Goodbye to an Old Friend (7 page)

‘The Americans have organized similar experiments during the Apollo series. Isn't it wasteful duplicating exchange-material tests?'

‘It's only surface duplication,' said Pavel. ‘The adaptation of the results could differ.'

‘What does that mean?' asked Adrian, departing from the form again.

‘The Americans are still a long way from establishing a space platform. Don't always look to the end of the experiment for its ultimate worth. The success of a moon rover – whether it functions, the incidence of errors – will indicate whether or not we can successfully create something in space.'

A hint? Adrian continued the line that Pavel had opened. ‘Is there a Russian plan to establish a space platform for military purposes?'

Pavel laughed, that jeering sound again, and Adrian felt he had been drawn too far, tricked into asking a stupid question.

‘Why do you have to begin every question with the supposition that Russia is the villain, pursuing the virginity of the rest of the world?'

‘That's an exaggeration. I wouldn't have expected that from a scientific mind,' countered Adrian. ‘It's an obvious question, when we talk of space platforms capable of building lunar caravans.'

‘What about forecasting?' asked Pavel, carelessly.

‘Unnecessary,' countered Adrian again, quickly. ‘All necessary weather information can be obtained from unmanned satellites.'

‘True,' conceded Pavel. ‘What about astrological research?'

‘Unnecessary again,' said Adrian. ‘You can conduct those probes as well from unmanned stations.'

‘I've got you away from the listed questions,' said Pavel and laughed, an excited sound, like a trainer who had encouraged a seal to balance a ball.

Adrian flushed, bending back to the clipboard. ‘Let's talk about space photography,' he said.

‘As you wish,' said Pavel, condescendingly. Adrian jerked up. The other man had replied in Russian.

‘As you
wish,' responded Adrian, lapsing easily into the same language. He supposed Pavel had done it to discomfit him, but he was utterly sure of his language control.

‘Are you interested in Gegenschein?' Adrian recited.

‘Do you know what Gegenschein is?' mocked Pavel.

‘The faint light source covering a 20-degree field of view along the earth-sun line on the opposite side of the earth from the sun,' replied Adrian, immediately. He looked up. ‘The questions are listed to prompt me,' he said. ‘I try
awfully
hard to escape portraying myself as a complete cretin.'

Adrian was glad they had lapsed into Russian. Irony sounded so much more vitriolic. Pavel nodded, accepting the rebuke.

‘The next probe will have electrically controlled cameras, working with a 55-mm. lens at F/1.2 on highspeed black and white. It's essentially dim-light photography. We are inclined to accept the theory that the origin of Gegenschein is particles of matter trapped at the Moulton Point, reflecting sunlight. You know what the Moulton Point is?'

He wasn't relaxing for a moment, thought Adrian. ‘Yes,' he replied. ‘The theoretical point 940,000 statute miles from earth along the anti-solar axis where the sum of all gravitational forces is zero.'

‘Bet you were the top boy in the class,' mocked Pavel.

‘Alpha-plus every time,' replied Adrian.

‘Or perhaps you've absorbed a lot. Alexandre must have been very forthcoming.'

Adrian didn't reply, but marked the response on his clipsheet for later examination when the tape was transcribed. He felt there had been a little too much eagerness in Pavel's reaction, too much artifice in trying to annoy with sarcasm, then following up with a question which could have brought out any angry, unconsidered reply. Pavel went on. ‘Can I see Alexandra?'

‘Of course.'

‘When?'

‘In a while.'

‘After you've drawn all the material possible from me?'

Adrian smiled. The other man was remarkably well informed about debriefing procedure. ‘Yes,' he smiled.

‘How long will that take?'

‘Depends on how long our debriefing sessions last.' The Russian-speaking guards entered with coffee, and for a few moments they stopped talking. Adrian waited, putting a theory to the test. It was Pavel who broke the silence.

‘We could talk and take our coffee at the same time.'

Adrian nodded, happy at the outcome. For the next three hours they talked, ranging over future Russian moon exploration from passive seismic experiments, suprathermal ion detection and cold cathode gauge probes to planned geology investigations and then covering, point by point, the equipment that would be provided in the space platforms and mooncraft.

