Red Anger (24 page)

That was the last word we ever had with the police. Whatever they were looking for, it was not two honest and perhaps envied pedestrians, and probably they had decided that to continue an
intensive search for Rory in the West Country was not worth the organisation required. When we were crossing Salisbury Plain he was very tempted to make his dash for Bristol, but then considered
that the longer he delayed, the less port police would be on their toes. He had also come round to my way of thinking and was hoping to make good use of any information which Marghiloman—who
was no amateur spy like Rachel—might be persuaded to divulge.

I had to look a fairly clean and neutral Petrescu for the interview with my KGB colleague, so when we had worked our way round Devizes I suggested that I should spend a night under a roof. To my
surprise he wanted to join me and for the same reason: preparing for the meeting.

‘But suppose he recognises you?’

‘Why should he? His interest is in Petrescu and refugees. I think the CIA picked the right man for that job, but he’s not big enough to have been employed on dynamite like the
Mornix—Rory case. I’ll see what the set-up is when we get there.’

We found beds for the night, of course not using our dockers-on-strike line. Alwyn produced the most convincing bit of lying I had ever heard from him. He claimed that our car had broken down in
Devizes and that he had managed to find accommodation there for his wife and children. He and I, being short of money, had decided to sleep rough when we came across the bed-and-breakfast notice
and thought we might just afford it. It was the sort of trouble which might hit anyone returning from a cheap holiday in a cheap, second-hand car—a shy, pathetic story accepted with a
kindness which made us slightly ashamed of our­selves. But we had left no shade of suspicion behind us if the police ever made enquiries.

In the morning, rested, well-fed and with Alwyn’s beard looking a little less as if he had merely omitted to shave, we started out early to cheer up the wife and children. When we were out
of sight of the house we turned off the Devizes road and struck across the open down for the River Kennet. So past my father’s farm and on to the Ridge Way.

It was a good day for that great sweep of rolling upland with a light wind giving intervals of cloud and sunshine so that distance, though marked by the tumuli and standing stones of the dead,
was incalculable. I was puzzled because I could not see Silbury Hill where it ought to be. Under cloud it appeared as a singularly long, dark green field of roots stretching away to a point. Then
the sun showed that the point was the top of our pyramid and my long field a trick of perspective. The Grey Wethers disappeared like rabbits or were lumpy as resting sheep or stood up as boldly as
five thousand years ago when our ancestors chose from them the boulders with which to build their temple.

We lay down in the grass on the reverse slope of a Long Barrow which overlooked the junction of the Ridge Way and the Herepath by which Marghiloman would come if he came at all.

‘Myself I would never meet a secret agent here,’ Alwyn said. ‘It looks utterly empty but one could post a platoon so that not a man would be seen.’

‘Towns and parks—that’s all they know. They won’t picture this at all.’

‘Nor did I. I wish I had.’

‘There’s nobody much about except at lambing.’

‘But someone ought to be detailed to watch your meeting.’

I pointed out that there was no need. Petrescu and Marghiloman could be trusted to report on each other, and anyway both were expendable.

We saw Marghiloman strolling up the Herepath, stopping at intervals to get his breath back and look around him. I had the impression that he was surprised rather than sus­picious—a
civilised man interested by a new environment.

‘Find out if he has ever seen me! If he hasn’t, give me a signal by smoothing down your hair in the wind!’

Marghiloman arrived at the Ridge Way and turned a little way up it. Sliding down behind the tumulus I walked round to meet him. He greeted me with nervous politeness in the Romanian we had last
spoken together. He was no longer the overbearing, confident fellow of the Charing Cross Road and I was able to dominate the interview from the start.

‘It is some time since we met,’ he said.

‘Yes. I am glad you have now been persuaded to be sensible.’

‘You appeared so ingenuous.’

‘And you a man of such distinction.’

‘Well, we didn’t come here for compliments. I have been instructed to hand over two hundred and fifty pounds. You will be told when and where to collect the rest.’

I answered without showing any disappointment that I was quite content, and counted and pocketed the money.

‘This is a very strange place to meet.’

‘Not if one’s cover is agriculture.’

‘You are a long way from the coast.’

