Albatross (28 page)

‘Harrington's not his responsibility,' she said coldly. ‘He's ours. If anything happened and the opposition found out where he was and came after him, Walden wouldn't stand a chance. You can't insult him one minute, Colin, and then make use of him the next. You'll have to stay here and I'll go home for tomorrow night. That should give me time to ask a few questions and see if anything comes out.'

‘What the hell could your family possibly know that would help?' he demanded.

‘I'm not sure,' Davina answered. ‘But they knew where we were. They were the only ones who did, apart from James White. I'm going to start there. Charlie's given me the excuse.' She turned to go out of the room. The tension between them crackled like static electricity. She had started by being angry with Lomax; now, suddenly, she felt saddened and confused. She wanted to get away from him, even to rejoin Harrington, rather than see the antagonism in his face and the hurt hiding behind it.

In the middle of all this, she said to herself, what the hell is happening to us? There was no answer, and she spent the rest of the morning with Harrington, going over the same ground, parrying the mean little jibes that relieved his overwrought state, feeling as she did so that she was making no progress at all. The time seemed to creep by; seldom had a day lasted so long. The confinement of the suite got on her nerves until she felt that she and not Harrington was the prisoner. By 2.30 she felt that unless she got out for a walk she would turn on Harrington and the background figure of Lomax and scream at them both.

The park was green and the evening soft in the aftermath of a warm June day. She walked along the pathways down towards the Mall, and then, remembering the risk of being seen and followed, turned back and kept to the smaller routes. There was a big hillock towards the end of the park leading to Hyde Park Corner and the majestic outline of the Quadriga on top of the triumphal arch at its head. She walked up the hillock and sat down on a seat. Two children were playing nearby; one of them rolled down the steep slope, shrieking with excitement. A beautiful evening, with people strolling at leisure. She had seldom felt more alone.

It didn't help to realize that the person she most wanted with her at that moment was no longer Colin Lomax.

Friday afternoon; James White finished his meeting at the Foreign Office at just after 3.35, and decided that he had better go to the office for an hour before leaving for his home in Kent. The meeting had been a difficult one; the Minister's deputy had come back early from Scotland, cutting the wedding celebration short, and was in a sour mood. The information that Harrington was not in Soviet hands actually pleased nobody. Having escaped, he could surface eventually in Moscow and make a minor nuisance of himself by giving interviews. He had no new information to impart except a first-hand account of life in a British prison. He had obviously warned of the danger to Albatross and his escape had been planned in consequence. His presence in England, in the hands of an unknown organization, posed different problems, none of them easy to solve. A leak would embarrass the Government and its security services. If Harrington hadn't got to Russia, how had he not been recaptured? This question was asked in a most aggressive way by the Foreign Office official named Fuller, and Sir James parried it with his genial smile and a non-answer. He gave the impression that he knew, but couldn't say, exactly where the missing traitor was, and that he was not in the least worried. No mention was made of a suspected Soviet agent with the code name of a large seabird associated with ill luck. That, as Sir James and Humphrey Grant agreed beforehand, might never have to be revealed.

They came back to Anne's Yard together. Kidson was called in. They held a brief conference before breaking up for the weekend.

‘How was the meeting?' Kidson asked.

‘Difficult, but we coped,' James White said. ‘Didn't we, Humphrey? Abrasive little man, Mr Fuller. I must have a word with the Minister about him. No news of Davina?'

‘She's going down to Marchwood tonight,' Kidson said. There was a silence. ‘They haven't been back to the flat. Our people have been on duty since last night. There's no other stake-out on the place either. We should have a tail put on her as soon as she gets down,' he added. ‘That should lead somewhere.'

‘You still believe that she and Lomax have Harrington, don't you?' White said.

Kidson's jaw clenched. Humphrey said nothing; he watched first one then the other with his pale eyes. ‘I'm certain of it,' Kidson said. ‘Certain Lomax is guarding him. He's not coming; some bullshit about a regimental reunion.'

‘Which you checked,' the Chief said.

‘Of course. No such thing.'

‘She must be expecting this.' Humphrey said it in a mumble, as if he were talking to himself. ‘Why is she putting herself on the line, John?'