Adrian stopped at one-thirty. No cooked meal for forty-eight hours he thought, as he looked at his watch.

‘We made progress today,' said Pavel.

‘Yes.'

‘Will I see you tomorrow?'

‘Yes, but I have to stop on the way here, so I won't arrive until eleven-thirty.'

‘Oh, so he's quite near here.'

Adrian had his back to the Russian, storing clipboard and questions into the briefcase with the numbered combination lock, so the surprise was concealed.

‘Who?' he parried.

‘Alexandre, of course,' said Pavel, irritably. ‘Who else would you be seeing? Will you tell him about me?'

‘I don't know.'

‘No, I suppose there's not a lot of point. You've got all you want from him, so there's nothing to be gained in using my defection as a bargaining point or shock revelation.'

‘I can't recall telling you that we've got everything from Bennovitch.'

‘Haven't you then?'

A fraction too quick, judged Adrian. He didn't reply to the Russian's question. Perhaps detecting his own eagerness, Pavel did not repeat it.

Again Adrian drove leisurely back to London. It would not be possible for them to hear the full tape, but he would give them sufficient time to realize progress was being made.

He thought about Anita, wedged in that cramped City office, typing out shipboard invoices and cargo manifests. She had said Anne Sinclair worked in the same building. But not a typist, judged Adrian, easing the car through Vauxhall. No, Anne Sinclair didn't fit the role. She'd be a personal secretary, super-efficient, shouldering a lot of responsibility, friendly yet just a little bit too aloof from any office Romeo who tried to create any relationship. He wondered if anyone there knew of the association between the two women, guessed from intercepting a glance or seeing a half hidden gesture. Probably not. Anne Sinclair wouldn't let that happen because it would reveal a failing and Adrian didn't think she was a girl who admitted to any failings.

Miss Aimes was in the office when he entered and carefully locked away the briefcase.

‘He hasn't come back,' she reported.

Adrian was momentarily confused.

‘Who?'

‘The pigeon.'

‘Oh.'

He felt her looking at his creased suit. At least the shirt was fresh.

‘Your wife away?'

‘What?'

‘I asked if your wife was away.'

Why should he reply? The relationship between them had always been strictly businesslike, so there was no encouragement to impertinence, sarcasm veiled in what appeared a casual inquiry. He should put her in her place, immediately.

‘Yes,' he lied instead. ‘As a matter of fact she is. Her mother … her mother is ill. She's gone to the country to look after her.'

‘Oh.' The woman took another look at the suit.

‘Any messages?'

‘Sir Jocelyn wants to see you at three-thirty,' said the secretary. ‘I've typed yesterday's debriefing, and the resulting questions have come across from the Technical Section.'

‘Thank you.'

‘There was a note on your reminder pad.'

‘What?'

‘On your reminder pad, you'd written my name. Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?'

Adrian recalled her early departure from the office the previous evening and the resolution to make a protest to re-establish his position with the woman. He turned. Inevitably she was patting those rigid iron grey furrows. He wondered if he would ever satisfy his curiosity about that hairpiece.

‘No,' he said. ‘It was nothing.'

‘Sure?' she asked.

‘Yes, quite sure.'

The cleared line from Binns buzzed and Adrian picked up the grey telephone.

‘How did it go?' asked the Permanent Secretary.

‘Better,' said Adrian. ‘Haven't you heard all the tape?'

‘Up to the moment he lapsed into Russian.'

Adrian had forgotten the language change. It would mean translation and cause several hours' delay.

‘He was much more forthcoming,' he said.

‘Well, that's progress.'

‘I'm not sure,' said Adrian.

‘What?'

‘I'll explain it when we meet.'

‘That's the point of this call,' said Binns. ‘This thing is creating the most incredible international outcry from practically everyone. We've even had some of our men expelled from Moscow now, alleging that we are actually enticing their scientists across. It's far far worse than when Oleg Lyalin defected and we expelled the majority of their Trade Mission. America has been asked to pressure us privately to return both Bennovitch and Pavel, in return for future closer space co-operation. The Russians have even offered to let some people from Houston visit Baikonur …'

‘I don't believe it would ever come off,' interrupted Adrian.

‘Neither do I,' picked up Binns. ‘But it's an impressive offer and the Americans are nibbling hard at the bait.'

