Albatross (34 page)

‘Why didn't you come back?' she asked him. ‘I waited up thinking that you'd telephone. What happened to you?'

She seemed on edge, he thought. Tired, dark rings under the eyes, but totally mistress of herself. She's got over what happened, he thought. With that bastard's help. He had kissed it better for her. And she let him. He felt a wave of hot anger sweep through him, and then quietly die away. And with it, died his love for Davina Graham. He felt a sense of loss, as if part of himself had withered up. Pain followed the anger, and regret. There is always one who loves and one who lets themselves be loved. He had loved her always; she had reciprocated, but she had never wholly belonged to him.

‘I spent the night with Jim Fraser,' he said. ‘I knew you wouldn't be alone.'

Davina saw the expression on his face and said in a quiet voice, ‘You mean Tony? Colin, I'm very sorry. He did call round.'

‘Don't be,' he shrugged slightly. ‘I knew all along it was going to happen. I told you so, if you remember. He meant to get you, Davina, and he's the kind of man who never gives up. I did come back to the flat yesterday to see if you were all right. He was here and I didn't like to disturb you.' He saw her look down and faintly blush.

‘I didn't mean it to happen,' she said. ‘I didn't want it. Please believe me, Colin. I really tried not to – I've never believed people can't stop these things. Now I know it's true.' She lit a cigarette. They were not Balkan Sobranie.

‘Which means you're in love with him,' he said. ‘You like Slavs, don't you? Pity I'm just a Scot. I'll get my clothes packed up. It won't take long.'

She came to him and caught hold of his arm. There were tears in her eyes.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said. ‘I never wanted to hurt you. We've been happy together, we've been through so much. You don't have to go, Colin, love. Give me a little time …'

He looked down at her and shook his head. The endearment wounded him. Colin, love. She had always called him that. He wished she hadn't done so then, when it was over and he was on his way.

‘I'm sorry, too,' he said. ‘I can't share a woman; you ought to know that. I hoped you'd marry me and get out of all this, when we'd wound this last thing up. I really hoped we'd make a life and settle down. I must have been barking mad, Davina. You love what you do; I can see that now. But I hate it. I hate what happened at that hotel yesterday. It makes my skin bloody crawl. But you're part of it. Give me a clean fight, but not this sort of thing. It's not for me, and I'm glad I realize it. Just take care of yourself, won't you.'

He bent down and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. He felt the tears that spilled onto it. He went out of the room and didn't look back.

Igor Borisov and his companion took a private flight to Yalta. From there they were met by an official car and driven to the splendid modern dacha with its swimming pool and panoramic views of the Black Sea. The head of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics greeted them with his wife beside him. They sat down to a lunch served by the swimming pool and there were toasts in the local white wine which was famous for its fruity taste. It was a jovial occasion, marked by informality; Zerkhov made heavy jokes in Russian and his wife and his guests laughed heartily.

They swam in the luxurious pool, and the hot sunshine blazed down through a screen of palm trees. The setting was idyllic in its beauty, the dacha sculpted in white marble, with a terrace that overlooked the coast. Zerkhov's guest spoke good Russian, but he seemed quiet and ill at ease: they did everything to make him feel welcome and honoured. His future was assured. A flat in the select block in central Moscow reserved for high-ranking Party members, a small dacha at Zhukova, a job with the Ministry of the Interior and the companionship of other Englishmen like himself.

John Kidson would also receive a coveted Soviet decoration for his services, but that was being kept as a surprise. By the evening, Madame Zerkhova had retired for a sleep before the final heavy meal, and Borisov took Kidson to the President's private office at the rear of the villa. There they held their conference, an old man running to fat in his lightweight summer suit, his big head sunk into his shoulders like a buffalo at rest; the trim Director of the KGB in white trousers and a stylish cotton sports shirt that had come to Moscow via Rome. Borisov had a liking for Italian clothes. And the Englishman who had taken his wife to Paris and walked out of the hotel the second morning, promising to meet her for lunch at the famous Petit Escargot, and got a plane to West Berlin instead. From West Berlin he had been brought to Moscow, and by that time Charlie had his message and was on her way back to London. He had asked her to forgive him. And told her what to do if she decided to follow him. He knew beyond hope that he would never get an answer. He carried a snap of her with his baby son taken in the garden at Marchwood. It was already creased and dog-eared from handling.

