Goodbye to an Old Friend (2 page)

‘Do you think there's any point in putting out any more biscuit crumbs?' asked Miss Aimes.

It had rained during the night, soaking into a messy smear the chocolate digestive bait.

‘No, don't bother.'

Miss Aimes stop-started around the office and Adrian watched, seeking the gap near her hairline that would confirm his suspicion. Perhaps it was an expensive wig, very well made. Her father had been a colonel with the Indian Rifles and had left her some money, so she could afford it.

Her tea was dreadful, like it always was, and as he always did, Adrian said, ‘It's very nice. Thank you.'

She smiled, knowing he was lying, and he was glad when the buzzer went, indicating Binns was ready. Adrian put on his jacket, advanced beyond his Maginot Line and left Miss Aimes to her nest and her appalling tea.

The Permanent Secretary was very thin and he stooped, self-consciously trying to reduce his height, even when sitting at his desk. Adrian thought of him as a question mark, a perpetual query. It was a fitting metaphor.

Normally he stuttered, but Adrian had worked with him for fifteen years and in the intimacy of the office, the impediment disappeared.

Adrian had come straight from university with his Triple First in modern languages, an oddity in a department used to oddities, a rare man whose mind could sponge up and retain a foreign tongue with the ease of a child parroting an advertising jingle he has heard only twice.

At first their association had been difficult, both men sheltering behind their permanently erected barriers of shyness, but then each had recognized much of himself in the other, and friendship had replaced the diffidence until there now existed a unique rapport between the permanent civil servant and his assistant.

Adrian still kept a respectful attitude, aware his hesitant relationship with the older man was perhaps the only real friendship he had and frightened of losing it through over-familiarity. Always Sir Jocelyn led and Adrian followed.

Only in their work did the order sometimes change and that was necessary because everything began with Adrian. He and Sir Jocelyn processed every defector to Britain from communist bloc countries, establishing their worth and recommending whether or not they were granted permanent asylum. They had worked as a team for a decade, made only two mistakes and were rated the best there was, even better than anyone in Washington.

‘Alexandra Bennovitch,' opened Binns, tapping the folder that Adrian had created and which lay between them on the desk.

‘Yes,' said Adrian.

‘It's a good report.'

‘Thank you.'

‘He's important, isn't he?'

‘Very,' agreed Adrian. ‘He's
the
most important man ever to have come over, in my opinion. And everything he has said checks out. I've had several meetings with our people, comparing what he told me with what they already know. They are amazed. They had no idea the Russians were so advanced, either on Mars probes or multi-head re-entry rockets.'

‘No wonder the Soviets are so bloody mad.'

‘What about Washington?' asked Adrian.

‘The C.I.A. are like dogs on heat,' chuckled Binns. ‘We get calls about three times a day.'

‘I think Bennovitch will choose to go there eventually,' said Adrian. ‘He's reasonably happy here at the moment, but it's just excitement. It'll soon wear off. When he begins to think he'll realize America is the only place for space science, despite their economies.'

‘Is he frightened?'

‘Very,' said Adrian. ‘He's a bumptious man, but he's very aware of his worth. He'll only go out for about fifteen minutes each day and then insists that both men with him are armed.'

‘Could we learn everything about the Russians' space plans from talking to him?'

Adrian pondered the question before answering. ‘No, I don't think so. He worked as a team …' He paused, then said, ‘There were times when he was talking when I was reminded of the relationship between you and me …' and Binns smiled.

‘There is another man,' continued Adrian, ‘Viktor Pavel. He's the navigational expert, basically, but he was the leader, the real genius. We've known his name for some time, principally in connection with his revolutionary new inertia guidance system, which our scientists want very badly. So there are gaps in what Bennovitch tells us. But the technical staff think they can fill most of it in. Even so, it'll take time.'

‘How much?'

‘Several months, I'm afraid.'

Binns shrugged. ‘I don't think that detracts from the catch,' he said. ‘We'll learn enough.'