‘Would you expect me to live on it, Mr. Marghiloman? Here I am only fifty miles from each coast.’

‘I see, I see. I had no idea … well … of course.’

‘When you kindly sent me down to Devon, did the CIA expect Rory to be there?’

‘No. But they wanted confirmation that he was in Russia.’

‘Have you any description of him? A photograph, per­haps?’

‘No. He is nothing but a name to me. You must ask about Rory higher up—if you have the right, that is. I know so little of your position, Mr. Petrescu.’

I ran my fingers through my hair, and Alwyn materialised almost instantly. While we were engaged in conversation he had managed to reach a smooth, grassed bank and follow it till he was behind
us.

‘Good morning, Mr. Marghiloman!’

‘I have the money, sir,’ I said in perfect English. ‘He is what we thought. Shall I caution him?’

‘No, not yet, Petrescu. This is quite a good place to talk as long as the rain holds off. Formerly CIA and now KGB! Don’t you ever consider the British at all, Marghiloman? And now
disturbing a couple of amateur archaeologists at their work! What have you to say for yourself?’

It was my English which helped to reduce Marghiloman to pulp—apparent proof that I had fooled him all along the line. He must also have appreciated that MI5 considered him so important a
catch that it was worthwhile blowing Petrescu’s cover as a harmless Romanian.

Alwyn was using the half jocular, half deadly manner of the confident interrogator. It was all the more effective because of his shabby appearance. The voice and the air of authority rang true;
therefore the appearance must be for some purpose assumed.

‘I have nothing to say, sir. I do not deny that I have worked for the CIA.’

‘Well, well! And here you are paying a cut to an agent of the KGB!’

‘But I do not think you will wish to put me on trial.’

‘Quite right. We wouldn’t like to upset the CIA. Do you know what those mounds are?’

‘Iron Age tombs, sir.’

‘The round ones, yes. The long ones are neolithic. It was not so lonely a spot then as it is now.’

‘I do not believe MI5 would do such a thing,’ Marghiloman answered stoutly.

‘MI5 would not dream of doing such a thing. But that was quite a pull-up for a man in his fifties. A sudden heart attack could be expected. Did the CIA recruit you in America or
England?’

‘In England.’

‘By Mr. K?’

‘I was interviewed by him. I have not seen him since.’

‘Your immediate chief was their Mr. F?’

‘He was.’

I have honestly forgotten these names, except for the fact that Mr. K’s was good Anglo-Saxon and Mr. F’s sounded like Polish. Alwyn’s precise knowledge of both men and their
responsibilities reinforced his authority.

‘And your duties were to obtain the confidence of Romanians and others who had escaped to England, to report on them and make use of them?’

‘They were.’

‘In fact the CIA didn’t trust us to do the job for them?’

‘They thought you were too kindly, too easily deceived.’

‘What did MI5 tell them about Petrescu?’

‘That they were wasting their time.’

‘A bit patronising?’

‘Very probably.’

‘It didn’t occur to them that we might be watching him—also to see if he was any use?’

‘It may have done. I don’t know. I can only say that my organisation was instructed to keep him under observation. We noticed that he took great pains to prove that he had no
connections or friends, which suggested that he had some­thing to hide. It was then decided to use him to carry the message to Mrs. Hilliard and see how both of them reacted.’

‘Why Mrs. Hilliard?’

‘As you know, sir, her daughter was closely connected with Miss Iwyrne and she herself was distrusted by the Americans. She was seen on more than one occasion hanging about the Kingsbridge
Estuary for no obvious purpose. It was thought possible that she was receiving enemy agents despatched by Rory.’

‘And all this time you were working for the KGB as well?’

‘No! I swear I was not.’

‘When did they recruit you?’

‘Only two weeks ago. They suddenly found out I was a CIA agent.’

‘Why did you not at once report to the CIA that they had approached you?’

‘The KGB have dossiers on all of us who have come from communist countries—Czechs, Romanians, Poles …’

He went on burbling about refugees and their difficulties, talking and talking in order to put off the next question which he knew must be on the way. I was sorry for the man. There was no
reason why he should not have worked for the CIA and he was good at the job—good enough at any rate to fool me, and well-mannered with it.

