Thank you. Please send my thanks to your Foreign Secretary and your Queen for their good wishes."

             
"We'll keep the letter of course. You can see it any time you want," said Ailsa.

             
Vinogradov looked at her as if she were stupid. "I know I can't keep it. Do you think I want to get myself shot?"

             
There was little left to say after making the date for the next meeting and going over the routine for emergency contact, via chalk marks on a wall near Holland Park. Then John let him out and he disappeared into London. John turned back into the room. He was in no hurry to get back to the office.

             
"He's a moody sod," said Ailsa. "Fancy a cup of tea?" Ailsa said. "I think there are even some hob-nob biscuits."

             
"Yes to the tea. No to the hob-nobs. They run counter to my gym regime."

             
She gave a tinkling, amused laugh. "I didn't know you were using the gym?"

             
"I go down after we've finished for an hour or so with Rob from K4."

             
"Since when?"

             
"About a month."

             
"And is that a new suit?"

             
He nodded.

             
She laughed again. "You must be trying to impress someone."

             
Ailsa made the tea and they sat down. "I'm having a hob-nob," she said.

             
"You can afford to."

             
"Flatterer."

             
"Did you see him with the letter? I thought he was going to burst out crying."

             
She rolled her eyes. "I know. Good God what a fanny."

             
"Was it real?"

             
She shrugged. "Not worth the paper it's written on. The Queen isn't going to get involved in our dirty business."

There was a copy of the day's Evening Standard on the table beside the sofa they were sitting on.  Ailsa leafed through it while John watched her. She seemed to want to linger with him. She talked through the headlines. "I see Reagan is claiming the contr
as are the "moral equals" of America's founding fathers."

             
John said, "The man's an arse. It's hard to know if he believes the reprehensible nonsense he spouts."

             
Ailsa flicked through the pages. "The French have bombed a Greenpeace Ship in New Zealand killing two environmentalists. Makes me wonder about the company we keep. That and the bloody apartheid gang. Still Mrs Thatcher seems to like them all."

             
"You're getting very political," said John.

             
"Not really. I just live my life and do my job," she said.

             
"Why this job though? Just curious."

             
"It's more fun than working in the City trading currencies."

             
"You could have done something else."

             
"Like what - teach? I could teach deportment at Lucy Clayton's."

             
He laughed. "I can see you doing that - walking with a book on your head all day and demonstrating how to get out of cars without showing your knickers. By the way there's another seat over there. You don't have to share the sofa with me."

             
She smiled and said. "Maybe I want to sit next to you."

             
"I think about you a lot, you know," he said.

             
She looked down at the paper, as if reading, and then said,"Is that good?"

             
"It feels good but makes me feel bad too."

             
"Sounds complicated."

             
"It is. What about you?"

             
"What about me what?"

             
He felt stupid asking her. "Do you think about me?"

             
She avoided his gaze. "I dream about you a lot. I keep imagining being with you."

             
"I didn't know that."

             
"It's inconvenient. I'm not used to feeling things. I don't like it." She stood up suddenly and walked to the window, outside she watched the leaves move in the slight summer breeze. She twisted her hair, not looking back at him.

             
"You'd rather be cold and manipulative?" he said.

             
"Not cold. But it's always been that way. All my relationships were managed. This one's growing out of control. It worries me."

             
"Are we a relationship?"

             
She turned. John did not expect it, but she walked over and put her hand on his shoulder. He was filled with a strange, sad warmth. He held her hand.

             
"I don't know what to do," she said. "I can't leave him."

             
"Why not?"

             
She said, "I've threatened to. In the early days when he was fornicating his way round London. He's terrified he'll lose me. He say he can't live without me."

             
"Why does he behave like that then?"

             
"I don't know. I think he loves me - in his own way."

             
He let go of her hand. "Like wife beaters love their wives and are sorry they beat them up. Afterwards." He got up.

             
"Don't be angry. Don't ask me to leave him. I can't."

             
"Then what am I here for? I should go."

             
She said,  "I want my cake and to eat it too." She shrugged. "I don't want to feel this about you, but I do. If we'd met when we were younger I' never have looked at you."

             
He ran his fingers through her hair. "I bet you wouldn't. You posh stuck up cow."

             
"But I do now," she said. "Look," I mean.

             
They were close together. He smelled the life in her mixed with the perfume  that lingered wherever she'd been - in the work car, by her desk, on his fingers now. He saw flecks of gold in her irises. He hadn't noticed them before. She was like a jewel. He saw the filaments of her hair were multicoloured - some gold, some bronze, some moon silver. He moved his hand to touch her. She didn't stop him. He traced the line of her collar bone, delicate under her pale skin. She moved her long fingers to his face and stroked him like she loved him. He could later try to excuse himself by saying he didn't know what he was doing but it wasn't true. He knew what was right and wrong, but he wanted her too much. He kissed her tentatively at first. And she kissed him back. Her hands ran up his back and onto his neck. She broke off the kiss. "There's a bed," she said.