The Avenue of the Dead (17 page)

‘I looked in early on,' he said. ‘But you were still at lunch. I wanted the papers on our Peruvian exports.'

‘Why should I have them?' Hickling said. ‘I don't deal with bona fide trade – that's your department, old chap.'

‘Someone said you were looking into the MPs who paid their goodwill visit, and the export figures were included in the file. Anyway I found them. My half-witted secretary had put them in the wrong order.'

‘She's not half-witted,' Hickling retorted. ‘And even if she were, she's got the biggest boobs in the building!'

Neil laughed. ‘Had a good lunch?' he asked.

‘Lunch, my foot,' Hickling said. ‘I've been closeted up with the Old Man since this morning. Your friend Mrs Fleming has disappeared.'

Browning stared at Hickling. ‘Christ Almighty!'

‘She left Davina's flat on Saturday, took a cab and was apparently going home. She never got there.'

‘There was nothing in the papers this morning, or on the radio,' Browning said. ‘Haven't the police been told?'

‘No,' Hickling said. ‘We're keeping it dead quiet as long as we can. She may have been kidnapped.'

She may indeed, Neil said to himself, and I could guess by whom – he felt a lurch of fright in his stomach.

‘That's terrible,' he said. ‘I've been out of touch, as you know. She dropped me when Davina came over. I must say, I was bloody glad to get shot of her, but this is awful. Had Davina made any progress with her? Had she got any further than I did?'

‘A lot further,' Hickling said. ‘I'm afraid I can't go into details. It's got a red sticker on the file now. I hope it's not going to be marked “closed”.'

‘You think she's dead?'

‘If someone hasn't approached Fleming by tomorrow morning, it looks like it,' Hickling answered. ‘Fortunately for us, Davina broke her open in time. I must say, she's a remarkable operator.'

‘She must be,' Neil muttered. ‘Is she still dealing with this, or will they send someone out from London?'

‘Davina's in charge for the moment,' Hickling said. ‘She and Lomax will be doing the ground-work.'

‘I wish I was in your section, Pete,' Neil said. ‘The curiosity is killing me! Maybe I ought to transfer?'

‘You want more jobs like looking after Mrs Fleming? You must be crazy. Right now, I'd be only too happy to tot up a lot of figures and go home early.'

‘You've got to give me one clue,' Browning insisted. ‘After all, I nursed the poor devil along till the star performer came out. Was she telling the truth, or not?'

‘That,' said Peter Hickling, ‘is what the star performer and her Scottish friend are finding out. But from what I heard, it looks as if she wasn't lying after all.'

Browning stayed on for a few minutes, changing the subject. His memory was like a fly trap, seizing on every word. He might not be able to interpret them but his controller would. Returning to his office, he felt light-headed with relief. When he left the embassy he strolled up town. He made his call from a public phone booth.

Bruckner answered. ‘Go ahead,' he said. ‘I'm running it on tape.'

At the end Browning said, ‘I can't find out any more.'

‘OK,' Bruckner said. ‘I guess that will have to satisfy him. You'll be in touch?'

‘Yes,' Browning said hastily. ‘If I hear anything.' He hung up.

‘Now, comrades, the next item on our agenda is the Director of State Security's report. Comrade Borisov?'

The head of the Soviet Union directed his flat gaze at Igor Borisov. He had little grey eyes that were as opaque as stones. He was comparatively young for his immense power and responsibility; a man in his early sixties, solid of body, grey-haired and slow in movement. His enemies described him as ponderous, his sycophants called it dignity. He had the measured menace of a rhino whose amble could turn into a thundering charge. He was a supporter of Borisov. Two seats further down the table in the conference room of the Kremlin Arsenal where the Politburo met, the Soviet Foreign Minister Rudzenko fixed the head of the KGB with a stare that was not in the least opaque. It beamed hostility. He was not a supporter of Borisov. His candidate for the vacant seat at the table had been rejected. He was not a man who forgave defeat. Borisov eased his chair back. Blue smoke from cigarettes and a pipe hung like a nimbus in the air above them.