The two men sat for several moments, then Binns said, ‘I was surprised that the Russians still sent such a large delegation to the Paris Air Show. There's been such a fuss about Bennovitch that I expected them to cancel their contingent completely.'

‘I don't know,' said Adrian, ‘since the Americans and the Chinese established their links, the Soviets have been very conscious of “face” and of appearing over-sensitive in the eyes of the rest of the world. To have withdrawn would have created an even bigger surprise than going ahead as if Bennovitch's defection wasn't important.'

‘True,' agreed Binns. ‘Perhaps I'm overlooking the fact that at this moment only about six people, apart from the Russians, really know how important Bennovitch is.'

The secretary brought in tea and both men instinctively stopped talking until she had left the room.

Adrian drank appreciatively. Binns always got Earl Grey sent in from Fortnum's and his secretary brewed it beautifully. Adrian had tried doing the same, months ago, but Miss Aimes had produced exactly the same taste as she achieved with supermarket tea bags.

‘Heard from Anita?' asked Binns.

Adrian started slightly at the mention of his wife's name. Binns had been to the apartment for dinner several times in the beginning, soon after they were married. He'd made no comment when the invitations stopped.

‘I had a letter, about a week ago,' he said.

‘Oh.'

Binns waited, giving Adrian the opportunity of ending the discussion or continuing it. Grateful for the chance, Adrian went on, ‘She wants to see me.'

‘A divorce?'

‘I think so.'

‘Another man?'

‘No.'

The denial was immediate, a little too abrupt. Binns said nothing.

After a long pause, Adrian said, ‘She appears to have formed some sort of association with another woman.'

Words of civilization, thought Adrian, contemptuously. ‘An association with another woman.' Pomposity for the sake of appearance. My wife's gone queer. My wife's gone queer because I'm inadequate.

‘I'm sorry,' said Binns.

More civilization, thought Adrian.

There was a hesitation, while Adrian searched for a reply. Then he said, ‘At least under the new divorce legislation it'll be swept under the carpet and everyone's pride will be saved.'

‘Hurt?' asked Binns.

Adrian nodded, without replying.

There was a silence in the room and Binns began regretting that he had raised the subject. The telephone sounded suddenly and both men jumped. Binns sighed, relieved at the escape. The speech impediment registered as soon as Binns picked up the receiver and Adrian sat, feeling sorry for the other man.

Even with the stutter, Binns's end of the conversation was restricted, but Adrian saw his face suddenly tighten. A nervous tic began to vibrate near his left eye, something which only occurred in moments of crisis.

For several moments after replacing the receiver, Binns did not speak.

‘What is it?' asked Adrian.

‘There's been another defection,' said Binns, and so confused was he that he continued stuttering. ‘From the show … the Paris Air Show … a man surrendered himself to our embassy there and demanded asylum.'

‘What nationality?' asked Adrian and Binns stared at him, as if it were a stupid question.

‘Why, Russian, of course.' Then, realizing he alone had the details, he said, ‘I'm sorry. It's so incredible … unbelievable almost …'

‘But who is it?' demanded Adrian, impatiently.

‘Viktor Pavel,' replied Binns, quietly.

At the back of the Kremlin complex, away from Red Square and the onion domes of the tourist pictures, three men of an inner committee sat in a windowless room. It was starkly functional, just fifteen chairs for when the full committee sat, grouped around a rectangular table, without note pads. There was no secretary or minute clerk because every word was automatically recorded and transcribed within thirty minutes, for instant reference by the Praesidium or any security division.

Because they were all aware of the recording devices the committee spoke in stilted, carefully considered sentences, with long pauses for mental examination of every phrase, like school children reciting the previous night's homework, the conversation always in a monotone and devoid of any emotion.

‘Pavel's gone over,' announced the chairman, Yevgeny Kaganov. The other two nodded, rehearsing their reaction.

‘Are the French implicated?' asked the deputy, Igor Minevsky.

‘No,' said Kaganov. ‘He went straight to the British embassy.'

‘We'll have to discipline security,' said the third man, a Ukrainian named Josef Heirar. He smiled to himself, pleased with the safe response.

