The Avenue of the Dead (5 page)

There is a bush telegraph in the outback. The arrival of a stranger is known hundreds of miles away on the great sheep stations. A Russian could not settle there without attracting widespread notice. So they had concentrated on Sydney and Melbourne, Canberra, and Perth. And in Perth they had found him, married and teaching political studies in the University under the Polish name of Pocklewski.

A top-grade Centre killer had made the circuitous journey to Australia via Hong Kong.

Davina read what followed with every nerve-ending tuned to the agony of what was to come. They had been going out to a party that night. Normally sociable, Sasanov was tired and inclined to opt out. It was Davina, usually the shyer of the two, who persuaded him to go. She had become very fond of a fellow professor's wife, and she didn't want to disappoint her by not going to her party. Always indulgent to her, Sasanov had said all right, they could leave early. As he went to the door, Davina said suddenly that if he was really tired she could still ring up and make an excuse. He'd kissed her, and she could see the tender curve of his mouth when he released her. He wasn't tired. He was looking forward to the party. Would she please stop arguing?

It was the last time he ever kissed her. He went ahead to start the car, and she turned back to check she had locked the back door. They were very security-conscious.

She dropped the file on the floor; one of the dogs woke and raised its head. She didn't need the nicely documented details of the horror that followed. The shattering noise, the splintering glass of windows bursting, her own wild scream and the desperate run to the front door, only to find it swinging on its broken hinges and beyond it, the twisted, smouldering wreck of the car …

He wasn't dead. She had time to hold him in her arms and hear him speak. A whisper, distorted with the agony of his dying. Her name. That was all. She didn't cry; her loss was beyond tears. She just spoke his name aloud as he had whispered hers. ‘Ivan. My love.'

And then in the silence of her own heart she made the promise. ‘I'll fight him every inch of the way. I'll get to him, as he got to you.'

She bent down to pick up the file again and lit another cigarette. Kaledin had retired at the beginning of the year. He was old and plagued with heart trouble. His successor was chosen by the members of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet; Igor Tatischev had become Borisov. He had moved into the office in the heart of the Kremlin itself, the centre of a power so immense and so pervasive that only the supreme dictatorship of the Party Chairman could nullify it. He was comparatively young for such a post. Young and unknown. There was no pattern established by which his operations could be measured in terms of international espionage. Would he concentrate on terror, as his predecessor had done, training, financing and manipulating the Palestinians, the fanatics of the Red Brigade and their affiliates in Holland, Germany and Ireland? Would his approach match the subtlety and patience of earlier directors, who had recruited from the intelligentsia of the West, content to wait for years till they came into use? The ‘mole' was a KGB concept, typifying the slow patience of the Slav, to whom time was as limitless as the plains of his homeland. Would Igor Borisov follow a hard or a soft line on the Jews in Russia and the small, courageous group of dissidents – would his weapon by the Lubyianka and the firing squad, or the white-coated torturers in the mental hospitals? The West had a new adversary; the unremarkable administrator whose last photograph was fifteen years old. Until he showed his style of doing battle, they were duelling in the dark.

She closed the file. It was one-twenty in the morning. She didn't feel tired; she felt alert and excited. For the first time in a year the pall of apathy and depression had left her. She had something to live for – the void in her life was filled with a new purpose. Through her and her work, some part of Ivan Sasanov's spirit survived. She would prove to Igor Borisov one day that killing the man had not destroyed his ideals.

She switched off the light and went up to her room. For the first time since Ivan's death, she fell at once into a deep, peaceful sleep until the morning.

It was Friday morning when she saw Colin Lomax again. She had been so preoccupied that he had completely slipped her mind until she came through to the departure lounge and a man impeccably dressed in a dark suit, regimental tie and carrying a folded copy of
The Times
came up to her and said, ‘Hello, Miss Graham.' She said briefly, ‘Good morning,' and turned away. When they boarded the big Pan Am jumbo he settled into the seat beside her. She gave him an unfriendly look. ‘Have you been told to follow me right through to Washington?'