‘Comrades, before I make a general report on security, I would like to give you the latest news on our operation in Washington. You have the notes from our previous meeting? Yes – code name Plumed Serpent.' He glanced round the ring of faces, beginning with the head of state, the President and Secretary General of the Communist Party, and made the slightest hint of a bow in his direction. Being a tactful man, he did the same towards his enemy Rudzenko. ‘I am glad to tell you, comrades, that the plan I outlined to you is progressing as intended. Our agents in Washington are directing the operation with confidence and so far our opponents in London and the CIA have not only failed to penetrate, but are actually helping us.'

Rudzenko cleared his throat before attacking. He was known for the habit, and Borisov braced himself. ‘From my sources of information, comrade,' he said sharply, ‘there has been a great deal of intelligence activity from the British side. London is taking a lot of interest in the wife. And one of their best agents, a woman known to you I believe, is living in Washington in daily contact with the Flemings. Are you saying that this is all part of your plan, or is it possible that attention from a highly skilled intelligence officer like Davina Graham is the last thing we want at this stage?'

Borisov didn't falter; the men watching him from their seats were quick to scent disquiet among their colleagues. Borisov was both young and new to his prestigious job, and in the eyes of the old-established rulers of the country he had still to justify himself. Igor Borisov actually smiled slightly at his enemy. ‘Comrade Rudzenko,' he said. ‘Your sources of information are excellent, I'm sure. But while you can certainly rely upon them for facts, you must trust to me and my sources for the right interpretation of them. I am not at all disturbed by the activity from London. In the circumstances, I think that the arrival of Davina Graham and her association with Elizabeth Fleming is exactly what we want to happen. She has gone out to investigate. She will not discover our agent. As you said, this particular woman is known to me. She is an exceptional operator, but all that is needed is to break the code, so to speak. Her code was broken here in Russia; I was a witness to it. I have seen into her mind, comrades, and consequently nothing she can do will ever take me by surprise. In fact,' he looked round the ring of faces and paused for effect, ‘in fact I can predict what she will think and how she will react. If London had asked me to nominate an opponent to our Plumed Serpent operation, I would have asked for her.'

The Minister for Agriculture nodded, so did the Secretary for Industrial Development. There was a murmur, and the note in it was approving. The head of state said to Rudzenko, ‘I think the general has dispelled my doubts, comrade. Has he satisfied yours?'

‘Comrade,' the Foreign Minister answered, ‘I have doubts about the whole concept of Plumed Serpent. I've never been convinced that it would work in the way that Comrade Borisov thinks it will. The idea was not his originally, and I am always wary of a student altering his master's work. I mean no personal offence to you,' he said to Borisov, ‘but I have always found a simple and original plan to be the best. You have a brilliant record as a young man, but as a subordinate. Again, no personal attack is intended. But this whole scheme is so delicately balanced and so liable to rebound on us if it goes wrong – well …' He spread his hands and shook his head. ‘I don't think that anything will satisfy my doubts, or convince me that we should continue with this. There is still time to draw back. We can remove our agent. By one means or another. That is what I would like to see.'

Borisov drew himself up. There was a patch of colour in both cheeks. ‘Comrade Rudzenko is right when he says that the author of the original plan was my predecessor, General Kaledin. I inherited it from him. And I changed it, comrades. With your full knowledge and approval, except for yours, Comrade Rudzenko. I intend no personal slight to you, either, when I say that at that stage you wouldn't have approved of anything I put forward, as I wasn't your candidate for this appointment. However, that was over a year ago. I am quite sure you are not allowing your disappointment to colour your judgement after such a long time. So far as the student altering the master's work is concerned, it's not a very fortunate comparison. The decision to release Davina Graham, who causes you such alarm, Comrade Rudzenko, was taken by General Kaledin, not by me. We all know the catastrophe our Service suffered as a result of Ivan Sasanov's escape to the West. We need to wipe out that failure by more than just an assassination in Australia which the world has forgotten by now. We need a major intelligence victory, and Plumed Serpent will give it to us. I'm sorry you are not convinced, comrade.' He leaned back.