‘And what was in your own dossier, Marghiloman?’

‘Nothing, nothing! I mean … well, for these days. We all have our tastes. So little to do with daily life. The secret side. Our private necessities. But the other parties were quite
willing. An older man and a boy. Fatherly, and I would do anything for them. So beautiful. So full of curiosity.’

‘Under the age of fourteen?’

‘You understand, sir.’

‘I understand it’s a criminal offence. And so?’

‘I was framed. Witnesses. Photographs. Oh dear, how defiling!’

‘And what assignments were then given to you?’

‘They knew I had been involved with Mr. Petrescu and Mrs. Hilliard. Every detail. How they knew so much I cannot understand. Oh, a very harmless assignment. They told me that Rory had
never worked for them and never been paid by them. It was a mystery why he should have pretended that he had escaped to Russia.’

‘That was the first time you knew he had not?’

‘Yes. The CIA still believe he is there.’

‘How many of the KGB men have you seen?’

‘Two. One was British, I think. The other was not. And there were men who forced their way into my flat. Oh God, that horrible little actor! Such lies! Such depravity in one so young! I
wouldn’t have spied for them whatever they had on me. I loathe them. But what they required me to do was harmless.’

‘Control yourself, Marghiloman! These things happen. Go on!’

‘You know, sir, that it was the CIA who had questions asked in the House and forced the Government’s hand so that a Special Tribunal had to be appointed. They have their favourite
Members of Parliament just as the Russians have theirs.’

‘That is beside the point,’ Alwyn retorted with such anger that he could have given himself away. ‘Such sympathies are normal and proper in any discussion of foreign policy
inside or outside the House. And thank God we are still free in this country to express an opinion honestly held, however damned silly! And sometimes it turns out to be right.’

I had a feeling that he only just checked himself in time from adding: ‘as in the case of Miss Iwyrne’. He cleared his throat and resumed his former manner.

‘And what was this harmless assignment, Mr. Marghilo­man?’

‘To find out from one of my colleagues what was the evidence against Rory.’

‘You would have had to go as high as your Mr. K to learn that.’

‘No. I remembered that when the papers were full of Rory’s defection, I had discussed the case with the head of another department. A minor department like mine. But it is their duty
to take action when the British are too scrupulous to do so. He said to me: “Yes, we got the bastard and now they’ve lost him.”’

‘By “they” he meant MI5?’

‘Yes.’

‘The CIA knew Rory was guilty?’

‘Of course. Circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. Mrs. Hilliard who brought him up had belonged to the IWW and ran guns for the anarchists in Spain. Her daughter was a friend of the
suspect Rachel Iwyrne who lived at Whatcombe Street and whom he introduced to the Minister.’

‘What made them believe that Miss Iwyrne was a spy?’

‘Her opinions, I suppose, and her friends. You do not realise what risks you take. That was why the CIA started to operate in England.’

‘I am aware of that. But Rory—how did they get him?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘What I require is what you told the KGB.’

‘I told them the story as I heard it, sir. After Mornix escaped it occurred to my friend’s department that there might be evidence in Rory’s flat. Unlikely, but the flat could
easily be entered, and he might have been careless. So they sent in two of their specialists in that type of work and went through his personal papers.’

Both Alwyn and I saw what was coming. His face quivered just once, but he retained a control lifeless and commanding as any of the ancient stones below us.

‘They found nothing of interest but a number of unopened bank statements which they read and re-sealed,’ Marghilo­man went on. ‘Rory had too large an overdraft and did not
wish to remind himself of it. The CIA psychiatrist confirmed that this was a common failing. So the department arranged a payment into his account which they knew that MI5 could trace to the KGB.
The plan was foolproof. If Rory spotted it and reported it, no harm was done. If he did not, it was the solid evidence which was still missing.’

‘I see. So that was how they got the bastard. Was your friend a reliable informant?’

‘He was rather drunk. Those American Martinis, you know. He should not have washed them down with the good Burgundy I provided.
In vino Veritas
. They are very clever, but inclined
to indiscretion when pleased with them­selves.’