‘Yes.' He buckled his seat belt. ‘Don't ask me why, I don't know. I'm just following orders. I'm a great man for orders, Miss Graham.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' she said. ‘I'm a great one for changing them, Mr Lomax.'

‘That will suit me, Miss Graham.'

She opened the novel she'd bought at the bookstall, and six hours later they landed at Dulles airport.

Sir Arthur Moore had held the Washington Embassy post for two years. He was a slight, small man, impeccably dressed, with a shrewd face like a bird of prey, and bright brown eyes darting at people in a way that some found disconcerting. His manner was affable but sharp; the impression Davina gained on meeting him was that no fool would be suffered at all, let alone gladly. They shook hands, and he offered her a glass of sherry, which she refused. Then they sat in his office for a while. He asked about the flight; they paid lip service to the conventions for a few minutes, and during that time they summed each other up. He was surprised to find her attractive. A good figure, unusual hair, like beech leaves with a gleam of red in it. He was fully aware of her record but he hadn't expected someone who looked so young.

‘I had a long talk to the brigadier,' he said. ‘I can only say how glad I am that you have come here to take Mrs Fleming off our hands!'

‘I'm going to try,' Davina said. ‘I've read all the reports, but it would help me to hear exactly what happened when she came to see you.'

He put down his glass of sherry as if he didn't like the taste.

‘She turned up one Sunday morning and my wife saw her first. She was in a terrible state. By terrible, Miss Graham, I mean she was drunk and hysterical. We know the Flemings very well socially, and I've had a lot to do with Edward on a professional level. We couldn't possibly turn her away. My wife was thoroughly alarmed, and I thought I had better see her and try to calm her down. I may add that her drinking has been an embarrassment to her wretched husband for some time. She behaved in the most extraordinary way. She asked for a drink, which I thought best to give her; then she burst into tears and said she needed my protection. She said she was in danger from her husband. I found the whole thing too distasteful for words –' he paused, and seeing something in Davina's face he added, ‘I'm not an unsympathetic person, nor, I trust, an inhumane one. But I found the whole performance repellent. I felt extremely sorry for Edward Fleming.'

‘You have a high opinion of him, then?' Davina asked.

‘He's a most remarkable man. His business record is amazing even in this country where people can achieve so much so quickly. Politically he picked the winning side long before the so-called experts, myself among them, considered that the candidate had a chance. I admire brains, Miss Graham, and Edward has more than just that. He has drive, foresight, and considerable personal charm. I find him very likable. As you can gather, I found his wife quite the reverse.'

‘Yes,' she said quietly. ‘I can appreciate that. She said her husband had tried to murder her and she asked for protection. I understand it was a form of asylum? Refuge in the embassy?'

‘That's exactly right,' he said. ‘She claimed that right as a British citizen. I'm afraid I told her not to be melodramatic.' The bright eyes flashed at Davina. ‘Then she made this most disturbing accusation. I was extremely alarmed. I tried to question her, but she refused to elaborate. I remember her sitting there in our sitting-room, slopping her whisky over the carpet and saying to me, “I'm not saying any more. Your bloody embassies are full of spies. But he's on the other side. And he'll kill me because I know. Just like he killed his first wife!”'

‘No wonder you were alarmed,' Davina said slowly. ‘And that was all you could get out of her?'

‘Yes,' the ambassador answered. ‘I compromised. I got my wife to take her upstairs and put her to bed. Then I sent a telex to London. I was told on no account to keep her in the embassy or cause any scandal. It was up to me to persuade her to go home, and it was suggested that one of my young officers in the intelligence section, a chap called Neil Browning, should act as liaison. I thought it an odd suggestion, but apparently London knew she had a fancy for young men.' He made a faint grimace. ‘By the afternoon she was sober enough to listen. I made a lot of promises, sent for Browning, who had been told what to do, and he took her back home. Since then he's been in constant touch, and I feel as if I've been sitting on a bomb with the fuse burning away. If this woman causes a scandal with security as the issue, it could damage the new administration very badly. My obvious duty was to inform the US Secretary of State of the accusation and let the Americans investigate if they chose. I didn't do so on direct orders from London, because Fleming was born in the UK. He became an American citizen twenty-two years ago.'