He was asked by Borisov to explain where London got their information about Harrington. Before he answered, he was aware that this was not a simple question. Both men waited in expectant silence. He told them. Through the British embassy in Moscow, and the leak had come to them direct from the Soviet Foreign Ministry. The leak was officially inspired, with the consent of the Minister. It wasn't through a British security contact. Borisov said nothing. Zerkhov nodded and said, ‘Ah,' several times. For twenty years Kidson had been reading other men's minds and motives.

He had accomplished what was wanted. He had given them proof against the hard-liner Rudzenko. He realized suddenly that this was why they had brought him out. His personal testimony was needed. A wave of sick despair engulfed him as he reflected on the motive behind the ruin of his life. He would be the means of putting a rival out of the way. For that, not for his safety, he had been uprooted and would live the rest of his life alone. He was shown to his room, while Borisov and the old man remained behind. Loneliness and isolation closed in upon him as if he were in a prison cell.

‘It is all recorded,' Zerkhov said. ‘Now we can move. What will you do, my son? No scandal, remember. No division in the party. The wounds must all be healed before the Conference.'

‘Trust me,' Borisov said. ‘I have the man who will deal with this. And if there are questions afterwards, we have the evidence.'

Zerkhov sighed. He felt tired, but the guest had to be entertained.

‘He looks unhappy,' he remarked, moving his head to the left, to the door where Kidson had gone out. ‘His wife should have come. It makes it difficult for men like him when they are alone. What was she like?'

‘Red hair,' Borisov said. ‘Very beautiful. They had a little son.'

‘Find him someone,' the old man rumbled. ‘He needs comfort. And his replacement?'

‘He will be told what he must do,' Borisov said. ‘He won't dare to resist when he knows what is at stake. All that we'll need is a little tug on the string now and then to remind him.'

‘Blackmail,' Zerkhov mused. ‘The price human beings pay for their stupidity.'

‘Or for love,' Borisov said. ‘I've given him the code name Scorpio. I've changed from birds to the Zodiac. I think it's an appropriate choice. Don't worry about our friend. There are many beautiful Russian girls with red hair, if that's what he likes. He'll enjoy his new life with us.' He got up and the old man looked at him and a brief smile touched his lips.

‘It's been well done,' he said. ‘All that's left is to get rid of Rudzenko. Then I can sleep in peace, and so can Russia. Dinner is in an hour.'

It was a long summer. The fine weather persisted well into autumn, delaying the start of nature's yearly sleep, giving a respite to that part of her which had to die. The leaves didn't fall and the flowers bloomed on past their time. It was mid October when Davina walked through the narrow passageway off Birdcage Walk and into the cul-de-sac called Anne's Yard. She looked tanned and some years younger than her age, and her entry through the main hall drew glances that were curious as well as complimentary. She went up in the old-fashioned lift to the first floor and down the corridor to the familiar office, where James White's secretary Phyllis got up and welcomed her. ‘Good morning, Miss Graham. You're looking very well.'

‘Thank you,' Davina said. ‘We had marvellous weather.'

‘The Chief is expecting you,' Phyllis said and went back behind her desk.

He was reading the
Telegraph
when she came in, lounging at ease in one of the leather armchairs used by visitors. He put the paper aside and came to meet her. He took her outstretched hand and held it, to her dismay. He saw that she was uneasy and he laughed. ‘I may congratulate you, my dear,' he said, ‘but I'm not going to kiss you. I know you wouldn't appreciate it.' The frosty eyes were twinkling with amusement. He pointed to his desk. It was a theatrical gesture that annoyed her. ‘There,' he said, ‘ready and waiting for you. Sit down and see how it feels.'

‘Sir James,' Davina said quietly, ‘I don't have to behave like an idiot, sitting at the desk. Did you have a good holiday?'