‘Already done,' said Kaganov, briskly. ‘Two men were flown home from Paris within two hours of the British leak.'

‘Publicly?' queried Heirar.

‘Very,' replied the chairman. ‘There was a struggle at Orly. One actually tried to escape, pleading for asylum as well. The French were within inches of intervening. The newspapers in the West are full of it.'

Minevsky and Heirar nodded, in unison, as if sharing a secret agreement.

‘What about protests?' asked Minevsky.

‘Already made,' said the chairman. ‘In Paris and London. The British ambassador is being called to our Foreign Ministry, as well. We're also summoning the American ambassador here, secretly, and asking for background pressure to be brought from Washington on the British.'

‘It won't do any good …' began Heirar and then stopped, aware of the indiscretion.

‘That's not the point,' snapped Kaganov, immediately. ‘And you know it. The Washington protest is important at this stage.'

‘Of course,' admitted Heirar, recovering. ‘I'd forgotten the point, momentarily.'

It was a bad mistake and the other two stared at him, aware of how it would sound on the recording. Heirar knew, too, and began sweating.

‘What now?' asked Minevsky, after sufficient time had elapsed to embarrass the third man completely.

‘We wait,' said Kaganov. ‘We just sit and wait.'

The three nodded, content, except for Heirar, with the recording.

Chapter Two

‘I'm bored.'

Adrian smiled at the immediate greeting from the plump, sparse-haired Russian who sat hunched in the armchair, his glasses reflecting the exhausted sun collapsing over the Sussex Downs.

‘Good afternoon,' he began, politely.

‘I said I'm bored,' repeated Bennovitch, petulantly. ‘Bored and lonely. How much longer am I going to be cooped up in this place?'

Adrian looked with appreciation around the room. The house was a Queen Anne mansion that had been surrendered to pay off the death duties of a duke with no money, and taken over by the Home Office for occasions such as this, housing in complete, guarded safety people whose presence Britain might find an international embarrassment.

‘It's a rather nice house,' he offered.

‘Bourgeoisie,' dismissed Bennovitch. ‘I've answered all the questions. You know everything now. I want to meet your space scientists, your experts … talk to people who interest me. My mind is going numb here, with only you to talk to.'

Adrian remained smiling, unruffled.

Only when he was debriefing was Adrian completely sure of himself, utterly confident of his control of the interview, his thoughts and questions always comfortably ahead of his subject. Bennovitch was easy to handle. He'd reached that conclusion at their first meeting five weeks before, and enjoyed proving it at every subsequent interview. Like a bell meant food to Pavlov's dogs, praise meant co-operation from the small, almost dwarflike Georgian, whose personality had been warped by the constant privileges and reminders in the Soviet Union of his importance to their space development.

Binns had decided the value of psychology very early in their relationship and insisted that Adrian undergo several courses. Bennovitch, Adrian diagnosed, was a manic depressive. No. He corrected himself, immediately. Not yet. Not quite. But he would be. Perhaps five years, maybe a little longer. All the symptoms were rippling beneath the surface.

The Russian stood up and began prowling the room, the baggy Russian suit he still refused to discard – the need for association with the known past, identified Adrian – flapping around him, the trousers puddling at his ankles.

His fingers, already puffed and swollen from the perpetual nail biting, were constantly to his mouth and Adrian saw he had developed the habit of removing his glasses for needless cleaning, his hands clenched in tight, scouring motions, as if the spectacles had lacked attention for weeks. Like Macbeth, wiping the guilt of defection from his hands, mused Adrian.

Bennovitch slumped in the window-nook, staring out over the barbered lawns towards Petworth, hidden by the woodland that made the house so attractive to the Home Office.

‘Warm, isn't it?' suggested Adrian, setting out on a charted course.

‘In Georgia, we have better weather.'

Adrian smiled again, ignoring the invitation to pointless disagreement.

‘I'd like some more help,' he said, taking the next step.

‘I've helped you enough. I'm tired. No more. Finish.' Bennovitch made chopping gestures with his hands to emphasize the finality.