‘Ambassador,' Davina asked quietly, ‘is there anything you can think of that could cast doubt on Edward Fleming's loyalty to the West? Has there ever been any whisper against him before this?'

He denied it vigorously. ‘Nothing. The man's background was investigated by a Senate subcommittee before his appointment was confirmed. His first wife's death eighteen months ago was an accident. She was burned to death in a fire at their holiday house in Mexico. There's never been a breath of scandal against him, privately or professionally, so far as I know. And I know most things that happen in Washington.'

‘So you think Liz Fleming is lying?'

‘Either lying or acting out some fantasy,' he said. ‘I don't believe her, no. But what disturbs me is London's reaction. If there's no truth in it, why are you here, Miss Graham?'

Davina smiled slightly. ‘I'm here to find out if there
is
truth in it,' she said. ‘The brigadier may want to clean up the mess himself, if it's a British one. If Fleming joined any subversive organization, it could have been before he became an American. At least that's my theory; I don't really know.'

‘Well, thank heavens you're here,' he said. ‘The less my embassy is involved in a thing like this, the happier I shall be. Get this woman off our hands and I'll be eternally grateful.' He stood up to end the interview. He saw her to the front door and they shook hands. ‘If there's anything you need,' he said, ‘just ask. But I'll rely on Peter Hickling for progress reports. It would only call attention to you if we were to single you out from other British visitors.'

Davina took a cab to the Hicklings' flat. She felt suddenly very tired after the journey. Questions nagged at her. Why hadn't Elizabeth Fleming returned to England if she was afraid? Why was she still in Washington, unless it was part of James White's devious plans to keep her there? They talked about sitting on a scandal, grave-faced and indignant about the danger to Anglo-American relations and the new President's administration. The simplest solution was to remove the source of the scandal and then investigate behind the scenes.

There was more to this than James White had let her know when he issued the challenge to her at Marchwood. ‘I thought you might like to revenge your husband. And your child …' If Edward Fleming, Assistant Under-Secretary of State and personal confidant of the President, was working for the Russians, James White would sacrifice anything or anyone to catch him out. Including the wife who insisted that her life was in danger.

Davina had a headache; by the time she reached the Hicklings' apartment, she needed aspirins and privacy. She made an excuse about jet lag to Hickling's wife, Peggy, and retreated to her own room. There was a sharp tingling along her nerve-endings that was familiar. She remembered the words of the witch in
Macbeth
, learned by heart when she and Elizabeth Fleming were at school. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.' The last time she had felt that sense of premonition was four years ago, when she went on her mission to Russia.

2

Edward Fleming parked his car in the garage and sped up the steps to the front door. He had bought the elegant house in Georgetown as soon as he was told by the President that he had been selected for office in the new administration. He had been proud of the house and everything it symbolized.

Elizabeth had redecorated it, and it was exactly right. Not too ostentatious; everyone knew he could afford what he liked. The effect was understated and in harmony with its period and surroundings. At least she hadn't failed him in that. He opened the front door and saw the maid, Ellen, in the hall. ‘Good evening, Mr Fleming. Mrs Fleming is out. She said to tell you she'd be back in time for dinner.'

Out. Out where and doing what? ‘Thank you, Ellen.'

The grave dark face relaxed in a slight smile. She respected Edward Fleming. ‘There's ice in the living-room – is there anything I can get you?'

‘No thanks. I'll just take a shower first. It's been a busy day.'

He changed out of his clothes, showered and rubbed his lean body with a rough towel to stimulate circulation. He dressed in trousers, shirt and sweater, moccasins on his bare feet. He had no plans for that evening, whatever his wife might have arranged. She couldn't endure a night spent quietly at home. She fidgeted and talked and found excuses to telephone people who could have been contacted during the day. And she drank, furtively, watching him to see if he was watching.