‘Excellent,' he replied. ‘Mary and I both loved Spain. She's making noises about buying a flat and escaping the English winter. And I needn't ask how you enjoyed Florida. It obviously suited you. Did you do much sailing?'

‘We went round the Keys, which was great fun,' she said. ‘It's a marvellous place for a holiday.'

‘And you come home relaxed and ready to take up my burden,' he said. ‘What does your friend think of it?'

Davina smiled slightly. ‘He thinks I'm mad,' she said simply. ‘He offered me three times the salary to stay on with him. Plus trips to Florida and Australia and anywhere else that's going.'

‘I'm glad you weren't tempted,' James White said. ‘He must be doing very well in his new business.'

‘He is.' She sat down, searched her bag for a cigarette; he gave her a light from a handsome gold Cartier lighter.

‘A present from Humphrey and the staff,' he said, seeing her look. ‘Very extravagant of them. Humphrey will be in later to see you. I wanted the first hour to myself. You'll keep Phyllis on, won't you?'

‘So long as she wants to stay,' Davina answered. ‘She may not like working for someone else after being with you for so long.'

‘She'll see you settled in anyway,' he said. ‘She's a very good person and I think you'll get on. How are the family?' He didn't quite look at her as he asked.

Davina shrugged. ‘Wrapped up in Charlie and the baby,' she said quietly. ‘They still can't make up their minds who is most to blame, me or Kidson.'

‘I'm sorry about that,' he said. ‘I'll go down and see them if you like.'

‘It wouldn't do any good,' she shook her head. ‘All they can see is my sister being left flat, with the little boy. They wouldn't thank you for saying it wasn't my fault for finding Kidson out. But thanks for offering.'

‘They'll come round,' he said. ‘People always do in the end. You did the right thing. After all, if your sister is so lost without him, she can go to Russia. We won't put any obstacles in the way. She knows that.'

Davina glanced up at him. ‘Can you see Charlie in Moscow? I can't.'

‘Nor can she.' His tone was brisk, dismissing the subject. ‘She'll find another husband and the whole business will be forgotten. The news on him is satisfactory, by the way. He's drinking himself to death out there. They can't even employ him any more.'

‘Why did you let him go?' Davina asked him. ‘You must have known that taking Charlie to Paris was the first leg of the journey out. Why didn't you stop him?'

James White leaned back, balancing his fingers tip to tip, making an arch with them. ‘I had to make a choice,' he said after a pause. ‘The sort of choice you'll have to make in the future. A colleague who'd betrayed us, against a political advantage. Not just to us, but to the West in general. I was asked to let Kidson leave.'

She stared at him. ‘Asked? By whom?'

‘My opposite number, Igor Borisov. Indirectly, of course. They needed him to provide evidence against a man who had passed us information. Also indirectly. Yuri Rudzenko.'

‘Who died last month,' Davina said slowly.

‘Exactly. The enemy of detente, the worst kind of Stalinist fanatic. I thought letting Kidson go and live in Moscow was worth the price of getting rid of him. You would agree, I hope?'

‘Yes,' she said after a moment, ‘I would have done the same.'

‘I know you would,' James White said. ‘I knew you could make the right decisions after Harrington was killed.'

She frowned. ‘I don't see why,' she said. ‘It went wrong. Not the way I planned at all.'

He shook his head. ‘It went
right,
' he retorted. ‘You took a risk and you knew deep down that they might murder Harrington, even if you didn't admit it to yourself. You had to expose Albatross and you did, by throwing him Harrington as bait. It's that kind of dedication that's needed if you're going to run the Service.'

‘Ruthlessness,' she said slowly. ‘That's what you mean. That's what Colin couldn't take. He couldn't take what happened to Harrington.'

‘He couldn't take your responsibility for it,' James White said. ‘Not many men could cope with that. How will it affect your friend? Have you thought about that?'

‘Tony and I have a different relationship,' Davina answered. ‘He has his life, his family and his business. I have my job. We're not going to live in each other's pockets; we'll be together when we can. It'll work out.'

‘I hope so,' he said mildly. ‘Now – Humphrey.'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘tell me about him. Is he going to stay on?'