‘Maybe she thinks she's got away with it, maybe she imagines she can bluff it out with me in some way,' he answered. ‘But she's surfaced, and that's what we wanted.'

‘You are taking this very seriously, aren't you?' said James White. ‘Shouldn't you have consulted first with Humphrey and me?'

‘You happened to be at Whitehall,' Kidson retorted. He looked at his watch. ‘I really must be off.'

Humphrey followed him to the door. ‘I'll be in the flat, Chief, if anything blows up.'

‘I'll be at home,' Sir James said. ‘And John will be doing sterling work at Marchwood. Have a good weekend, both of you.' He gave them his empty smile, and they went out. He didn't leave for some time. He stayed at his desk and made notes on a pad, which he then fed into the shredder. There was a grim expression on his face until he left his room and passed through the outer office. The duty officer was given instructions which took all the fun out of his plans for the weekend.

Then Sir James got into his car in the underground garage attached to the third building down from the office, and took a circuitous route out of central London. He did not head in the direction of Kent.

7

Captain Graham and his wife were having tea in the garden. The June roses were in their full glory, complemented by the rich scent of Mrs Graham's favourite shrub, philadelphus. The graceful drooping white blossom, known as mock orange because of its sweet fragrance, framed the mellow red brick of the terrace of the old Queen Ann house. It was a peaceful scene, almost stagey in its Englishness. The elderly couple, enjoying a quiet tea in their splendid garden under the shelter of their gracious early eighteenth-century house. Tony Walden's copywriters would have loved it.

‘I do think it's a pity,' Captain Graham said.

His wife reproved him in her mild way; it was even milder than usual because she agreed with him. ‘You mustn't say that, darling. Davina's got as much right to come down as Charlie. We haven't seen her for ages.'

‘That's my point,' he said crisply. ‘She spends months down here with Colin and then they both take off into the blue without a word. She leaves the Service and takes up with some bloody advertising agency, and they don't bother to come near us. Now, because presumably it suits her, she decides to come when Charlie and the family are coming. It also makes a lot of extra work for you!'

‘I don't mind that,' Betty Graham said. ‘And she's only staying tonight. It's a shame Colin isn't coming too.'

The captain sighed impatiently. ‘It's not that I'm not fond of her,' he said. ‘But everything she does disappoints, doesn't it? She finally meets a really good chap like Colin, but she won't marry him and settle down. Charlie was always supposed to be the fly-by-night – if you ask me, it's Davina who won't accept responsibility.'

Betty didn't argue. She had long ago come to terms with her husband's blind preference for their younger daughter. He had nothing in common with Davina – to be honest, nor had she, except a sense of kindly duty.

They were both victims of Charlie's gaiety and charm, proud of her beauty and tolerant of her behaviour. Three marriages and a succession of love affairs were all forgiven now that she was settled and had given them a delightful grandson they could spoil. Not so the elder daughter. Always reserved, difficult; independent yet a reproach to them both because she had been given so little love while Charlie had so much. The reproach was even more irritating because they had reason to admire Davina and be proud of her achievements. After Sasanov's death the trio had come close for quite a time, only to drift again with absence. And because the basic incompatibility couldn't be rationalized. They had hoped sincerely that she would marry Colin Lomax, with whom the captain felt very much at home. Now he wasn't even coming with her as a compensation.

‘Charlie said they'd be here by six,' Betty Graham said. ‘She wasn't sure about Davina.'

‘In time for dinner, I hope,' he grumbled. ‘I hate being late for dinner.'

‘You hate being late for anything,' his wife reminded him. ‘And Davina is just like you; she's
very
punctual. Stop grouching about it, Fergus, and bring in the tray.'

She got up and after a pause he gathered the crockery and took the tray into the kitchen after her. He was very much the master in his own home, but he recognized when his wife was losing patience. He was helping her wash up when the dogs started barking. They hurried out to the front of the house expecting to see Kidson's red Volvo parked in the forecourt. Instead, it was Davina who came up the steps to meet them.