An hour and a half later the meeting ended, and the members of Russia's ruling circle dispersed to their offices. Borisov drove to the KGB headquarters on Dzjerzinsky Square. He went into his inner office and slammed the door. His secretary had messages for him, but the scowl on his face deterred her from coming in too quickly. She knew him well by now; he seldom came back from Politburo meetings in a good temper. After an interval she knocked on the door. ‘I brought you some tea, Comrade General,' she said. ‘And I have a lot of calls and messages. Will you see them now, or later?'

Borisov looked up at her. He had been frowning, and slowly the lines smoothed out and he almost smiled.

‘I'll drink my tea first,' he said. ‘Come in, Natalia. Sit down. I want to talk to you.'

‘Yes, Comrade General.' She sat demurely, her skirt pulled down over her knees, feet together. She had a gentle personality that he found very soothing. And nothing could disguise the magnificent bosom that gave him such pleasure to look at.

‘I want you to forget that you work for me,' he said suddenly. ‘I want you to forget who I am and just be perfectly natural, perfectly at ease. Will you do that?'

She nodded and said, ‘I'll try, Comrade General.'

‘Then begin by calling me Igor,' he said. ‘I've had a difficult morning. Very difficult. I need to talk to someone I can trust. I trust you, Natalia.'

‘Thank you,' she said shyly.

He sipped his tea and lit a cigarette. After a moment he apologized and offered one to her. She took it, and he lit it for her. She had large clear grey eyes and thick lashes that needed no make-up to emphasize them. There was a soft, pink blush on her skin when she leaned forward for the match. Borisov looked at her and wanted her. But first he needed to talk and have her listen. And then to answer questions that he couldn't answer for himself, in spite of the boast he had made to the Politburo. It might be that a woman, even a simple woman of average intelligence, could see into the mind of another woman better than the cleverest of men.

5

‘What you've got to realize,' John Kidson said, ‘is that we're the only people who can protect you. And we are your people – in spite of taking out American citizenship, you're still British, born and bred. That's why I'm here, Fleming. I'm here to advise you and help you if I can.'

‘Like hell you are,' Edward Fleming said. He had found Kidson waiting for him in the embassy when he woke in the late morning. They had been given one of the embassy sitting-rooms for their first interview. Kidson had refused to see his quarry in an office. He wanted to create an atmosphere of trust. He wanted his quarry to feel that everything they said was off the record. Fleming looked haggard and jumpy. He immediately declared his intention of walking out of the embassy and dared Kidson or anyone else to stop him. Kidson shrugged.

‘You can do what you like,' he said. ‘Nobody is going to try and stop you. There's the door. Go on, open it and walk out.'

Fleming hesitated. ‘You know I can't do that with all this hanging over me! You've got that diary, what more do you want?' He sagged down in his chair and covered his face with his hands. He looked absolutely defeated. Kidson was a kind-hearted man in private life, loyal to his friends and easily roused to sympathy, but he regarded Edward Fleming coldly. He had no compassion for the home-bred traitor.

‘I want you to talk about it,' Kidson said quietly. ‘I want you to tell me the truth. Then we can see what can be done to save the situation. And it's a very dirty situation, Fleming. Dirty for Britain, because you're British born, and disastrous for the President and his administration.'

‘I don't believe you.' Fleming looked up. ‘That's a lot of crap about Britain being blamed for what I do. I've been an American citizen for twenty years.'

‘How long have you been a Russian spy?' Kidson asked softly. ‘When did they recruit you? Recently? It's all very relevant, you know.'

‘I've told you, I told that bitch last night – I'm not a Russian agent! That is God's truth.'

‘And your first wife's diary is a lie? You didn't pass papers to a man at the Lincoln Memorial? You didn't frequent a camera shop which we happen to know is a KGB front? Is that what you're telling me, Fleming? Come on, be sensible, man. Nobody is going to believe you. We can check the car hire firm your wife used. We can get a detailed report on where she followed you and when – you must realize that. It'll check out, won't it?'

‘I don't know,' Fleming said wearily. ‘It's so full of lies mixed in with the truth. She was crazy with jealousy. She'd have said anything to hurt me.'