‘What else?'

‘Every newspaper in the world is advancing every sort of speculation you can imagine on the importance of these two. The Prime Minister wants to see us this afternoon.'

Adrian looked down at his creased suit. He wouldn't have time to have it pressed.

‘The Prime Minister?' he queried.

‘Yes,' said Binns. ‘He's taken over personal control.'

‘Oh,' said Adrian. ‘What time does he want to see us?'

‘Four,' said Binns. ‘So you'd better come across here at three to brief me fully before the meeting.'

Adrian replaced the receiver and saw Miss Aimes smiling across the desk at him.

‘Going all afternoon?' she asked.

He nodded, aware she was planning another early night. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps then he'd talk to her.

‘Let's review what we've done so far,' said Kaganov, an unnecessary list of reminders before him. ‘Because Pavel defected in Paris, we've protested to France and threatened the cancellation of the trade agreement negotiated by Pompidou. We've made every official protest to Britain, brought pressure through Washington with the Baikonur promise, recalled our ambassador to London for consultations and expelled the British military attaché and two first secretaries.'

‘It was brilliant to hint the attaché was in some way involved with enticing both men over,' admitted Minevsky. The move had earned a lot of praise, but people were forgetting it was his idea.

‘Is there anything else that needs doing to keep it bubbling?' said Heirar. ‘We can't allow the tension to relax for a moment. Who's debriefing Pavel? Do we know?'

‘Of course,' said Kaganov. ‘It's the man the British always use. His name is Adrian Dodds. According to our embassy, he's quite brilliant.'

‘Shouldn't we do something there?' continued Heirar. ‘Shouldn't we move against him?'

‘Good God, no,' said Minevsky, anticipating by a few seconds the reaction that would come from the chairman.

‘What the hell are you suggesting?' took up Kaganov.

Heirar pressed on. ‘Surely we could stage-manage an attempted assassination?'

‘You must be mad,' said Minevsky. ‘They'd immediately take Dodds away from the debriefing. It could take the embassy weeks to discover who his replacement would be. And anyway, we only know his name. We don't know his identity or
where
he is.'

Chapter Six

Adrian and Sir Jocelyn walked from their office, threading their way through the labyrinth of passages at the rear of the Foreign Office. They ignored the front entrance of Downing Street, going down the steps to loop back through Horseguards Parade to enter, from habit, through the rear entrance.

In St James's Park, sun worshippers were prostrate on the grass and Adrian studied them enviously. No worries, he thought. No broken marriages, no bewigged secretaries, no laundry problems. And they'd have eaten as well.

Both knew the inside of the Prime Minister's official house from previous visits and confidently followed the male secretary through the corridors and into the small office off the larger Cabinet Room.

Although they were ten minutes early, the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary were waiting.

‘Here you are, here you are,' said the Premier, Arnold Ebbetts, impatiently, as if they were at least an hour late for the appointment.

He was a fat, fleshy man, who affected a pipe he rarely lit and the sort of tweed suits that cost thirty pounds from multiple tailors and could be recognized as such. He cultivated a reputation for bluntness, which he practised when it would cause no harm, and always invited the press to his summer cottage in Yorkshire for duty pictures of him with flat cap and briar stick, a man of the people who'd made good but hadn't forgotten his humble origins of grammar school and Barnsley Technical College. He had a mind like a computer, an ambition to be remembered as one of Britain's ablest premiers and rarely in public speeches did he forget to drop his aitches.

Arnold Ebbetts was a politician's politician. The man he most admired was Arnold Ebbetts.

‘Here you are,' echoed the Foreign Minister. Predictably, Adrian felt sorry for him. Sir William Fornham was a cartoonist's dream, a caricature of a British aristocrat, so that people judged him – quite wrongly – from a commentator's drawing rather than his performance. He was a tall, bony man, who had forsaken his hereditary title to serve his country, which he did well but for which he got little recognition. He suffered the disadvantage of believing through tradition, breeding and education that all men were gentlemen who told the truth and was constantly offended to discover otherwise. Apart from that his only other failing was that he often appeared to be thinking of something else, which he wasn't, and so to prove his attention he had developed the habit of repeating the final five or six words of the person who spoke before him.