The senior KGB officer at the London embassy was ostensibly the second secretary to the trade councillor. He was a highly experienced and successful ranking colonel, who had served in Toronto and for a brief period in Teheran during the Shah's reign. He was thirty-eight years old, spoke five languages fluently, and had been posted to London as promotion. Borisov had galvanized him. His predecessor had used the criminal element when violence was necessary. The colonel sent in a bitterly accusatory report in defence of his own competence, urging that in future only Soviet agents be employed. His surveillance team had found nothing; not only that but they had lost their quarry. He couldn't blame the former occupant for that. A second team arrived at the Marylebone flat and they reported hastily that there was an SIS stake-out in place. The colonel found this satisfying. Both Intelligence services were looking for the same thing. In other words, Harrington had gone astray, but SIS had not recaptured him.… The colonel sent a hasty telex to Moscow. Harrington would be found. And when he was, what were the instructions for Albatross? The colonel settled down to wait for a reply from Borisov and for the news of where Harrington was being hidden. He didn't doubt that it would reach him in time.

The time difference between Moscow and London is three hours. Igor Borisov received the report from London at two o'clock; he read it and out of habit buzzed his secretary.

Natalia always came in and brought him the early-afternoon glass of tea. He would tell her if something important had arisen. It was usually the time they arranged to be together for the evening. The young officer Alexei came into the room and advanced to the desk. Borisov looked up and frowned. Reflex prepared him to see Natalia. The hard, square-featured face of his chosen Praetorian Guard loomed over him, not speaking until spoken to. Borisov cleared away the phantom, smiled at Alexei, said in his firm but friendly way, ‘I have a telex to send to London. It's highly confidential and I want you to transmit it, Alexei.'

‘Thank you, Comrade General. Is it on tape?'

‘No,' Borisov said. ‘You must carry this in your head. Listen and repeat it to me, and when you've sent it, destroy the copy. And sit down – you don't need to be so formal. I've told you that before.'

The young man shifted awkwardly. He wasn't used to the general's odd desire for familiarity. There had been a woman in the job before. A woman who'd committed suicide. He closed his mind immediately, as he'd been trained to do. What was done was never thought about again. She might haunt the general and send him groping for human contact with a subordinate like himself, but he, Alexei, didn't think about her. He had poured the vodka down her throat, but he couldn't have described her face.

‘The message,' Borisov said, ‘is to go to Albatross.'

Ten minutes later Alexei was in the huge coding section located in the first level underground. He took possession of a Type A machine and turned the general's message into the top security code for transmission to London.

In his office, Igor Borisov reflected quietly. He had made an important discovery aside from the information his colonel had sent with such relief from London. Harrington was not in the hands of the SIS. The fact that they were looking for him and watching Davina Graham might give the man in the embassy a temporary respite, but it posed one question that only Borisov had seen. How did British Intelligence know that Harrington had not reached the Soviet haven? A Soviet agent had witnessed the execution of the only two witnesses who might have given James White's people information.

How had they known the rescue had failed? From Dublin – because Harrington hadn't arrived? Borisov doubted that. All Dublin knew was that Harrington hadn't gone there. They'd received no further information. Whoever had leaked the failure to the SIS had done so from Moscow itself.

He drew abstracts on a little pad while he was thinking. Lines and interlocking angles, with a sudden whirl of circles superimposed … and then a face took shape.

A narrow face with heavy brows and a drooping Albanian moustache; eyes that were only pinpoints, a mouth turned down like a thin trap. Making him kill Natalia was not enough. Now he was passing information to the enemy in his efforts to discredit the KGB and its director. Borisov drew a line from the left-hand corner of the face, bisecting it. The lines continued until the ugly caricature looked as if it had been slashed to ribbons. Then Borisov ripped off the top two pages, mindful of an imprint from heavy penmarks, and fed them into the shredder. The necessity angered him. Treachery was everywhere. His jotting pad could be examined, evidence sneaked to his enemies. Even the vital instructions contained in that telex couldn't be risked through the ordinary office system. No tape, no record; nothing but the memory of Alexei could be trusted. He had no doubt about that. The sooner he could carry out his promise to President Zerkhov, the sooner he would set about the organization of the KGB's huge internal structure and purge it of the extremists. A purge so thorough and so merciless that they would die in admiration.